‘My eyesight is not what it was,’ he says. ‘My hands, you’ve seen yourself, are not fit for the task of composition. But I want to leave something other than Rachkovsky’s lies behind me.’ He gestures at the box of unused cylinders. ‘When our work together is complete, I intend to have these transcribed for publication.’ His eyes meet Vincenzo’s. ‘No doubt it seems like an indulgent exercise to you. This is, after all, ancient history, no?’ For the first time, Vincenzo sees a twinkle of Nicolas in the old man; he seems suddenly younger, as though refreshed by the memory of his youthful pugnacity.

Vincenzo removes the roll from the dictator and inscribes the date on its sleeve in pencil: 25th March 1933. ‘I imagined that was your intention,’ he says, diplomatically. ‘To make a book.’

This answer seems to please Notovitch. The old man repeats it with satisfaction. ‘Yes, to make a book.’

Their work is ended for the day. It is, unusually, a Saturday; one of only two occasions when the men meet on a weekend. Vincenzo asks to use the downstairs lavatory. Its tiny window looks out into the rear garden, a long shady rectangle of damp grass. A lone magpie perches on the bough of a leafless apple tree at the far end. Vincenzo salutes instinctively and then smiles at the absurdity of the figure he cuts: one hand at his temple, the other still directing his aim at the porcelain. It strikes him as a shame that the big garden isn’t put to better use. Every available inch of his suburban plot is sown with vegetables each year: trenches of broad beans, potatoes, peas, the tomatoes that his wife loathes. He emerges from the lavatory to find that Notovitch has shed his chapan and put on a grey overcoat and homburg hat: the conjuror transformed into a businessman. ‘I have an appointment in the City,’ says Notovitch.

Today, the two men leave the house at the same time and end up walking together towards the Underground. Notovitch brandishes his ebony cane like a sceptre.

Two dray horses munch feedbags outside the Royal Oak on Haverstock Hill. A blocky heap of yellow horseshit steams by the kerb. Three men in caps and aprons roll barrels off the cart and down into the beery open mouth of the pub’s cellarage. Far to the south, the dome of St Paul’s can just be seen rising above the coal smoke of the city. Both men pay the six-penny fare, descend in the lift, and board the southbound train. Their carriage is half-empty. Notovitch sits sideways on a banquette seat, with his feet in the aisle.

‘This is not your usual route home,’ the old man observes.

‘I’m meeting my wife in the city. She wants to buy a new wireless. She likes to keep up with the news.’

‘And you?’

‘The less I know of what’s happening in the world, the better I sleep.’