In St. Petersburg, no one cared if his identity was just a flunky, simply because he was from the British Embassy, one of the faces representing the British Empire, which alone was enough to earn him immense respect.
Back then, after work every evening, he could order a cup of real black coffee at a café on Neva Street, along with an apple pie topped with maple syrup, gazing at the golden dome of Saint Isaac's Cathedral shimmering under the winter night's moonlight.
He remembered once being invited to the Summer Palace for an outdoor ballet, where sitting next to him was a Countess who even praised his French, saying it was better than her husband's family tutor.
But now?
Now he even has to think twice before going to Covent Garden Theater for a play.
A senior copyist at the Foreign Office Secretariat?
This title is worth nothing in London!
In Whitehall, if you throw a brick casually, you could hit three people with higher positions than his.
