When Nicolas quizzes him about the afterlife, a lacuna in Judaism, the priest offers the vaguest of imaginings: ‘I know only this: we will be with God, and it will be better.’ Nicolas finds himself moved by the tentativeness and hope of the formulation. But at his baptism he feels nothing. The myrrh applied to his face during the ceremony of anointing unfortunately recalls the sensation of Bessie’s spit, turning from hot to cold.

Naturally, he chooses the baptismal name Nicolas.

‘I offered to return Suvorin’s money.’

The Tsar book sells respectably. Giving a talk at a Paris bookshop to launch the French edition, Nicolas fields questions about Anglo-Russian rivalry in India, free speech, the Pussy Riot protests, and the prospects for a triple entente between Russia, France and Britain. He’s halfway through one answer when he glimpses a flash of blue at the window and a woman with an oval face shading her eyes to peer in.

‘Would you excuse me for one moment?’

He rushes to the door of the shop and looks both ways. The boulevard is a sea of indifferent grey faces.

His heart drops into his boots. Returning to the podium, Nicolas continues with an explanation of balance-of-power politics and regional hegemons that now seems to him fatuous and unconvincing.

At the back of the room, Volchkov, who has thrown over the brown-haired fruit-seller for a new interest, is working his way through the bowls of Twiglets.

After the talk, a representative from Novaya Gazeta presents his card. He’s a Russian with a German name, Ludwig Ganz. ‘Mr Suvorin sends his warmest regards,’ he says. Nicolas is momentarily anxious. He hasn’t heard back from Suvorin since he wrote to say the piece on anarchists was a non-starter. ‘Mr Suvorin was curious to know what difficulties you encountered with the story?’

Ganz is blonde and pinkly clean-shaven. Nicolas knows he owes him an explanation, but he’s not sure how to begin it. Fortunately, there are immediate grounds for an adjournment: at one side of the room half a dozen people are waiting to have their books signed. Nicolas suggests the men meet another time. Ganz bows and clicks his heels.

‘Who’s that stiff?’ asks Volchkov. ‘He looks like secret police. Since the Tsar got whacked, they’re all up in our shit, oppressing the youth.’

‘Don’t be an idiot. And why are you talking like a hoodlum? He’s another journalist.’

A day later, Ganz calls at Nicolas’s apartment. ‘An artist’s garret!’ He pauses at the door to catch his breath and pulls off his gloves a finger at a time. ‘Suvorin sends his compliments and asked me to tell you how much he enjoyed the book. I’m only halfway through myself, but I’m a slow reader and there’s so much to savour.’ He lists a handful of the extracts that have given him special pleasure.

Like any writer, Nicolas finds it hard to resist flattery. Ganz’s praise seems unfeigned and there’s something about his open demeanour that encourages the sharing of confidences. He is that rarest and insufficiently praised thing: a gifted listener.