‘Rugova is a good man,’ said Emil, ‘but he is not a man of action. He could not stop a hundred and fifty thousand Albanians being thrown out of work. Doctors, teachers, all those in state employment. He has not stopped the apartheid in the schools or the suppression of our language. He has not stopped detention and beatings. Did you know, monsieur, that any remark critical of Serbia is considered a “verbal crime” punishable by two months’ imprisonment? Did you know that thousands have been summoned to police stations for what the authorities call “informative talks”, interrogations that last for three days and for which no justification is ever offered? They are making their lists, monsieur, and one day they will use those lists and they will not be interested in talking. You know what the Serbs call the Albanians in Kosovo? “Tourists.” They mean to get rid of us, monsieur, and only when it is too late will the world take notice. Is it not accepted everywhere that a man has the right to fight in defence of his life? His family?’

There was a great deal more of this, though from the moment Milošević had stripped Kosovo of its autonomy, László had entertained no serious doubts about the justice of the Albanian cause. The unhappy Serbs with their deranged leader were in thrall to a mythology cooked up in the nineteenth century and reheated by nationalist communist demagogues a hundred years later. What was it he had heard it called? ‘The politics of fantasy and hatred.’ But it was one matter to denounce a regime while sitting at the dinner table among friends, quite another to assist the operation of a group committed to its violent overthrow. There could be no doubt any more whose company he was in. Did Emil Bexheti already have blood on his hands? Where had he been when the rector of Pristina University was attacked in January?

Twice during the meeting the cellphone rang. Most of the talking was done by the voice at the other end, to which Emil paid respectful attention. Towards the end of the hour he poured László a glass of lukewarm water from a bottle of Volvic.

‘In ’56,’ he said, coming to the point László had been expecting for some time, ‘did you question the legitimacy of armed resistance?’

‘No,’ said László.

‘Though you knew it was not a game? That people, many people, would be killed?’

‘We were a country under occupation.’

‘You fought for your freedom.’

‘Yes.’

‘You still believe that was right?’

‘Yes. But it might be worth your remembering that we lost. A good cause is no guarantee of victory.’

‘So the sacrifice was futile?’

‘No,’ said László. ‘Something was achieved, though it’s hard to say exactly what. They showed us our weakness, but we also showed them theirs. Certainly nobody who saw what happened then was surprised at the speed of the collapse in ’89.’