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what do you expect? Out of shit he turned himself into gold. From nothing, Doig! From a handful of kopeks! And having made his fortune, he couldn’t think of what to do with it. He expected to meet kings and queens every day. ‘What else is money for?’ he’d say to me. Or to a cabinet minister whose family had been around as long as the Romanovs, ‘We who are at the top should confer daily as to how we’re to stay there.’ Things like that. He was right—but pretentious. Liselotte darling, sit closer to me, I like your smell.
    â€œHave you been caught up in a revolution before, Doig? What about those South American countries you went to?”
    By this time we’d motored to the east end of Nevsky, circled the statue of Alexander III and had started back up towards the Admiralty. It was the direction I wanted to go. I was content to be Boltikov’s passenger. He was doing the right thing. A man on the point of going into exile should say a full set of goodbyes and do so in company, to ensure he doesn’t become maudlin. He should be tender with his self-esteem. If he thinks poorly of himself on departure, how will he ever prosper in a foreign country?
    Waving his cigar around, Boltikov continued on his previous theme.
    (Liselotte had opened the window to let the smoke out. We could hear the occasional outburst of shooting quite clearly.)
    â€œIt may be the way we walk, as simple as that. Class will always show and the vermin’ll spot it. That’s why I’m getting out. Helsinki tomorrow. Eighty miles an hour the entire way. That’s what it says on the clock so that’s what we’ll do. Eighty miles—that’s—what’s that in Russian?”
    â€œFifty versts.”
    â€œSensational! I love speed. I’ll pick up my family and go to Stockholm and from there take a boat across to Wick thanks to Mr. Thomas Cook and his wartime bravado—God willing! Then we’ll catch a train to London. I have business friends in London. Also money with a gentleman called Mr. Baring. Do you know this man?”
    He stopped. His face crinkled with the foretaste of adventureand corporeal pleasures. “We heard all about your travel adventures from your old uncle. You know, you could have had the pick of our Russian women when the stories got around—”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œYou mean... that was a horrible experience. But it’s what we must expect from these people... Doig, why not escape with me? You’re strong. You’re ruthless. You want to win... I’d pay you well.”
    I said I’d think about it. It’d mean writing off my life so far— my childhood, Elizaveta, my lovely father, my descendance from the man who’d sent Napoleon packing. Did I want that—to erase the past? To deny myself?
    I whistled vexedly—only a bar.
    â€œ
Stoy!
Stop! It’s bad luck in the house. This car’s a house for me... By the way, no one liked my father. It was a great relief to Mamasha when he died in the street. Walking along like you or me... he was so fat... You can see how fat I am, Doig. It comes from having been fed from the start on the best products sugar could make. I was in Einem’s every day. He named a chocolate after me. It was called a Bombe Boltikov. Seventy-two per cent cocoa and in a compartment in the centre the strongest apricot brandy that Bols make. A little candy peel on top for ladies to pick off. Shaped
tout à fait comme un suppositoire—
it was a huge success. I expect I’ve eaten several tons of my Bombe... Of course Einem was German and so had to sell when this war started. His shop was never the same with the new people... The thing about the Germans is first the Kaiser, and second, sending that bastard Lenin to us. It’s Germany that’s brought us to our knees. Liselotte, do shut that window. It’s Russia and the end of October, not June in Paris.”
    He