Strictly speaking, I should’ve stayed home last Saturday, passing time in meditation and prayer, but then how would we have celebrated on Sunday? We had fasted for nearly two months before Easter, and visions of sausage spirals borne aloft by sugar plum fairies swirled in our heads, along with whole cheeses cleaved in twain by Giulio’s expert hand and laid out amid platters of iridescent prosciutto and bowls of painted eggs. No, this was to be a day of action.

I cannot think of any English diminutives for Paul, but one of the Russian ones is Pavlik, functionally equivalent to Paolino in Italy. Saying “Paolino” to an Italian, however, will draw a blank, and it is vain to expect a response along the lines of “Ah, yes, of course, Fra Paolino da Pistoia, Dominican friar and Renaissance painter!” or something yet more recherché. But to any Russian alive today, “Pavlik” can only ever refer to one historical personage.