He had no idea what it would be like, of course, and was pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and relatively quiet, lined with large mansions. Number twenty-two was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice, studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once the grandest building on the street, its Doric facade was now much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blacked with mildew. He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a lift that ascended through the center of a winding teak wood staircase. When the lift came to a stop, Murugan stepped gingerly on to the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his right. It said: ‘The Robinson Guest House’. Beneath it was a nameplate for ‘N. Aratounian’. Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later, he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’ Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down, frowning through her gold rimmed bifocals.