They stole a furtive glance at my suit, which was thankfully as good as new and acceptable enough, although not terribly well tailored. After that, they ignored me.

First they talked about Italy, where I’ve never been, and we traversed the entire length of Mignon’s country:* Venice, Milan, Florence, Rome, Naples, the Vesuvius and Pompeii. I’ve read things about the place, but for me Italy has always remained just a blot on the map, so I kept quiet. Not a word was said about its artistic treasures, but Italian women were ravishing and full of passion.

When they’d tired of that, they discussed how hard it was to be a landlord these days. Many houses were vacant, and they all claimed their tenants weren’t paying their rent regularly. I wanted to protest, not on behalf of my tenants – I don’t have any – but because I’ve always paid my rent on time. However, they’d already moved on to cars: four and six cylinders, garage costs, petrol and lubricants, all things about which I don’t have anything to say, of course.

Then they proceeded to give a summary of what happened last week in families worthy of mention.

“So, Gevers’s son married Legrelle’s daughter,” said one of them.

It’s not supposed to be an announcement – because they all know anyway, except for me, who’s never heard of either bride or groom – but rather an item on the agenda to be voted on. They give their approbation or disapproval depending on whether both parties brought comparable fortunes to the union or not.

They all agree on everything, with the result that no time is wasted on discussion. Each of them merely expresses what everyone else thinks.

“So, Delafaille stepped down as president of the Chamber of Commerce.”

I’ve never heard of the man, but not only do they know of his existence and the fact that he has resigned, but usually one of them knows the actual reason: official disgrace because of bankruptcy, some mysterious illness or other, a scandal involving a wife or daughter, or simply being fed up with it all.

This journal parlé* takes up most of the evening, and it’s the most excruciating part, because the only thing I can do is nod in agreement, laugh or raise my eyebrows.

Yes, during those evenings I live in constant fear and I sweat more profusely than when Mother died. You know now how much I suffered then, but at least that only lasted one night, while at Van Schoonbeke’s this happens every week, and what I’ve already paid for in perspiration is in no way taken into account.