So they went back to the music, to streets still snug with the heat of the day, and worked their way around to the boulevard Ménilmontant, where among the couscous restaurants and sweet-pastry shops, Le Robinet, ablaze with light like a small ship on fire, was the scene of yet another impromptu party. It was not, in truth, much of a bar at all: a dozen tables, a curved comptoir to the left of the door, a cramped steamy kitchen in the back, but what it lacked in size and facilities it made up for in character, and was generally considered (by the discerning bon vivants and barflies of the Eleventh) superior to all its rivals.

‘László!’

It was Angela, the patronne, waving to him from the step beside the till, her command post. László fought his way through to her and they kissed.

‘Have you seen Laurence? Or Franklin?’

‘Not for a week,’ she said. Then added: ‘Someone else was looking for them.’ She pointed towards the back of the bar. ‘Isn’t that Whatshisname?’

At a table by the kitchen hatch, Karol was holding court among a huddle of young men and women, devotees of culture, drawn by the flame of the old writer’s promiscuous charm. He had one of the waitresses on his lap (all highly educated girls) but catching sight of László, he eased her off, stood up on stiff legs, and clasped the playwright in his arms.

‘You look different,’ he said, leaning back to scrutinize the other’s appearance.

‘Even at my age,’ laughed László, ‘I’m still growing a face.’

‘Your age,’ mocked Karol. ‘A boy!’ He turned to the group at the table. ‘Now here is a real artist. Allow me to present Maître Lâszlô Lâzâr, and his faithful companion, Herr Engelbrecht.’

They ordered a lot more wine. Space was made for Lâszlô on the banquette, and he too was lionized with a warmth that made him wonder what it was these youngsters saw, or thought they saw. It turned his head a little. Even now, after so many years, he found it hard to make the connection between what he laboured over so privately in his study and the manner in which he was received on occasions like this. Were they really interested in him? What did they want? But it was too loud for any serious conversation, and Angela, a woman Ingres might have done justice to, ordered them on to their feet. ‘Have you forgotten how to dance?’ she cried. ‘Or do you mean to talk each other to death!’