“Not necessarily. I’m close to a promising young man called Miklós Németh.”

Ah, Rebecca thought, so this is the point of the conversation: to tell the German government, quietly and informally, that Németh is the reformist rival to Kádár.

“He’s in his thirties, and very bright,” Bíró continued. “But we fear a Hungarian repeat of the Soviet situation: Brezhnev replaced by Andropov and then Chernenko. It’s like the queue for the toilet in a home for old men.”

Rebecca laughed. She liked Bíró.

He bent his head and kissed her.

She was only half surprised. She had sensed that he was attracted to her. What surprised her was how excited she felt to be kissed. She kissed him back eagerly.

Then she drew back. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away a little. She studied him in the lamplight. No man of fifty looked like Adonis, but Frederik had a face that suggested intelligence and compassion and the ability to smile wryly at life’s ironies. He had gray hair cut short and blue eyes. He was wearing a dark-blue coat and a bright red scarf, conservatism with a touch of gaiety.

She said: “Why did you get divorced?”

“I had an affair, and my wife left me. Feel free to condemn me.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve made mistakes.”

“I regretted it, when it was too late.”

“Children?”

“Two, grown up. They have forgiven me. Marta has remarried, but I’m still single. What’s your story?”

“I divorced my first husband when I discovered he worked for the Stasi. My second husband was injured escaping over the Berlin Wall. He was in a wheelchair, but we were happy together for twenty years. He died a year ago.”

“My word, you’re about due for some good luck.”

“Perhaps I am. Would you walk me to the hotel entrance, please?”

They crossed the road. On the corner of the block, where the streetlights were less glaring, she kissed him again. She enjoyed it even more this time, and pressed her body against his.

“Spend the night with me,” he said.

She was sorely tempted. “No,” she said. “It’s too soon. I hardly know you.”

“But you’re going home tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“We may never meet again.”

“I’m sure we will.”

“We could go to my apartment. Or I’ll come to your room.”

“No, though I’m flattered by your persistence. Good night.”

“Good night, then.”

She turned away.

He said: “I travel often to Bonn. I’ll be there in ten days’ time.”

She turned back, smiling.

He said: “Will you have dinner with me?”

“I’d love to,” she said. “Call me.”

“Okay.”

She walked into the hotel lobby, smiling.

• • •

Lili was at home in Berlin-Mitte one afternoon when her niece, Alice, came, in a rainstorm, to borrow books. Alice had been refused admission to university, despite her outstanding grades, because of her mother’s underground career as a protest singer. However, Alice was determined to educate herself, so she was studying English in the evenings after she finished her shift at the factory. Carla had a small collection of English-language novels inherited from Grandmother Maud. Lili happened to be at home when Alice called, and they went upstairs to the drawing room and looked through the books together while the rain drummed on the windows. They were old editions, prewar, Lili guessed. Alice picked out a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. She would be the fourth generation to read them, Lili calculated.