My story had a curious effect on Madeleine. When it ended, she looked down at the empty space in front of her for some time, plunged in thought. I studied her face, lit by the glow of the bedside lamp.

“We’ve met before,” she said.

“Where?”

She flashed a sad little smile. “You won’t remember.”

“A long time ago? In another life, perhaps?”

“It was.”

“Was it in Berlin? Were we at university together? I think I’d remember. There weren’t many women students back then.”

“No, it was in Paris.” She lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. “Other places too. But there’s no point talking about it.”

“No, no, now that you’ve brought it up I must solve the mystery. It seems you can remember the occasion, and I cannot. But perhaps if you give me a clue…”

She was leaning back on the mattress, looking down at one hand, which skimmed back and forth across the duvet. “Can I tell you a story instead?”

“Will it answer my question?”

“Perhaps.” And she began telling me the tale of the albatross.