Restoration

By Philip Matthews

It is about a thousand years into the future. The world is a dried out husk, most of the water having been exchanged for omnium from the Other World. The human race is dying out because most women can no longer bear children and the alternatives don't work. Artificials are self-obsessed and clones die of loneliness. The few natural offspring that there are – called natals – rule the world as a time-serving bureaucratic clique. The rest of the human race subsists on what is known as Machine Maintenance, a superlatively efficient welfare system that oversees life from incubation bottle to render plant.
Into this hell on earth awakens the artificial woman who will be known to some as Sophie. She has just lost her fortune in the latest Bubble and so finds herself turfed out of reality into the tender metal care of the Machine. Her memory has been destroyed by her overlong sojourns in reality, and her only consolation perhaps are the strange dreams she has when she manages to sleep.
Even so, she is filled with an overwhelming desire to journey across the desolated land towards the high towers on the northern horizon. She doesn't know why she wants to go there, but she goes in any case – if only because she cannot do otherwise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Matthews
• Release date: Mar 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311781178

Philip Matthews

Writer's life, hidden, frugal, self-absorbed, no TV or social media, a few good friends - but the inner life, ahhhhh. Recommend it to anyone.

Book preview

RESTORATION

PHILIP MATTHEWS

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Philip Matthews 2014

ISBN 9781311781178

Man begins to be afraid of the world which formerly he has thought to control. Men admired nobody but themselves, now they begin to be afraid of themselves.

Pope Pius XII

‘The death of Soloviev, my dear Feliks Feliksovich?’

Prince Feliks Feliksovich makes his always-charming little shrug, his small pink mouth puckering under the somewhat floppy moustache. He knows he is charming, that he charms, that the little circle about him now is charmed. ‘But it is such a wonderful story, dear Dmitri.’

Feliks Feliksovich throws a quick ironic glance across the carriage at the others seated facing them.

Cued, Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans forward in earnest: ‘Oh by all means, Excellency, the tale is so diverting.’

So Dmitri Pavlovich relents with grace, a playful smile here too. In reflex, he puts the cigar in his mouth, but does not draw upon it, bobbing his head instead. The light glints on his bare scalp, where some talc has dislodged. The Grand Duke does not like his pate to shine: he believes it contrasts badly with his overly diffident eyes.

‘Besides,’ Feliks Feliksovich resumes, ‘it will give a context for our long journey. We will pass close to the spot where it all happened.’

‘Ahh, well,’ Dmitri Pavlovich says expansively. He pauses to sniff at the tip of his cigar. Feliks Feliksovich reaches at once for the box of lucifers on the occasional table between them. He deftly extracts one – a long black stick tipped bright red – and strikes it against the sandpaper strip on the side of the box. It flares brightly, very brightly, with a puff of white smoke. Dmitri Pavlovich brings his cigar into contact with it and draws contentedly. Then he surveys the smoking tip, the red glow already fading.

‘You are so considerate, my dear Feliks Feliksovich. As ever.’ Dmitri Pavlovich smiles a doting smile, a slight rueful edge in his eyes though. ‘You quite disarm me, you know.’ He smiles what seems to be a smile of deprecation, but continues: ‘Now, Feliks Feliksovich, not the whole long story?’ The smile firms, a sudden wariness glinting in his eye: ‘Please.’

Feliks Feliksovich throws up his left hand, though he is watching where he places the spent match – across the rim of the silver ashtray: ‘Oh, of course not, my dear Dmitri Pavlovich. We will select one episode, shall we?’ Feliks Feliksovich looks around the company: Dmitri Pavlovich just there to his left, seated on the other side of the table, Vladimir Mitrofanovich and their fourth companion, the so-interesting Sofya Vasilevna, both of whom are seated on either side of another small table on the far side of the carriage. He smiles his more open smile, the one for many people to see and to be pleased to see.

‘Who shall choose? Vladimir Mitrofanovich? You?’ Now he bows his head to the woman: ‘Perhaps our gracious guest should choose? Do you agree, Dmitri Pavlovich? Perhaps we should ask Sofya Vasilevna to select an episode for us. I would be only too happy to oblige her.’

The Grand Duke compresses his lips: ‘Ah, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, I doubt the lady knows anything of the tale. So how could she choose an episode for us?’

Feliks Feliksovich knows this, of course, but he looks expectantly at the woman opposite him, setting a cue here too. The Grand Duke, too, looks across at the woman, his gaze wavering slightly when it encounters the excessively strong expression on her face. Vladimir Mitrofanovich, too, looks towards her, a more tolerant, even permissive, expression on his face.

Sofya Vasilevna seems unaware of the collective gaze of the men, of the pregnant silence. She is staring fixedly at some point across the carriage, just to one side of the Grand Duke. She does not blink for the duration of the men’s stare.

A moment of loss. Then Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans across the table and touches the back of Sofya Vasilevna’s hand. She gives a sudden start; almost immediately it is converted into a turn of her head, a sharp enquiring stare.

Vladimir Mitrofanovich of course is deeply affected by this. He knows immediately that he has done something unpardonable. Sofya Vasilevna is no mere wife, companion, adornment, but a woman of very real intellectual achievement – acknowledged so even by the Germans.

Sofya Vasilevna at once smiles when she registers Vladimir Mitrofanovich’s upset. She says:

‘I was counting my reflections in the mirrors.’

The Grand Duke simply does not comprehend what Sofya Vasilevna has said. He is pleased that her expression has softened; he is pleased even more that she has an attractive face, though matured and realised to the extent he has only seen otherwise in accomplished generals. Given the circumstance, it would delight him to kiss her lips.

The Prince? Well, Feliks Feliksovich is much more adroit in these matters. He doesn’t know what Sofya Vasilevna has said either, but he at least realises that what she said is irrelevant. That is, irrelevant to him, and therefore also to his companion, Dmitri Pavlovich.

Vladimir Mitrofanovich is also a companion of sorts to the Prince and the Grand Duke, but as a relatively poor noble from one of Imperial Russia’s newer provinces there is an element of dependency that precludes easy intimacy with high born aristocrats, connected as they are by blood with the imperial dynasty. So, he places all his attention on Sofya Vasilevna, actually hearing her words and very quickly comprehending them.

Mirrors. The carriage seems full of them: only now does Vladimir Mitrofanovich realise this. He has been seated at the little table, with Sofya Vasilevna across from him on his right, and with the Prince and the Grand Duke seated about another little table on the opposite side of the carriage, for some time now without ever noticing that a full length mirror fills the wall opposite, and that another full length mirror runs along behind him.

At once Vladimir Mitrofanovich is blinded by the light of the row of lamps suspended from the ceiling above reflected repeatedly in the two mirrors. He gasps: surprise, even a completely unexpected terror. An atavistic terror – like a door suddenly opened to reveal something unexpected yet known intimately.

Sofya Vasilevna turns at Vladimir Mitrofanovich’s cry. She is touching the spot on the back of her left hand that he had touched. She explains:

‘An amusement, really, Vladimir Mitrofanovich. There are an infinite number of reflections in a case like this, though of course we see only a few of them.’ Sofya Vasilevna pauses. She looks over at the Prince and the Grand Duke. ‘But of course you gentlemen will be aware of this.’ She pauses again, letting her gaze drift away from the men to return to her own reflection in the mirror opposite, sitting it would seem too close to the Grand Duke. In fact, so close that his cigar – if it were lit, as it appears not to be now – would burn a hole through her dress at a point just above her knee.

She smiles, checks herself with a little cough, then says, turning again to Vladimir Mitrofanovich:

‘Actually, Vladimir Mitrofanovich, there is only one reflection of me.’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich hears this, even comprehends the meaning of the words, but what preoccupies him at the moment is the problem of precedence that is arising here. Really, Sofya Vasilevna should not be explaining these thoughts to him. It might well be that he is the only person here – as a fellow university graduate – who might appreciate what she is saying, but propriety demands that she should address her words to the senior ranks in the company.

It is an extremely awkward moment in what so far has been a smooth and urbane conversation. But it is a difficulty facing Vladimir Mitrofanovich only – understandable perhaps given the ambiguity of his own social position here (even Sofya Vasilevna, the daughter of an old Great Russian noble family, though of only moderate fortune, outranks him). For his part, Prince Feliks Feliksovich can make his own rules as the occasion requires, knowing that he has the unquestioned support of his friend, Dmitri Pavlovich. He knows that what Sofya Vasilevna is in the course of discussing is totally irrelevant. He also knows that Sofya Vasilevna will exhaust her topic before she will take note of anything else – after all, the question of which part of the story about the death of Soloviev should be recounted as a means to passing the time before dinner is probably an irrelevance for her. So he says with his airiest voice:

‘And what, my dear Sofya Vasilevna, are we to make of that?’

The Grand Duke has discovered that his cigar has gone out again. Feliks Feliksovich expertly strikes up another lucifer. The Grand Duke puffs on his cigar until there is a lot of smoke and all can hear the low crackle as tobacco leaf is consumed by fire. His word of thanks is surprisingly muted. Even the Grand Duke realises that the stage – as it were – belongs to the very interesting Sofya Vasilevna.

For her part, Sofya Vasilevna is momentarily surprised by this attention. Not that she is not used to gaining the attention of men; no, only that the attention seems to her out of proportion to what she has said.

‘Make of it, Prince Feliks Feliksovich?’ Her moue is of course a trifle exaggerated: Sofya Vasilevna has a mouth made for such a moue. ‘Well, for one thing, gentlemen’ – Sofya Vasilevna expands her address in accordance with the reaction of the men to her facial gesture – ‘your reflections are not repeated ad infinitum, as people like to believe. It is the reflection that is reflected, and that only once. Then the second reflection is reflected to create the third reflection. And so on and so on.’

The men accept all this with a remarkable composure, just as her students do when she lectures them. But who will respond?

It is obvious that Vladimir Mitrofanovich is bursting to make a statement. But he is eyeing the Prince and the Grand Duke nervously, trying to gauge which of them will reply first. The Prince should be the likely candidate; he is the wit among them. However, Feliks Feliksovich seems adrift, perhaps suddenly bored in his feckless way. The Grand Duke, for his part, has his cigar jammed deeply into his mouth, his lips pulsing around its stem as though trying to draw it in deeper still. It looks as though Vladimir Mitrofanovich might be able to make his observation, after all. He takes a deep breath, trying to frame the profound observation he feels it necessary to make.

Dmitri Pavlovich takes the cigar from his mouth and asks with perfect sincerity: ‘One reflection only, you say, Madame?’

Sofya Vasilevna grants him her sunny smile, as she would any responsive student. ‘One reflection only, Excellency.’ She looks around the compartment. ‘No need for so many mirrors.’

Dmitri Pavlovich inhales deeply, evidently very pleased with their little chat. He nods slowly, a large soft movement, bearish but endearing. ‘The mirrors?’ He looks at the long mirror behind Sofya Vasilevna, seeing himself looking at himself. ‘Ah, my dear Sofya Vasilevna, they are intended to create a sense of space in our cramped quarters. How else are we to endure being cooped up here for another twelve hours?’

In reflex, Sofya Vasilevna looks up, sees the row of lamps – five lamps – suspended along the centre of the ceiling. Then she sees them reflected repeatedly in the mirror opposite, an intense clamour here she finds disturbing in a vague way.

There must be relevance now, for Feliks Feliksovich has become alert again:

‘And the light, Frau Professor’ – a dry irony in his voice at this point, to be interpreted as an indication that Sofya Vasilevna may be taking herself just that bit too seriously – ‘we must have brightness too, must we not? To light our reflected space, yes?’

The address hurts. It is the first time anyone in Russia has used that title, but it had been done with a French tone of the arcade, where everything becomes a joke. Her initial response is a Russian one: heart ripped out, bleeding on the Bokharian rug at their feet. Her second response is – perhaps appropriately, though not meant as ironical – German, the Academic formality, where everything is taken seriously. She even nods – sagely – as she speaks:

‘Yes, Prince Feliks Feliksovich. Though it is worth considering how the light intensifies in a space that does not actually exist.’

‘Oh now,’ Dmitri Pavlovich murmurs, glancing first at Feliks Feliksovich then letting his gaze linger dotingly on Sofya Vasilevna. Just like a father overseeing a spat among his children.

Vladimir Mitrofanovich can no longer contain himself. He does want to impress Sofya Vasilevna and he also wants to defend her.

‘Like the light of the Spirit shining in the Soul!’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich can not control the rising pitch of his voice. He is stunned to hear himself breaking into an Old Believer rant. Feliks Feliksovich also catches Vladimir Mitrofanovich’s surprise:

‘Ah, our Russian philosopher speaks at last.’

Irony here too, of course, no less cutting for the lightness of touch. Yet there is also a testing mockery. Poor Vladimir Mitrofanovich cringes, already embarrassed by his outburst – saying the correct thing but in the wrong way. Irony he is used to; too sincere to practice it himself, he has developed a deafness to it, contenting himself with uncovering the implied real meaning therein. But the mockery! So rare an event that Vladimir Mitrofanovich is quite disarmed. Almost as though Feliks Feliksovich is inviting him to – is it to heal him? Or perhaps explain something to him?

As a philosopher – as a Russian philosopher, that is – Vladimir Mitrofanovich is very willing to heal tortured souls, even to take the time to explain modern circumstances. He turns eagerly towards Feliks Feliksovich while Dmitri Pavlovich says, still gazing in a fatherly way upon Sofya Vasilevna:

‘Of course, it is the mirror that creates civilization, my dear Madame.’ Waves his free hand expansively (his cold cigar is cradled comfortably in his lap): ‘People say it is because we can thus see ourselves and so become self-conscious.’ Big smile, raised eyebrows. ‘And vain, of course.’ Dmitri Pavlovich nods now, eyes suddenly shrewd: obviously not often does he have a serious audience. ‘No, Sofya Vasilevna. It is, as the good Feliks Feliksovich observed, the light.’ The Grand Duke nods towards the Prince. ‘And, I might stress, it is, as our modest friend, Vladimir Mitrofanovich, has stated it. The light increased in what you call the non-existent reflected space in fact does shine forth in us. There you have the birth of human consciousness, my dear.’

Sofya Vasilevna is very surprised by this little speech; no one else is. She frowns. Feliks Feliksovich is the first to respond to this, as might be expected:

‘Be careful of what you say in the company of Dmitri Pavlovich, dear Sofya Vasilevna. He is adept at thinking other people’s thought for them, as you have just seen.’

Sofya Vasilevna continues to frown. It is as though she has found herself in a mad house. She says, spontaneous and honest:

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. None of you.’

Three faces lean towards her, each filled with that wonderfully reasonable virtue of those who know something that you do not know and are prepared to impart that knowledge to you. There is the matter of social precedence, of course, but there is also the question of the truth here, which will claim an absolute precedence.

The three men struggle between themselves for an instant or two. First Feliks Feliksovich opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then Vladimir Mitrofanovich bobs his head up, pert like a bird about to sing; then he subsides again. The Grand Duke smiles, more than a little complacent by now, and settles down to delivering some more nuggets of acquired knowledge.

There is a rustle of clothing: ‘You see how science points always towards the Spirit, yet cannot utter the Spirit. How the telescope can see only so far; how the microscope can see only so near. How the products of science cannot live, yet they die.’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich cannot believe that he has just spoken. He even puts his hand over his mouth.

Feliks Feliksovich makes one of his little coughs, then raises his hand and clicks his fingers twice.

A humble little man dressed like a serf of the old days trots into the compartment. Feliks Feliksovich indicates, hand this way, then fingers that way. It is enough. The little man scurries away again.

This activity has broken the spell in the room, as no doubt it was designed to do. It is Sofya Vasilevna who breathes first, deeply, her well-camouflaged bosom rising appreciably. Dmitri Pavlovich, for his part, fiddles with his cigar until Feliks Feliksovich does the necessary to reignite it. Only poor Vladimir Mitrofanovich is properly abashed, feeling like an utter fool.

The little man has returned bearing a tray, on which a large bottle and four small glasses are arrayed in some order: bottle in the centre and glasses at cardinal points.

‘A glass of vodka will lighten our mood, I believe.’

So the servant serves each a brimming glass and each tips the glass back. It’s all done in a moment. Each inhales deeply; each thinking that only vodka can heal the Russian heart.

‘There are some zakouskis.’

No one is hungry yet.

‘Fine.’ Feliks Feliksovich dismisses the servant with a flick of his hand. He brushes the front of his jacket down.

‘Perhaps now we can ask Sofya Vasilevna to make her choice for us.’

Sofya Vasilevna stands up. The three men immediately stand up too, Dmitri Pavlovich fussing with his cigar, which has dropped ash into his lap.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen,’ Sofya Vasilevna says, throwing her glance to the left. Each man nods respectfully.

Pull aside the heavy velvet drape – green towards the brilliantly lit sitting compartment, deep red towards this other compartment, lit by one small lamp only. There is a broad divan along one wall, brightly patterned cushions laid randomly over its surface. Two easy chairs, upholstered in the French manner, and a small table between them along the other. The walls themselves are decorated with a scene depicting a pleasure garden lit at night, paper lanterns in many colours, little meandering pathways leading to dark nooky spots among the trees. A cabinet sits on the table, flush with the wall. It will contain drink bottles – wines and spirits – glasses, pretty little boxes filled with sugar confections, chocolates. Sofya Vasilevna spots the other cabinet, the one under the table. This will contain those appliances that prevent accident from marring pleasure.

At the end of this compartment is the room that Sofya Vasilevna wants, the water closet. There is no great pressure on her bladder, she simply wants a break from the company. She unbuttons the front of her dress to ease the pressure on her breasts. Always she must compress her bosom: a man looks at a woman’s bosom and she is at once headless. Not an encouraging thought just now. The vodka has deflated her; the aridity of the men’s chatter touching the darkness in her. As always, she will walk through the depression. And as she walks she will think.

Backwards and forward in the confined space, she thinks of Euler, as she always does. She imagines first a body suspended in empty space, perfectly still, perfectly alone. Then she pictures a smaller body approach and go into an orbit about the original body. The smaller body – call it the Moon – is now circling about the larger body – that can be called the Earth. Now, Sofya Vasilevna proceeds to calculate the motion of the smaller orbiting body around the larger body. She does this in an uncanny way. She can picture the elements of Euler’s equations for this calculation in sequence and watch something like a magic light move across the symbols. What she watches is not a play of numbers; more like a play of special forces, mathematical forces that formulate the actual movement of an actual moon around a larger planet.

Thus she pictures first:

Then follows:

And the last line:

The spectral light moves along the lines and Sofya Vasilevna feels as though she is charged with knowledge, much as a battery can be charged with electrical force. Now she can move towards the culmination of this particular meditation: she assents and at once she sees within herself the array of integrals:

It is lit entire by that wonderful light, and for a time Sofya Vasilevna sees the whole panoply of the mathematical forces that describe the orbit. It is a unique vision – reserved only for those gifted as she is – seeing the operation of the cosmic forces in their essence.

Seeing them as God would see them.

Sofya Vasilevna holds this vision for just so long, then she opens her eyes. She sees before her the plain varnished wood that lines the water closet, lit dimly by a single lamp. She breathes a long slow breath.

She is calm. Calm again.

A curious calm: not quiet, more like a potential, like an animal coiled to spring, to run.

Passing through the comfort chamber, she explores the cabinet above the table for a suitable confection to sweeten her breath. There is French nougat, extremely rich and chewy. There is also a bottle of Kölnwasser to be sampled. Sofya Vasilevna sprinkles it on her breasts, then buttons up her dress. A very good toilet water.

Feliks Feliksovich looks up upon her entry. Dmitri Pavlovich might be dozing; Vladimir Mitrofanovich is certainly lost in a daydream.

‘You know, my dear Sofya Vasilevna – and I would not normally make such an observation – but is it not strange that such a significant event – such a grand occasion – should attract only five subscribers in all of Moscow High?’ Feliks Feliksovich pauses to allow Sofya Vasilevna make a comment, should she wish to. Sofya Vasilevna is reseating herself at the little table opposite to Vladimir Mitrofanovich, who is now in the process of returning to the land of the living. She fusses that little bit – chewing delicious nougat as mutely as she can – arranging the skirt of her dress around her knees as a distraction. It is obvious by now that Sofya Vasilevna does not wish to offer an opinion on the matter.

‘And three hundred years since its last performance, you know.’ This is Dmitri Pavlovich, very conversational tone, eyes still closed. It feels like someone had to respond to Feliks Feliksovich’s observation. It also feels that the Prince and the Grand Duke have had this conversation before.

Sofya Vasilevna has finally finished chewing the nougat. She licks the remaining sugar off her lips, doing this in an indirect way, as though she finds her lips dry. Vladimir Mitrofanovich is watching her avidly, his nostrils flared – obviously the very suggestive scent of the Kölnwasser has reached him. He says, staring at Sofya Vasilevna, voice uncertain as he fights a shortness of breath:

‘They say, Feliks Feliksovich, that the staging of the opera is controversial.’ He must tear his eyes away from Sofya Vasilevna and look over at the Prince. This has a worse effect on his breathing, so that he stutters: ‘Th-the prod-producers are s-said to…’

‘Oh, I would not believe half of the gossip going around about it, my good Vladimir Mitrofanovich.’ Dmitri Pavlovich’s interruption is unpardonable – no doubt an irritation with Vladimir Mitrofanovich’s inexplicable hesitation (Dmitri Pavlovich’s eyes are still closed) – but his intention is well meant, to protect Vladimir Mitrofanovich from further embarrassment. ‘You know how it is, my friend, so many look for excuses, as usual.’

Now Dmitri Pavlovich opens his eyes, sees the returned Sofya Vasilevna for the first time. His gaze is frank: he believes he cannot offend. He sits more upright. The cigar looses ash into his lap, but he pays no attention.

‘My dear Sofya Vasilevna, sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. How utterly radiant you can be.’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich nods fervently at this, eyes fixed on her bosom though his head jerks up and down.

Feliks Feliksovich is uncharacteristically forthright: ‘There’s always gossip about these events, Vladimir Mitrofanovich. The best thing to do is ignore it all.’

There is silence. Sofya Vasilevna is looking towards Feliks Feliksovich as towards a neutral point in the compartment: a way of avoiding the intense gazes of the other two men. Feliks Feliksovich reaches down for the box of matches. It is a deliberate and slow movement. The match strikes the sandpaper with a ragged, grating sound; the flare that follows is intense, bright and smoky.

Dmitri Pavlovich turns on reflex to present his cigar for lighting. Vladimir Mitrofanovich looks down into his own lap, eyes swivelling from side to side: caught out again.

‘I suspect some trick, my dear.’ Dmitri Pavlovich is wreathed in fragrant cigar smoke, quite contented with himself. ‘I agree one must have a trick to enable one to get through the longuers of these occasions. For my own part, I don’t know why we do not each retire to bed for the duration.’ He smiles a twinkling smile, shiny scalp echoing this brightly. ‘No doubt we’re all afraid of missing something. Eh, Feliks Feliksovich ?’

The Prince is used to these games. He waggles his shoulders in good humoured conceit, inviting Sofya Vasilevna by this means to smile also, to join in the fun. For her part, she observes:

‘A few good breaths suffice, Grand Duke. Perhaps a cleansing thought, too.’

She has spoken briskly: a liberty available to her among the hypocrisies of polite company. Dmitri Pavlovich takes this is good part:

‘Indeed, my dear. But the only good breath I know of must contain a good measure of cigar smoke.’ He laughs – actually, he chortles – then his breath catches in the heavy phlegm lurking deep in his throat. The Grand Duke coughs a loud hacking cough.

Feliks Feliksovich grimaces quickly: the Grand Duke’s coughing fits can last quite a while.

Now Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans forward, head down almost to the level of the table – as though he strives to get below the new commotion:

‘You know the Doctor has attended the rehearsals? In San Francisco!’

‘Now now, Vladimir Mitrofanovich,’ Feliks Feliksovich is quick to switch his attention from the red-faced Grand Duke: ‘You know that the Doctor is a fervent gossip. A most committed chatterbox. Surely you do not mean to pass on his tittle-tattle as fact?’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich sits upright in his chair. He blushes. His eyes, though, are steely.

‘The Doctor knows more about opera than any of us, Feliks Feliksovich. Do you deny that?’

The Prince bristles. He naturally dislikes being crossed, but he dislikes more being caught out.

Dmitri Pavlovich gets his coughing under control with some effort. He is breathless.

‘No one doubts the Doctor’s knowledge, Vladimir Mitrofanovich. What we question are his opinions.’

Vladimir Mitrofanovich quails; just like that: turning his face away as though struck. Sofya Vasilevna comes to his defence even before she has considered the wisdom of her action:

‘Perhaps so, Grand Duke, but are we not competent to make our own judgements on his opinions?’

She has managed a more emollient tone than she expected, a nice balance of (matronly) rebuke and (maidenly) ingenuity. It works very well indeed. Dmitri Pavlovich goes back to coughing, rumbling barks like aftershocks. Feliks Feliksovich, for his part, throws his hands up and says airily – as though answering a question:

‘Well, perhaps I should outline the story for Sofya Vasilevna. Then she would be in a position to choose for us; that is, choose which part of the tale should be recited here.’

Everyone sighs audibly. It might be the tedium of the long journey in such a confined space. Or it might be boredom at the prospect of listening to the Prince’s story. It could be both.

Feliks Feliksovich makes his polite little cough: ‘Well now, my friends, these events occurred about ten years ago. Back then I was sojourning on my family’s estates on the shores of the Caspian Sea. As an aside, I may tell you that I had gone there with my father, who had plans to introduce the cultivation of cotton on a large scale to the region. Though my father spent a number of years working hard to achieve his aim, it all came to nothing. In Russia we refer to our possessions in the east as estates, but in fact they are huge areas of tribal lands of which we are now the ruler. And while these peoples are willing to pay the tribute we demand, they have no intention of changing their very ancient way of life for us.

‘Well, be that as it may. I spent most of the summer there. Then, as autumn approached, I was informed that a group of my friends – let me call them friends, it will do for the purpose of my tale – had gathered at an old monastery near Bokhara. I hurried to join them. We had long planned to explore the wide territories of eastern Turkestan extending up to the Chinese border. There were, of course, reasons for our wanting to do this, some of which I am not at liberty to reveal to you here.’

‘Oh now, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, surely you can tell us something about Sarman? Let us have a glimpse, at least.’ This is Dmitri Pavlovich, smiling benignly at his friend, bright eyes set off by his shiny pate.

The Prince is startled, his head jerking forward as though the Grand Duke had struck him physically.

‘It is not relevant, my dear Dmitri Pavlovich. Surely you of all people must know that.’

The Grand Duke bobs his head in easy agreement: ‘That may be so, Feliks Feliksovich, but some knowledge of the background to your adventures in Asia will help fill out your tale. After all, it is common knowledge that you have been involved with the Theosophicals since your youth. You yourself told me once how you and you brother agreed that whichever of you died first would return and appear to the survivor. To prove survival of the soul after death.’

Again Feliks Feliksovich looks as though he has been struck hard. Dmitri Pavlovich reaches this time and places his hand on his shoulder.

‘Yes, I know he died in tragic circumstances, and no doubt fulfilling that pact was the last thing on your mind at the time.’ He presses the Prince’s shoulder in consolation. ‘But you also told me something else, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, which I have thought about many times over the years. I tell you truthfully that it is the most profound thing that I have ever heard.’ Dmitri Pavlovich now turns to Vladimir Mitrofanovich and Sofya Vasilevna – who have been sitting somewhat dumbfounded by the indiscretion of the Grand Duke – and continues:

‘Feliks Feliksovich here once told me that he did not believe anyone could become a Christian during one lifetime, that is, hope to achieve salvation and the right to eternal life.’ Dmitri Pavlovich glances at the Prince, hoping to draw him away from his misery. When Feliks Feliksovich remains silent – though his features do soften – he turns back to the other two: ‘It is for this reason that Feliks Feliksovich accepts the doctrine of reincarnation. Is that not so, my dear friend?’

Feliks Feliksovich must nod, compressing his lips in an ambiguous reaction: was he angry with the Grand Duke now, or was he embarrassed by the intimacy of this revelation? Dmitri Pavlovich seems unconcerned.

‘So you see how my friend’s beliefs do affect the nature of his experiences in the east. It is easy to understand what drove him to search for ancient knowledge there, for instance.’

Sofya Vasilevna seems galvanised. She has leaned forward in her seat, head down but face upturned towards the Grand Duke. She looks