Verzilov continues to sit motionless on the table, cross-legged now, like a pagan idol. A woman in a blue shawl approaches to speak to him. Verzilov nods but doesn’t meet her eye. Nicolas watches the candle flame illuminate her face: a neat oval, pale skin, tresses of brown hair.

Volchkov leans in. ‘You’ll have to donate for me, buddy. I forgot to bring my wallet.’

It’s typical Volchkov. Nicolas is careful to unfold a fifty-franc note in a part of the room where there is enough light for his munificence to be visible and to speak French with a strong Russian accent when he praises the speech. Verzilov accepts the compliment grandly, as if to indicate that it’s no more than he deserves. ‘I’d like to be able to do more, comrade,’ Nicolas says. ‘My people are ready.’

The henchman intervenes. ‘We’ll let you know when the time is right.’ Verzilov extinguishes the candle with a pinch. He appears to vanish in the ensuing darkness.

‘The Turkish war had made me a patriot.’

Nicolas buys Volchkov dinner to say thanks and to pump him for further information. Volchkov is euphoric with the sense of an obligation successfully discharged and at the prospect of free food and drink. He orders for them both: beefy onion soup, herrings and potatoes, crispy squares of breaded tripe, red wine.

‘How do you hear about a thing like this?’ asks Nicolas.

A half-moon of translucent onion dangles from Volchkov’s beard. ‘You’ve got to be plugged in. There’s a whole subculture out there. Our generation is going to change the world. Young people today: we’re all free love, down with the establishment, spread the wealth around. It’s entirely new shit. You saw that loom? It uses programmable punchcards to remember the patterns. It’s a machine with, like, a fucking brain, Nicolas! People over thirty are just not going to get it. It might honestly be kinder to just kill them.’

Nicolas feels unaccountably miserable. His first encounter with revolutionary politics has left him shaken. He tries to adumbrate the reasons why: the humourless sense of conviction; the confidence in the usefulness of violence; the disdain for other viewpoints. ‘Don’t you see? Verzilov is just telling you a story. His version of history is an amalgam of violence and lies. He says the world is going to be better, but why should you believe him? And what is the world anyway? There’s no world. There’s just … you and me, and two plates of this, whatever it’s called.’

Volchkov smiles wolfishly through a big mouthful of fried tripe. ‘It’s called fireman’s apron, and you, my friend, are failing once again to see the big picture. Didn’t you hear Verzilov? There’s capital and labour, and the bourgeoisie and an exploiter class, and a parasitic clergy sucking the life out of the workers.’

‘Right. So when this glorious day comes and the wealth gets shared around, who is going to buy your art?’