“So, welcome,” says Thome. He suppresses his nasal Eton/Oxford/bullshit accent in order to adapt to Peter’s level. He squints. Hey, we understand each other. I also squint at animals. Thome hops around his quarters—there are two rooms with an en suite bathroom, probably five hundred square meters—as if he’s well and truly nuts. Men in love tend toward excessive oversharing. Family photos, diplomas, sports equipment. Check it out, look at this, what quality things I’ve accumulated. Thome nearly fell over in excitement. Barely avoiding the Regency furniture, whoops, the round library table. Why do all rich people furnish their places the same way, why do they all dress alike, why do they all look so unbelievably pasty? Thome’s limbs are awkwardly attached to his trunk, they wobble with every breath. His face has something horse-like about it. Not a beautiful person. But clearly a member of the upper class. Whose sexual gratification consists of looking at little boys. And now, now he’s sweating, and his eyelids twitch nervously. He stares at Peter and wants something, but it isn’t clear to him what that could be. Thome, who isn’t homosexual. He just doesn’t like women. He doesn’t want to sexually possess Peter. He wants, well, simply to be near him, isn’t that right? Peter is silent. “You can talk, too,” says Thome, trying to sit calmly next to Peter. He can barely look at the boy without trembling. Peter has a discomforting beauty that turns people around him into complete idiots. “Shall I give you money?” Thome asks. A surprise turn of events. Peter shrugs his shoulders. He has no idea what the man wants from him. His mission is to find out a lot about him, so he stays, he listens, he finds things out. Peter flows onto the sofa. His limbs sprawl out like a greyhound’s, his shirt is crumpled, letting part of his smooth stomach show. Thome is out of his head. He would like to suck this beauty out with a straw. Peter finally says: “Why not.” Thome jumps up and retrieves his briefcase. “Would five hundred be about right?” he asks.

“For what?” says Peter, looking directly at Thome.

“Watching, filming, that sort of thing,” Thome stutters, pulling more bills from his wallet. “This is the last of my cash,” says Thome. “From next week on, all systems will be cashless.”

“Thanks,” says Peter, very slowly slipping the money into his tight pants. He has no idea where he’s seen all this shit, in some movie or report, he smiles.