I was thinking about all this during sport on Friday afternoon. I had plenty of time, because we were supposed to be long-distance running, and distances offer an excellent opportunity to mull things over. I’d decided to stop hiding behind the plane trees like I used to do in the old days, even though I found it hard. From time to time I looked back to see if my dear Haisam was keeping up. There he was, struggling along, sweating heavily and wheezing. He looked enormous in the middle of the track and his little eyes were screwed up behind his steamed-up spectacles. I felt bad for him, but he was still smiling broadly. He raised his big paw when I turned round, as though to signal that despite this ordeal, everything was OK, and we’d soon be back together.

I was about to zoom around the last bend when I saw Marie walking in the opposite direction, on the grass at the edge of the track. I waved at her, but got no reaction at all. Yet I was sure she was looking straight at me. I wondered whether I’d offended her, or whether she’d found out about my involvement in the concert, or even if Van Gogh had been bad-mouthing me – I wouldn’t have put it past him. If that was the case, I’d take a chunk out of his other ear, and that would be the end of it. When the sports lesson was over, I got changed as quickly as possible and dashed off. I finally caught up with Marie when she was almost home.

“Are you angry?” I asked her.

“Of course not, why should I be?”

“Because earlier you walked right past me and I waved to you and … it was as though you didn’t recognize me!”

There was a strange look in her eyes: they seemed both transparent and cloudy at the same time and made me think of the eyes of the stuffed animals I’d seen in the Natural History Museum. She pulled a small gift-wrapped parcel out of her pocket.

“Here, this is for your birthday! See, I’m not angry at all.”

Strangely enough, that had completely slipped my mind. I felt choked. I tried to think of a historical quote or something a bit intellectual to say, but I couldn’t think of anything at all.

“Open it.”

It was a model replica of a 1954 Panhard Dyna. It had everything: the three-spoked steering wheel, the elaborate enamelled Dyna logo on the bonnet, the curving rear axle joined to the Silentbloc shock absorbers, the long parallel stitched seams on the bench seat. I looked at Marie and thought I might start blubbing, right there and then.

“Do you like it?”