She called me back again, rummaging through her handbag. ‘I forgot,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose it’s important, but Ophélie sent you a letter. I haven’t read it – you can see for yourself, the envelope’s still sealed.’ I said ‘Thank you, madame,’ and I left.

I headed back to the estate. With a big box on my back and a face like death warmed up, I looked like a burglar heading home after a hard night’s work. If the cops had stopped me, I’d have been screwed, I’d have had a hard job explaining my obsession for books about exterminating the Jews. But the cops round here know me, I thought, to cheer myself up, we’d just shoot the shit for ten minutes and I’d be off.

Standing at the entrance to the estate, looking up at the tower blocks rising into the sky, I felt dizzy, I felt sick. My life as a recluse was over. I was like a convict finally released just as he realises he doesn’t want to get out because he knows that on the outside, with his friends and family, he’ll be an outsider. I was terrified, I knew nothing would be the way it was before, not me, not the estate. I knew I’d have to find somewhere else to live, I’d be a real exile, with no past, no future.

Books are heavy and, I tell you, walking up ten flights of stairs takes it out of you. The lift packed up so long ago people forget it’s even there. On the estate, we live like mountaineers, we climb up and toss a rope down to help the old folk stuck on the ledges. By the time I got to the tenth floor, I was practically crawling. I rang the doorbell, polite as I could. Aunt Sakina said, ‘Sit down, I’ll get you some coffee.’ I set down the box and collapsed into a chair. Uncle Ali was sitting in his favourite chair, staring out the window, he was off in his head somewhere. It was nice, I realised, to come home, to be with your family, to see them getting on with life as though nothing had happened.

I opened Ophélie’s letter. There was a piece of card and . . . ten $100 bills. In God We Trust was printed on each one. I read the letter as I drank my coffee. I’d forgotten what it tasted like. Ophélie wrote:

Dear Malrich,