That was just a short while ago. And now it was Sunday, and Thome looked at Raf’s half-naked body, which was provocatively covered with freckles. Thome stepped closer. He saw the reddish hair on Raf’s legs. Thome was still in his underwear. As he went toward the dresser he pulled the sheet from Raf’s body, leaving his bottom exposed. Thome stood still, his heartbeat surging furiously, his mouth opening, and the bulge of an erection formed in his underwear. So, get going with that bulge, a pair of sweatpants thrown over it and off into the virginal sublimity of Sunday. Thome looked one last time at the sleeping Raf, left the dorm, and just then heard the aristocratic crackle of gravel in the driveway that heralded an approaching visitor. A Bentley—or to be more precise, his father’s Bentley. The combination of father, erection, and jogging was probably predicated on chaos theory, thought Thome, massaging his calves and awaiting the appearance of his father. His father exited the vehicle, in the passenger seat of which sat a woman who looked to be barely older than Thome, in a short skirt and very high heels. The woman climbed out teeteringly. A new employee? A nanny. Why would father bring a fucking servant here? Thome’s father cleared his throat. “This is Tamara.” Said Thome’s father. “We’re getting married.”

Later

So, after a few weeks, when Thome drove home, he entered the family villa through the service entrance. He crept through the now unfamiliar house. Tamara had really outdone herself. The new mother. Who of course wasn’t a prostitute but a consultant. She helped Russians newly arrived in London deal with questions concerning real estate, assets, investments, arranged invitations to horse races and the acquisition of valuable diamonds. The business concept was booming. And with Tamara marrying into the ruling class it got an unbelievable boost. She had excitedly redecorated the house. The boxwoods were replaced with modern sculptures by an exiled Russian artist, the old parquet floors torn out. Now marble lay on the floor, and the old furniture had yielded under the direction of an Italian interior designer to furniture made by the hand of the great artist Colani. Tamara loved Italian design.

Now. Unfortunately

THOME’S FATHER