“Going to take one of those dolls home for my little grand-niece,” the dying grocer said as they surveyed the rows of stalls. It was beginning to snow again, big wet flakes of early snow that melted on contact with tarmac and skin. It had snowed the day before, and now the streets were grim with gray slush. The air was hostile with a damp kind of cold, and the grocer decided to buy a fur hat with earflaps, haggling with the stallholder over the price. Martin wondered what the point of bargaining was when you were so near to death. He was beginning to wonder if the grocer really was dying or if he had simply made the claim in order to get attention.

Martin managed to give him the slip while he was entrenched in the negotiations over his hat. The man was ruining the Magic of Russia for Martin, that very morning he had trailed on Martin’s heels through the Hermitage, complaining all the way about the excesses of the decor (but surely that was the point) and imag-ining what “god-awful pig swill” they would be served up for supper. Even the Rembrandts didn’t shut him up. “Miserable old bugger, wasn’t he?” he said, contemplating a self-portrait of the artist. Martin knew it could be only a temporary respite, no doubt the minute he had his new hat on his head, the grocer would ferret him out from among the souvenir stalls and spend the rest of the afternoon complaining about being taken to the cleaners by the hat seller, a scrawny man who looked as if he were going to beat the grocer in the race to scramble through the door to the next world.

Martin intended to buy a set of dolls for his mother, he knew they would sit, dusted but neglected, on a shelf among her other cheap knickknacks, the porcelain “figurines,” the dolls in national costume, the little cross-stitched pictures. She took no pleasure in anything he bought her, but if he didn’t buy her something she would complain that he never thought about her (her logic was indefatigable). If someone had given Martin a piece of rock wrapped in paper, he would have been grateful because they had gone to the trouble of finding the rock and wrapping it in the paper, just for him.

He would buy her something ordinary, he decided, because she deserved nothing better than ordinary-a little peasant set, aprons and head scarves, he was holding one in his hand, feeling its smoothness, its fertility-symbol shape, thinking about his mother, when the girl at the stall said, “Is very nice.”

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t think it was nice at all. He tried not to look at the girl because she was so pretty. She was wearing finger-less woolen gloves and a scarf wrapped around her blond hair. She came out from behind the stall and started picking up different dolls, opening them up, cracking them like eggs, setting them out. “This one beautiful, this one also. Here this doll special, very good artist. Scenes from Pushkin, Pushkin famous Russian writer. You know him?” It was such a soft sell that it would have seemed discourteous to resist, and in the end, after perhaps more contemplation than either the task or the dolls merited, he bought an expensive fifteen-doll set. They were attractive things, their fat-bellied stomachs painted with “winter scenes” from Pushkin. Works of art, really, too good for his mother, and he decided he would keep them for himself.

“Very beautiful,” he said to the girl.

“No dollars?” she queried sadly when he handed over his fist-fuls of rubles.

She was wearing ankle boots with a high heel and an old-fashioned, serviceable kind of coat. All the girls in St. Petersburg wore high-heeled boots, picking their way dexterously through the icy slush while Martin found himself slipping and sliding like a slapstick comedian.

“You want coffee?” she asked unexpectedly, confounding him with the question. He thought she was going to produce a flask from somewhere, but she shouted something harsh at the man selling old Red Army insignia at the next stall, and he shouted something equally harsh back, and then she picked up her hand-bag and set off, swinging her bag and beckoning to Martin as if he were a child.

They didn’t have coffee. They had a bowl of borscht, followed by hot chocolate, thick and sweet, served in tall mugs, alongside some kind of custard pastry. She ordered it and wouldn’t let him pay, waving her hand at the thin plastic carrier bag that contained his newspaper-wrapped dolls, snugly inside of one another now, so he wondered if this was his reward for having forked out way over the odds for his purchase. Maybe this was how business was transacted in Russia, maybe if you gave someone enough money to live off for a week they took you into warm, steamy cafés and blew their cigarette smoke all over you. On holiday in Crete once (“Discover the Ancient Wonders of”), he found that every time he bought something in a shop, the shopkeeper insisted on giving him something else for free, as if they wanted to soften the harsh edges of capitalism. These gifts usually took the form of a crocheted doily so that Martin had quite a pile of them in his suit-case by the time he returned home. He gave them to an Oxfam shop.

“Irina,” she said, sticking out her hand and shaking his. When she unwrapped her scarf, her hair fell down her back.

“Martin,” Martin said.

“Marty,” she said, smiling at him. He didn’t correct her mistake. No one had ever called him “Marty” before. He liked the way “Marty” seemed a more entertaining man than he knew himself to be.

He tried to explain to Irina that he was a writer, but he couldn’t tell whether she understood him or not. “Dostoyevsky,” he said, “Pushkin.”

“Idyot!” she exclaimed, her pretty doll face suddenly animated. “Here is Idyot.” It was only later that he realized the café they were in was called the Idiot.

He wanted to impress her a little with his success. He never talked about his professional good fortune with anyone. Melanie, his agent, thought it was never good enough and he could do better, the few friends he had weren’t in the least successful and he didn’t want them to think he was boasting in any way, his mother was indifferent and his brother was jealous, so he had found it best to keep his small triumphs to himself. But he would have liked Irina to know that he was a person of a little consequence in his native country (“His sales build with every book”), but she just smiled and licked the crumbs of pastry from her fingers. “Sure,” she said.

When she had finished eating, she stood up suddenly and, without looking at her watch, said, “I go.” She drained her cup while shrugging into her coat, there was a kind of greed in the gesture that Martin admired.

“Tonight?” she said, as if they had already made an arrange-ment. “Caviar Bar in Grand Hotel, seven o’clock. Okay, Marty?”

“Yes, okay,” Martin said hastily because she was already dashing for the door, raising her hand in farewell without looking back.

When he left the café he found it was snowing thickly. It seemed very romantic, the snow, the girl with blond hair wrapped in a scarf, like Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago.

He stared at his reflection in the slightly foxed mirror of the Four Clans’ bathroom. Maybe he felt so nauseous because he was starving, he couldn’t remember when he last had anything proper to eat. A shiver went through his body, and the next moment he was on his knees, holding on to the toilet bowl, being violently sick. He flushed the toilet, and as he stared into the vortex of vomit swirling with some nasty blue chemical that must be in the cistern, he was hit by a sudden thought:

Robbed? Of course!

He hurried out of the bathroom and searched for his wallet in his jacket pocket. Gone. He sighed heavily at the thought of all those tedious phone calls he was going to have to make to his bank and credit card companies. His driver’s license and a hundred pounds in cash had also been in the wallet, and then-nightmare-he remembered the little lilac Memory Stick, the sliver of plastic that contained Death on the Black Isle. Gone. A cold wave of panic passed through his body, followed by a hot one of relief- the novel was backed up on a CD in his “office.” Martin had saved Paul Bradley’s life, and in return he had stolen from him. Martin was so hurt by this betrayal that he actually felt tears pricking his eyes.