‘You’re a gentleman, sir, and I don’t mean you any offence. But the chaos they’re causing is no joke.’ He pulls something from his pocket. ‘I used to think like you, but this book shows me I was naive.’

‘The thing about the Jews,’ says Lyova, ‘is that they don’t respect our Russian culture.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ says Nicolas, hotly. ‘You’re mistaken, young man.’

‘With the greatest respect, individual Jews may be all right. I have nothing against them personally,’ says his father, leaping to the boy’s defence. ‘If I met a Jew now, I’d shake his hand and say “How do you do?” I admire the Jews, the way they look out for each other, their business sense. Tough negotiators. But some of them – not all of them, but some of them – once they sense weakness, it’s over. Our government hasn’t been strong enough. Now look at us: it’s like woodworm. Look how we collapsed against the Japs. How can the Russian army that defeated Napoleon have been turned to cream puffs overnight? Look what’s happened to the nation: the drunkenness, the liquor shops run by the Jews, the collapse of decent values. The rot goes deep, my friend …’

Nicolas wants to argue, feels obliged to argue, but the vodka has slowed his brain down and while he watches the man’s mouth move, the voice he hears is Rachkovsky’s: Russia’s destiny is special. Liberalism is a Western fad. Submission to authority is the message of Eternal Rome. We reject the decadence of Eternal Carthage.

‘… whores and ladyboys. Inverts marrying one another and adopting children. Everyone thinks it, but people are afraid to say anything because what good will it do? After all, it’s the Jews who run the media.’ He claps Nicolas on the back by way of friendly conclusion.

The guard waves his flag and calls the passengers back on the train. Kuryagin dusts the crumbs off his knees. Nicolas helps the women up the steps.

‘You keep the book,’ says Kuryagin. ‘I’ve ordered plenty. We’re changing for Baden-Baden in the morning. My doctor has told me to slow down. I’m taking a rest cure but my wife will be giving my credit card a good workout. If you have no plans tonight, why don’t you join us in the dining car?’

‘I have to go through some paperwork,’ says Nicolas.

‘That’s the spirit. We’ll look you up in Paris one day. The next time you need textiles, write to Kuryagin and Son.’

‘It was Rachkovsky’s book.’

Sitting in the darkening carriage, Nicolas reads it with a creeping sense of recognition that begins in his neck hairs. He can’t account for it at first. And then he knows: he’s read this book before, albeit in another language and another century. A work that was once fiction is being served up as historical truth. What was once political satire is now being passed off as the secret minutes of a conclave of Jewish elders.