It was a done deal. We sat back and chatted like partners in some lucrative scam. It was pretty futile, as it turned out. And it was hard work. The drunken slob kept trying to sideline his father and hog the limelight. He wanted a chapter to himself. He told me about his childhood, about his grandmother Gertrude who taught him to speak German, his military service in the ‘fucking French army’, the little wars in Africa where he did a little nigger-bashing to make up for the shame of having to fight for France, some bitch named Greta who ruined his life, some cousin Gaspard or Hector who ripped him off, his aunt Ursula who lived in Brazil with some guy called Felix who trafficked diamonds or maybe it was emeralds, how his house was falling down around his ears, how the village was under threat from some urban renewal scheme, how the fuckers at the city council, et cetera, et cetera. And he told me everything about his work with his Nazi father. Just paperwork at first, a little spying on the neighbours, watching the comings and goings from the post office, his role as acolyte at the shadowy ceremonies and, later, when he attained the age of unreason, the endless get-togethers, the secret meetings of sad cases, the summary justice dealt out to traitors and revisionists, the beatings meted out to local hooligans, the altercations with the local police, the winters spent drinking with old veterans depressed at how the world had changed. All in all, a rewarding catalogue of misery. He even showed me his files. I was surprised he was capable of standing up. He had a whole cupboard full of documents and I fell on them like a man possessed. An hour later, I was covered in dust and smelled of rotting flesh. I felt ashamed to be human. I poked around through the sort of jumble and clutter you would expect to find in the attic of a former torturer who has finally gone to meet the Prince of Darkness. It reeked of old men, of misfits, mildew and madness, of futility and horror. Dead or alive, a torturer is still a torturer. Jean 92 should have died at birth. There were grubby posters, tattered books, a book of hours in a linen slipcase, hunters’ catalogues, faded pennants, hideous letters and even more appalling photographs, bile-filled notebooks and nauseating tracts. Adolph offered to sell me the lot for 200 francs. It was a lot of money for such unspeakable shit, but I had come here in search of the roots of evil. There was a pistol, too, and some copper bullets grey-green with age. ‘A Luger – best gun in the whole world,’ he said, gripping it proudly. ‘You said it,’ I nodded. ‘My old man swore by his.’ What with Adolph and his Luger and me carrying a sheaf of Nazi pamphlets and pennants, we looked like we were about to take on the whole world. Any young firebrand who saw us would have signed up to fight.