I don’t know what my grandfather’s voice sounded like, whether it was high and hoarse or low and rumbling. I don’t know whether he – like me – enjoyed rain, or preferred waking up to bright morning skies. I don’t know how many languages he spoke, whether he listened to Bach or Blues and whether he slept well at night or stayed up smoking, like those lonely men do in movies from the 50s. I do know that he was born on the fringes of the Russian Empire, fleeing before the Bolshevik Revolution. And I do know that in 2014, Russia tried to rewrite his story.

It began with a rugby match at the end of 2013 between Oxford University and Russia. I was playing for Oxford, preparing for our annual match against Cambridge. Russia’s national rugby team were touring Europe and the promise of an international opponent generated a crowd unlike anything I’d experienced in our modest Iffley Road stadium. As the game kicked off, I remember Russia’s bright red strip and the way the November sun made it look fluorescent. The game was physical, fast-paced, tight. Russia won by a narrow margin, and the teams enjoyed toasts towards mutual friendship and brotherhood after the game. It is strange now to think how sanctions, Skripal and souring relations between the UK and Russia lay just around the corner. For on that November day, the mood was characterized by optimism, potential and mutual respect.

At this point, my grandfather’s nationality was inconclusive. He died when my father was five, and whenever I asked about him as a child, I only ever received wooly replies: “he was from Russia, or Georgia, or something”, my family would respond. No one could say – or wanted to find out – where he was from. I was born and raised in London, but I had always felt an inclination to an identity beyond my immediate surroundings. Like a watermark in the corner of a page, the question of where I came from was forever visible in my mind’s eye.

Talking to the Russian coaches after the game, I told them about my link to Russia and Georgia. In their eyes, undetermined ancestry meant Russian ancestry, so they invited me to trial for the national team. Proving my eligibility would be simple, they suggested. For them, it was a chance to try new blood during their World Cup qualifying campaign. For me, it meant international rugby: I didn’t have the talent to play for England. It also meant, perhaps, a step closer to unearthing the true story of my grandfather. Seizing on this opportunity, I went digging in the archives, assisted by Rugby Union Russia, ostensibly to prove I was Russian.