That was when Dave realized what his own problem was.

“I believed I was dumb, all through school,” he told Beep that evening, in the pine kitchen of Daisy Farm, after they had put John Lee to bed. “The teachers said the same. My parents knew I wasn’t dumb, so they assumed I must be lazy.”

“You’re not lazy,” she said. “You’re the hardest-working person I know.”

“Something was wrong with me, but we didn’t know what it was. Now we do.”

“And we’ll be able to make sure John Lee doesn’t suffer the way you did.”

Dave’s lifelong struggle with writing and reading was explained. It had not oppressed him for many years, not since he had become a songwriter whose lyrics were on the lips of millions. All the same he felt enormously relieved. A mystery had been unraveled, a cruel disability accounted for. Most important of all, he knew how to make sure it did not afflict the next generation.

“And you know what else?” Beep had said, pouring a glass of Daisy Farm cabernet sauvignon.

“Yeah,” said Dave. “He’s probably mine.”

Beep had never been sure whether Dave or Walli was the father of John Lee. As the boy grew and changed and looked more and more like Dave, neither of them had known whether the likenesses were inherited or acquired: hand gestures, turns of phrase, enthusiasms, all could have been learned by a boy who adored his daddy. But dyslexia could not be learned. “It’s not conclusive,” Beep said. “But it’s strong evidence.”

“And anyway, we don’t care,” said Dave.

However, they had vowed never to speak of this doubt to anyone else, including John Lee himself.

Cam’s wedding took place at a modern Catholic church in the small town of Otwock, on the outskirts of Warsaw. Cam had embraced Catholicism. Dave had no doubt the conversion was entirely cynical.

The bride wore a white dress that her mother had got married in: Polish people had to recycle clothing.

Lidka was slim and attractive, Dave thought, with long legs and a nice bust, but there was something about her mouth that suggested ruthlessness to him. Perhaps he was being harsh: fifteen years as a rock star had made him cynical about girls. They went to bed with men to seek some advantage for themselves more often than most people thought, in his experience.

The three bridesmaids had made themselves short summery dresses in bright pink cotton.

The reception was held at the American embassy. Woody Dewar paid for it, but the embassy was able to secure plentiful supplies of food, and something other than vodka to drink.

Lidka’s father told a joke, half in Polish and half in English. A man walks into a government-owned butcher’s shop and asks for a pound of beef.

“Nie ma—we don’t have any.”

“Pork, then.”

“Nie ma.”

“Veal?”

“Nie ma.”

“Chicken.”

“Nie ma.”

The customer leaves. The butcher’s wife says: “The guy is crazy.”

“Of course,” says the butcher. “But what a memory!”