‘Drink up,’ Anatoly said. ‘Clear the throat.’ John raised his glass, sipped. ‘If you sip it,’ Anatoly said, ‘you will get drunk. Did you know that? Alcohol is absorbed quicker through the tongue than the gut. That is why we Russians gulp it. Straight down the hatch, as you British say.’ He lifted the glass, swallowed it in one go, nodded to John to do the same.

John had always been wary of vodka, a rough spirit of doubtful provenance, but this was an altogether different drink, mellow and refined. He looked at the bottle. There was nothing to indicate its strength, but it packed a punch at least as heavy as whisky or brandy. He liked it, its dry, aromatic taste. John smiled, waited as Anatoly topped the glass again.

‘We are a peaceful people,’ Anatoly said. ‘We Soviets. A socialist democracy. A true democracy.’ He leaned back in his chair, pulling out his cigarettes, nodding. ‘There is no such thing as an aggressive democracy.’

‘What about Hungary?’ John said. ‘Wasn’t that an act of aggression?’

Anatoly laughed, dragging on his cigarette, picking tobacco off his lip. ‘What information have you been fed? That was no aggression. We intervened to save our comrades, like a father pulls a child from a burning fire. Who do you think is the greatest threat to peace?’

Anatoly’s cigarette had burned down, giving off a foul acrid smell with an arc of ash which fell, dusting Anatoly’s trousers. Anatoly brushed it off as John grabbed the ashtray from the mantelpiece, placed it on the arm of Anatoly’s chair.

‘Well?’ Anatoly went on. ‘I’ll tell you. The greatest threat to peace comes from the capitalist powers in the West and their ruthless pursuit of cheap labour and ready markets. Of profit. What is imperialism if not capitalism with pomp? What is NATO if not a war machine for the bankers?’

He stubbed out his cigarette but a strand remained alive, glowing red in the deepening gloom of the room.

‘Who has caused more wars since 1917? The socialist states, or the imperialist states?’

John had no ready answer.

‘Let me list a few,’ Anatoly went on, holding up his hand. ‘The Irish War of Independence.’ He bent down his little finger. ‘The Italian invasion of Abyssinia.’ Ring finger. ‘The wars against fascism in Spain, Europe, the world.’ Middle finger. ‘The Korean war.’ Forefinger. ‘Kenya, Malaya, Egypt. The struggle for independence against the imperial invaders.’

John nodded. He had no sympathy with the British Empire and every sympathy with the underdog, an unfashionable view, he knew, and one he kept to himself at school, especially on Empire Day with all its jingoism and Cadet Corps lads strutting round the playground reliving the Zulu wars.