‘Something in the oven, messieurs,’ called László, cheerfully. ‘A little explosion.’ He shrugged, hoping to suggest that such happenings were a tiresome but amusing part of the human condition. The younger Garbarg nodded, though without returning László’s smile. They had been neighbours for fifteen years, and while knowing almost nothing of the hard facts of each other’s lives – László had no idea what Garbarg junior did for a living – they had somehow come to know each other very well, as if by a process of mutual osmosis. As soon as László had heard the shot, so bizarrely loud and like nothing in the world but a pistol shot, he had known that Garbarg would be pushing back his chair and striding to the door to await an explanation. László suspected his neighbours of harbouring dark misgivings about émigrés, even ones who had lived in the country for forty years and knew and loved the country and spoke the language as fluently as their mother tongue, more so perhaps. Of course, the Garbargs may have had other reasons to dislike him. It was hard to tell how much of his life was visible to them.

‘I am sorry, messieurs, to have disturbed your meal. Bon appétit!’’

The neighbours retired to their respective apartments. Lâszlô shut his door discreetly, careful not to make any noise that sounded like a bang, an explosion, a shot, then walked quickly down the parquet corridor, the spine of his apartment, to the dining room at the far end. Before going out to placate the Garbargs he had established that no one in the dining room was hurt. Now, uncertain whether to be amused or appalled, he entered the room like the detective in a country-house murder mystery, the kind of story, in tatty Hungarian editions, he had sometimes read as a boy.

His secretary, Kurt Engelbrecht, corn-blond hair shaved on to his elegant skull, was loosening Franklin Wylie’s collar, while Laurence stood on the other side of the table, tearful again, and dropping ash on to the carpet. Franklin, grey and aghast, but already starting to look pleased with himself, was sprawled along the divan. On the linen, next to a bowl of fresh figs, the gun lay like a piece of expensive tableware.

‘What did you hit?’ demanded László. Franklin pointed a weebling finger at the bookshelf at the end of the room, and László went to examine the damage. The bullet was embedded in the spine of a book of poetry, head height on the bookshelf. He drew the volume out and showed it to them.

‘You have shot Rilke,’ he announced. ‘The act of a fascist.’

‘Didn’t think the damn thing was loaded,’ said Franklin, lamely. Kurt was on his knees now, fanning the American with the programme notes to Madame Butterfly.

‘Some fake!’ said Laurence.