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a pistol works.”
    â€œThat is also true.”
    â€œKeep walking, Joseph.”
    â€œYes, Excellency.”
    â€œDon’t call me that. We’re mushroom sellers.”
    For all my urging he remained a reluctant companion and I had to walk behind him. “Left... left . . . left... Military precision makes a man courageous,” I whispered into his ear.
    Suddenly the night was split by the scream of flayed rubber as a black Wolseley came lurching round the corner towards us on two wheels, the noise like that of a pig when it first sees the knife. Its headlights sliced the fog apart. Bullets from the three shadowy men on the running boards spattered the building behind us. Joseph flung himself down on the pavement—flat on his stomach. The driver whacked on the brakes, slewing the car round sideways. More rifles were pointed at us out of the window, behind them a jumble of beards and teeth. There could have been another ten men crammed inside it. The sharpshooters were off the boards while the car was still moving and came running at me, running and shouting, criss-crossing through the car’s headlights, impossible to see clearly. I went down on one knee—it was in Joseph’s back—and abased myself.
    When you have to bow, bow low, even unto the ground. It really was my mother’s best bit of advice.
    I proffered my tray. “Mushrooms! For the cause—for the proletariat—free! I beg you!”
    The muzzle of a rifle barrel stirred the leathery chunks. The driver manoeuvred the car so that its headlights were full on us.
    Being on one knee disguised my height. “Take! Take! They belong to you!”
    They started to stuff their pockets, all the time Joseph lying doggo beneath me.
    One of them said to me, “You’re in luck tonight, comrade. The last men we stopped we shot.”
    â€œAll Russia is in luck,” I murmured.
    They shook their rifles at the night and shouted, “Onward the proletariat! Long live Lenin!” The engine was gunned—a small white face, scarcely bearded, was behind the wheel—and they hopped back onto the running board. The car went the wrong way round the statue of V. I. Smirnov, righted itself and took on an opposite list as the little cheeser flung it round the left-hander into Sergievskaya and headed west in the direction of the Stroganov Palace with a bubbling roar from its exhaust.
    I took my knee off Joseph. He lay very still, all crimped and at a funny angle. I told him to quit shamming.
    â€œFive years ago I thought I might make it to the end without ever being shot at,” he said.
    â€œYou thought that, in Russia?”
    â€œYes. Why would anyone want to shoot a man who’d soon be forty years of age, that was the way I reasoned.”
    â€œIs the bullet your greatest fear?” I asked.
    â€œNot the bullet, Doig, the bayonet. I shall try not to run away when we get close to the soldiers, but if I do, I beg your forgiveness.” He bowed his head. “I am a coward. May you never meet a more cowardly person than your servant, Joseph Culp.”

Eight

    T HE NOISE of the Wolseley faded and silence again descended. I’d expected something different. Was Russia’s torrent of grievances going to turn out to be a trickle? Shouldn’t there be a chatter of machine guns—bombs—mobs on the rampage— the incessant drone of military lorries?
    â€œWhat sort of a coup is this?” I cried to Joseph.
    But a few minutes later I saw a glow in the sky ahead. From the direction of Smolny, just as Joseph had said. We stopped and got ourselves sorted out as mushroom sellers. Joseph again asked my forgiveness if he behaved like a coward. Again I forgave him. Then I led the way forward—slowly, crying my wares.
    Low-slung black saloons were racing towards the old convent. Ever more frequently we were passed by dispatch riders on motorbikes and even by bicyclists. Of the latter one