Since his appointment as Lázár’s translator, there had been a to and fro of e-mails between Paris and Alec’s flat in London, queries arising from the text, and replies – precise and businesslike – signed not by Lázár but by a certain ‘K. Engelbrecht’, presumably Lázár’s PA (Katrina? Katya?). Alec was scheduled to meet Lázár at a reception in London in September, together with the director from the Royal Court, and various actors, designers, technicians and management, who would be part of the production. Barring the unforeseen, there would be a first night at the end of January.

For Alec, this was, without question, the most important piece of work he had ever undertaken. Marcie Stoltz, the Court’s literary manager, had seen his new translation of Le Médecin malgré lui at the Rathaus in Hackney when she was looking for a replacement for Chris Eliard, Lázár’s regular translator, who had disappeared from his yacht in mysterious circumstances while sailing single-handed across the Golfo di Genova. Stoltz had called Alec and invited him to lunch at Orso’s in Covent Garden, a class of restaurant he had never been into in his life, and after plates of asparagus, and lobster ravioli, she offered him the contract, explaining that the new play was something of a departure for Lázár, not exactly upbeat, but not gloomy. ‘Certain actions innately graced, etc.’, she said, fork in one hand, a Marlboro Light in the other, studying Alec with an amused and soulful gaze. There was, as usual, very little money in it – ‘would love to offer you tons more’ – but enough, with careful budgeting, to mean he could give up the detested ‘technical’ work (the latest was a document on braking systems for SNCF). After two large glasses of house white and saying goodbye to Stoltz, almost bowing to her as she squeezed into a taxi on Wellington Street, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon walking around Regent’s Park, smiling at dog-walkers and tourists, even at the police, who nodded back warily, suspicious of being liked. At last he was a man of prospects! And though he had long since given up competing with his brother – the futility of which had been apparent to him since primary school – he would not now, with Lázár at his side, be utterly overshadowed. He called Alice from a pay-phone somewhere in Marylebone, stumbling over his words, embarrassed at how much he wanted her approval, how relieved he was to hear her full-blooded ‘Well done, Alec!’ But as he made his way home, his feet starting to ache, his head thickening from the drink, a new restlessness and dissatisfaction had replaced the euphoria, as though someone had twitched back the curtain and let light into a room that had been tolerable only in the dark.