She began to talk, quite fast, about how she’d been born in a village called Charysh, three thousand kilometres east of Moscow, in the Altai mountains – a primitive community, without electricity in those days, and most of the houses made of wood. Her family had been dirt-poor, but her father was the local schoolmaster, and when Anna had showed intellectual promise at the age of nine, he’d sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in the capital so that she could get a better education.

The waiter brought us hot plates and a bowl from which steam rose in clouds, but Anna was so immersed in her narrative that she didn’t immediately notice. Then, breaking out of her reverie, she said, ‘Look! Pilmeni – dumplings with spiced meat. And this is special cabbage, cooked with walnuts.’

She helped herself and started to eat, but in a vague manner, not focusing on the delicious food. Her mind was out in the mountains and forests, and on she went, talking, talking, as she recalled how the River Charysh froze over in winter, so thick that army trucks could drive across it, and how, when the snow came, it would blanket the land a metre deep for four or five months on end.

Red wine had appeared on the table. I drank some, and kept eating. The little dumplings were irresistible. I lost count of the number I put away as I listened to her stories, fascinated to see a different, softer, more vulnerable person emerging from the tough chrysalis which was all I’d known so far.

Soothing taped music was playing, no more than a gentle background drone. But suddenly, as a new song started, Anna gave a twitch and cried, ‘Oh! This one I love.’ With a flick of the hand she bade one of the waiters turn up the volume, and the sound swelled into that of a male-voice choir, with a single, clear tenor reaching high above a groundswell of sonorous basses.

To my amazement, I saw her eyes fill with tears. For my benefit she began to translate the story, speaking low and fast as each haunting phrase of the song came to an end. ‘A man is running through the taiga . . . He follows the tracks of wild animals . . . A storm is blowing . . . His way is long . . . Hide him in your breast, dark taiga . . . Far away he has left his native land, his mother, his wife and children . . . He will die in a foreign land and be buried there . . . His wife will find someone else . . . But his mother will never find another son.’

By the end, the tears were rolling down her cheeks. I reached over and covered her hand with mine. She looked up, smiled and gave a great shudder. Then she brought out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

‘I’m sorry. The song is very sad.’

‘I could hear that.’

‘It reminds me of many things.’