“I can’t remember. Something called The Lady of the Camellias, I think, which is a charming story about a woman and some flowers, who’s in love but also very poorly.”

I watched Dad as he settled back into the Journal for Collectors and the Curious, a little magazine of classified ads that he published himself and that allowed all kinds of collectors to get in touch with each other. But what I really admired about Dad was that he used his little magazine to flag up, to some of these antique lovers, stuff that might interest them. He owned a warehouse in Paris, in which he kept all sorts of old objects waiting to be delivered. He’d taken it over from my grandfather, and it was called “El Dorado”. In my imagination it had the mythical allure of a legendary country. I’d never set foot in it, and I didn’t even know why Dad called it ‘“El Dorado”. But what I did know was that the day I first went there would be the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

“Dad?”

He looked up from his magazine. He had beautiful blue eyes that glistened a little and it always made me wonder whether he was on the verge of tears.

“Yes?”

“Your father, was he like you are with me? Did he keep an eye on your progress at school?”

Looking at me with his eyes full of emotion, he put the lid back on his pen and waved it in the air, as if he was drawing a long strand of spaghetti.

“He arrived here in France from Poland just before the war, and once peace returned he started selling scrap metal… When that began to take off, he became far too busy with El Dorado to take much notice of how I was doing…”

“So you did super well all on your own?”

He nodded, sucking in his breath, and I was overwhelmed with admiration.

“Dad, tell me, did you love your father a lot?”

He smiled in an awkward sort of way, because some things are difficult to talk about, and took the lid off his pen. I felt he might slip away from me, like a fish from a hook.

“I don’t know if I really knew him… And now, when I think about it, I wonder if he even existed. Do you think it’s possible for fathers and sons to know each other?” He looked really serious. The atmosphere was very solemn, as though philosophical storm clouds were gathering.

“Yes, Dad. After all, we know each other, don’t we? And my friend Haisam, he knows his father as well as he knows his chessboard…”

Dad considered this for a few seconds. His thoughts seemed to be travelling way back in time.

“Yes, you’re right, we know each other, you and I, we do.”

He didn’t look all that convinced.