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The odd show-off ventures salutations, bypassing the formal second-person Vy for ty, appropriate only for intimates and juniors. French, which I know is widely taught in Australian secondary schools, has the same distinction – vous and tu. So where is the cultural tripwire here? Has deference been bred out of Australians’ DNA – the convict strain? And misplacing the stress on Kurguzikov, no matter how many times I go over it in class. ‘People! Keep repeating until it sticks. Kurguzikov. Not Kurguzikov or Kurguzikov.’

What if I turn up in a Siberian tunic strumming a balalaika – would that win them over? The McLenins T-shirt I saw on sale at Victoria Market, golden arches irradiating Vladimir Ilyich’s visage might do the trick. I am their Russian stereotype in person I conclude, neither fashionable nor kitsch nor communist enough to be interesting. My father could climb down into the marketplace, kick away hierarchical props, treat everyone alike. English Plus taught me or should have, that democracy at its core is less a system than an attribute. I, homo sovieticus vassilicus, am exactly what I profess to despise – a scared, aggressive conformist, closet authoritarian who craves obeisance where none is due. Judgmental to boot. Small wonder I am such a letdown.

Ambush-perfect, Paul Symonds intercepts me halfway down the stairs. In a better mood I find time for Paul, a recent mature-age addition to my morning group who, despite juggling full-time work as a middle manager in the Department of Veterans Affairs, three other Bachelor of Arts subjects and a young family, achieved ninety per cent in his first test, two grades above anyone else. When I proffered stiff congratulations, Paul looked at his shoes and averred he must be a late bloomer. Lanky and undernourished, swot glasses, he sits apart from the others, embarrassed by their shenanigans.

‘Hi, Vassili,’ Paul begins, ‘I was wanting to chat to you about seminar options for next semester.’

I bite back the words but might as well have uttered them aloud. Hauteur flames my cheeks. A retort broadcasts inside my head. Mr Kurguzikov to you. Top of the class Mr Symonds, you of all people should know that. Dobriy den, Vassili Sergeyevich! Mogu li ya pogovorit s Vami o vozmozhnostyakh provedeniya seminarov na sleduyushiy semestr – even better.

If I, Vassili Sergeyevich deign to take out my inferiority complex on my star student, that is my prerogative to abuse. Now Vassili Sergeyevich will go home, stew, absorb the lesson, recover some grace and thank Mr Symonds – Paul – later.

Much later.

Paul opens his mouth to continue, but lapses into comprehending silence.

‘Another time Mr Symonds,’ I say. ‘I am sure the departmental secretary can make you an appointment for next week. Good luck in the exams.’

I hurry through a sandstone quadrangle with ivy-braided balustrades, take the long way to the cafeteria via the medical and engineering departments, fight the urge to skulk home and to hell with my three o’clock class. Flagstone paths thread between buildings, lead to trucks backed up near the student union building. Men in overalls hoist speaker stacks onto a brick platform. Foldback scorches from microphone consoles. Two women in blue canteen uniforms dispense beakers of cask wine to couples smooching near a pearly drum-kit. Band Week proclaims a banner ringing the stage. Another week, another Week. With this piled-on frivolity it is a wonder anyone turns up to class. Spoilt kids with too much time on their hands.

Well, I can teach them a thing or two about being spoilt. If I wasn’t staring down the barrel at my thirties I might feel less curmudgeonly. Worst of all, I would be the first to disown this kind of snobbery coming from anyone else.

‘Vas-si-li!’ My dunce is sitting at a wooden table with three classmates including Karen, who has sporadically attended my class since transferring from Jonas’s group over a month ago. I can’t remember their names – am hard pressed to match any names to faces, proof positive of my faltering professionalism. Last week the boy came to class via the pub, not for the first time and interrupted my painstaking explanations of adjectival endings with critiques of Aquarium’s latest CD. My patience snapped.

‘Aquarium! The Russian Rolling Stones. Dinosaurs!’

At least that made the class sit up and pay attention for half a minute.

‘Sorry about this morning,’ says the boy. ‘Way out of order. Coffee’s on me.’ Before I demur he fetches a tray of styrofoam cups from a dispenser. Brown liquid scalds my fingers when I pop open the lid.

‘You’ll need more than canteen cappuccinos to bribe your way through first term,’ one of the other boys remarks.

‘Ask Karen about that. She’d know better than me.’

‘Shut up, jerk.’ Karen thumps the fleshy part of the boy’s shoulder. The resounding whack startles customers at neighbouring tables.

‘Don’t mind her. She’s just a provintsialnaya devushka, a hick from Tasmania. What do you think of the uni? Australian students a bit slack, or what?’

‘Lazy, you mean? Well, yes, a little perhaps.’ My answer is, I guess, immaterial. I am the unwilling participant in a game, the rules of which I do not understand.

‘We’re having a party tomorrow night in Fitzroy. Karen, write down the address for him. Any time after seven, just bring yourself.’

‘Thank you. I will come if I possibly can.’

‘When do you miss Russia most?’ the other girl asks.

‘I do not miss Russia in the abstract. Only my wife. And parents.’

I want to add when I am having this kind of conversation. I sip what’s left of my coffee.

‘Where are all the old dissidents, now there’s no KGB?’

‘We have FSB instead. Same bottle, new label. Anyway, you think I am so old?’

‘Wasn’t that your era? Or did it all pass you by?’

‘I have no idea. You are asking the wrong person. I could lecture you all day about anarchy, food riots, queues dawn to dusk. This is the life I left to taste your Australian paradise. Would you be interested? I think not. As for our ex-dissidents, these days they are selling oil shares and real estate. Probably to yours.’

That shuts them up. I move to another table around the corner, get out my Macquarie, leaf through to prig: an affected person, attentive to principle or duty, especially in a self-righteous way. Oh, that’s me, Vassili Sergeyevich Kurguzikov to a K all right.

Multistorey residential blocks, more commonplace in certain inner-city precincts than I imagined, rise over Nicholson Street. Do they smell of cat piss too? On the edge of a park two possums tussle for a chip packet. The victor licks the spoils clean and scuttles up an elm trunk. I walk past ivy-clad pergolas, hanging baskets over verandas, to Russia House, a grey sandstone building with cake-frost plasterwork. A note taped to the front door confirms it is open for another twenty minutes. Repeated knocking barks my knuckles. Then again, a Russian museum that disregards its own hours suits the times.