The Last Train to Kazan. Stephen Miller

Soviet,’ Ryzhkov said. He’d gone by the house on Kushok Lane at the meal hour, but no one was there. He’d had enough to drink that he figured he might as well ask an expert like Wilton.

      ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Wilton said. ‘The American here is the only place you can get these things,’ Wilton said, looking past them at one of the tables.

      From there the evening went downhill.

      The saloon in the Hotel American was subject to strange and hectic energies. Contingents of soldiers, adventurers, journalists, consular officers and employees would whirl through, collapse a while, then whirl out again. Among the saloons and salons of the city an ever-widening cruise had begun to develop. The streets in the still-warm nights were clotted with merry-makers and desperadoes. They clung to one another, floating from one watering-hole to the next in search of greater thrills, someone else to swindle, or just simple unconsciousness.

      Ryzhkov had opted for the unconsciousness.

      The Sambos finally came. They’d grabbed a table by this point and Ryzhkov was seated in his chair, leaning comfortably against the wall, sipping the concoction – a mixture of vodka, coffee and pepper, it took him back to Paris, where he had his first one, the drink having become the rage of the crowd at Café Cine where he pretended to work when Qirenque required. The drink itself was nothing special, only you couldn’t sleep after, and Ryzhkov needed more than anything, he suddenly realized, to sleep.

      ‘A member of the Ural Soviet,’ Wilton was saying. ‘Well, of course you’d love to put your mitts on one of them. If you get a lead, you call me first, eh?’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘God bless the Alsatians,’ he sipped and murmured.