‘Of course,’ she said. If he gave her the ticket now she would have it waiting for him. He gave her the ticket, though he didn’t like to hand it over. There was nothing now, nothing material, to connect him to the money. What if she were not on duty tomorrow? What if he had somehow to prove the bag was his? But she was there the next afternoon, and the bag was waiting for him behind the desk.

‘Heavier than it looks!’ she said, passing it to him.

‘You’re right,’ said Lâszlô, and they wished each other a nice day, like a pair of Americans.

A taxi was parked by the steps of the hotel. The driver, in short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, introduced himself as Tibor. Lâszlô sat in the back of the car, the bag tight against his thigh.

They crossed the river, climbed into the hills, and reached the edge of the city. Dusty green verges. Twenty to three. A small golden cross swinging from the rear-view mirror as Tibor gunned the car on a blind bend past a lorry loaded with stone. (As a rule, Lâszlô avoided taxis with religious trinkets in them after nearly dying in one in Spain that had an entire shrine on the dashboard. Recklessness was a trial of faith for these men.)

There wasn’t much to announce the park, just a single billboard a hundred metres before the turn-off. They slowed – though only barely – and swung into an empty forecourt, pulling up in front of a raw-looking, red-brick, neoclassical façade. A kind of folly.

‘Want me to wait?’ asked Tibor.

‘Come back in half an hour.’

‘Want to leave the bag?’

‘My cameras,’ said László, climbing out of the car. ‘I may take some shots in the park.’

‘Maybe you’ll see some pretty girls,’ called Tibor, leaning from the window. László raised a hand, but didn’t look back.

In the ticket booth a middle-aged woman was reading a magazine. She had taken off her shoes and was resting her stockinged feet on a stool. When she saw László she folded the magazine, swung down her feet with a grunt of effort, and flicked a switch on the CD player behind her head. A men’s choir, in full voice, surged from the speakers at a volume that made László wince, and as she tore his ticket from the roll, he saw that the discs were for sale. Soviet Anthems One. Soviet Anthems Two. And there were various old communist badges and red stars and even identity books, like the one he had burned in Paris on the rue Cujas a few days after he arrived there. Who bought this stuff? Was it humour? Irony? He took his ticket and his guidebook and walked through the turnstile into the park. The music abruptly ceased. He was, as he had feared, the only person there.