Anya has passed unnoticed by the eyes of this particular reader. Neither her beauty nor her likeness to the protagonist caught his attention. “Another one who forgot I was ever born,” she says under her breath, resigned, and then, raising her voice and rising from her chair, “Sergei, since Claudia has been stolen from us,” accentuating the second a in Claudia, “would you be so kind as to accompany me to the bar?”

She gives him her arm, and together they exit the balcony. Sergei is so upset by the ambassador’s forwardness that he goes along. They haven’t taken more than ten steps when a group of men breaks their circle, waylaying the Karenins.

“Count, what do you think?”

“About what?” Sergei has no idea what they’re referring to. He thinks, They must be going on about that stupid war in Japan again.

A man with a red beard steps between them and begins ranting, “Anton Rubinstein, mentioning Anton Rubinstein when the Jewish conspiracy …” but no one pays him any attention. The redbeard continues, and the group does too.

“Opinion’s divided, and we want to know yours. Is every Russian laborer a peasant, a bearer of the cross, a krest’ianin? Or have we developed what is referred to in Europe as ‘the working class’?”

Observing Sergei’s expression, which says, What on earth are you talking about? someone else adds, “It came up because of the strike. I think General Panteleev is right: we should raise their wages and sort out their housing and the problem of health care too.”

Everyone has an opinion.

“And how are we going to pay for that? Our taxes?”

“The factory owners should cover the costs.”

“That’s a fantasy. The financial implications would put thousands out of work. The cure would be worse than the disease.”

“Wouldn’t it be better in the long-term to improve their working conditions?”

“That’s a ridiculous argument.”

“There must be a way to share wealth that helps laborers to acquire their own homes. And maintain law and order in the meantime. That would be some protection against unrest. We’ve had 550 strikes in the past two years.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“No, that’s the actual number.”

“Zubatov had the magic formula: ‘The only way for the state to keep the revolutionary forces in line is the cooperation of law enforcement and the working class.’”

The first man speaks again. “That’s what I was referring to, Father Gapon and his followers.”

“He’s been called every name in the book, an imposter, a troublemaker, a Japanese agent, but maybe he’s the spokesperson who could help us reach a truce.”

“Or he’s the chosen one, or he’s got a personal vendetta….”