Kuryagin’s daughter thanks Nicolas repeatedly in broken French. He senses that she knows exactly who he is, but is too humiliated by the change in circumstances to admit it. To bring the uncomfortable reunion to a close, Nicolas touches his hat and bids them farewell.

Even after decades of literary silence, Nicolas still thinks of himself as a writer. It’s a fantasy that he’ll never abandon. It’s one of the stories he’s staked his life upon. But in reality, he’s settled for a comfortable life and recognises, when he’s honest, that his later work is facile dabbling. The value of anything equals what you will give up to possess it. What you write sincerely must cost you pints of your own blood.

As his body exhibits the irreversible symptoms of senescence, he allows himself a smile at his youthful hysteria about ageing. At the same time, he understands his precocious panic was justified. It seems like five minutes ago that he was carousing with Volchkov, scribbling hopefully in his garret, awaiting the footsteps of a messenger who might dispatch him across continents in pursuit of a story. But the triumphs of his youth are mere puffs of dust on an aged uniform that now seems quaint and small and strikingly handmade. The city that he knew before the construction of the Eiffel Tower looks at him with an imperial indifference. He says the things that old people say: remarking on the sudden changes in children, the folly of politicians, the high prices of everything, the cacophony of modern music. He bemoans the state of the world in predictable jeremiads, confusing – as old men tend to do – the end of his life with the end of civilisation. And yet, death seems as distant as it ever was.

Looking back on his life, he consoles himself with two things. One is The Unknown Life. He still feels singled out by his luck in making that discovery. Few are chosen for a task as important as that. The other, and more surprising, consolation is his love for Anya. The two of them share the unspoken sympathy of people who have suffered and rejoiced at the same things. He finds solace in her mere presence. A secret book; his wife’s love: he wonders if he was worthy of either.

‘I expect you are wondering, “Why now?”’

Notovitch tosses his papers onto the floor, then rises from his seat to request a pot of tea from the housekeeper.

Vincenzo stops the dictation machine and waits. The door furniture clicks heavily to announce Notovitch’s return.