‘It won’t.’ He began to beat the first escalope. ‘It’s a fake. Or one of those old guns they neutralize and sell to collectors and nuts. There’s a place by the Bourse that has a windowful.’

‘It looks real,’ she said. ‘It’s black.’

‘Black?’ He smiled. ‘He’s just showing off, Laurence. Trying to impress Kurt. Do you want to help me in here? I need the mushrooms sliced. And four of those shallots.’

She came into the kitchen, shrugging and pouting, then lined up her rings on the worktop and took one of the big black-handled Sabatier knives, topping and tailing the first shallot with two clean strokes.

‘He’s impossible now,’ she said, beginning the familiar lament. ‘Sits in the studio all day. Does nothing. Takes tablets but won’t show me what they are. Lies to me. I don’t even know if he loves me.’

‘Of course he loves you. He couldn’t get through a single day without you. And what do you mean he’s impossible now? He was impossible before.’

She shook her head; a teardrop broke from her skin and splashed among the onion rings. ‘I keep thinking something terrible’s going to happen. Really terrible.’

László stopped his work and hugged her, the mallet in his hand still, the knife in hers.

‘It’s so tiring,’ she said, speaking into the side of his neck. ‘I always thought that when we got older things would be easier. Clearer. But it just gets more confusing.’

‘Mother of Christ!’ cried Franklin, shuffling into the kitchen so that the room was suddenly crowded. ‘My wife is being seduced by a Hungarian invert. Unhand her, you bastard.’

László glanced at the American’s hands. ‘What have you done with it?’ he asked.

‘The Gat? Gave it to that beautiful young Aryan of yours. Any danger of a decent drink, you pinch-ass?’

‘A decent drink comes with conditions,’ said László, attempting to sound stern. ‘You know that Karol is coming tonight. Let’s just have a nice, quiet evening.’

‘Karol likes me,’ said Franklin. He opened the freezer compartment of the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Zytnia vodka. In the warm air of the kitchen the glass quickly frosted. ‘Russian hooch!’

‘Polish,’ said László. ‘Russians drink gasoline. Diesel oil.’

‘Nothing wrong with diesel oil,’ said Franklin, stowing the bottle in one of the pockets of his jacket. ‘You can go on with my wife now. I’ll shoot you later.’

‘You’d miss,’ said László, turning back to the chopping board. ‘You’d miss for sure.’