Karol arrived at the apartment just after nine o’clock carrying a small but beautiful bouquet of coquelicots. He also brought something of the air of the streets he had been walking through, the slightly febrile atmosphere of Paris at the going out hour when the long dusk gives way to night and the lights of the great cafés begin to shine more brilliantly; a romantic hour in which it was impossible not to feel some excitement, some hope of an adventure. László hung Karol’s coat on a peg by the door, smelling in the damp fabric the impeccable scent of a rain shower, then went with Karol to the dining room where he was relieved to find the atmosphere of melodrama had dispersed. For the moment, at least, everyone was behaving quite normally.

Kurt opened a bottle of champagne, while Karol, another exile from the East – though his vintage was ’68 rather than ’56 – told a story about a vagrant on the Metro who had approached a smartly dressed young woman and pleaded with her to become his girlfriend, and how, with a charm and sensitivity admired by the entire carriage, she had regretfully turned him down. The others began their own Métro stories while László busied himself in the kitchen. Despite the ‘gun play’ the food had not been spoiled; the veal in particular, served up in the little parcels of greaseproof paper, was succulent in its juice of sweet melted Parmesan and tender shallots. They had a tarte tatin and crème anglaise to finish, then cups of fierce black coffee and glasses of Calvados. With the dishes still on the table they sat at ease in the glow of a lamp and three candles. Kurt and Laurence smoked cigarettes. László and Franklin smoked small cigars. The smoke turned in lazy circles in the candle-dark above their heads. Karol, a writer who for many years was unable to publish in his own language, and thus had something of an obsession with translation, asked László about the English-language version of Oxygène, and László told him about the young English translator, Alexander...

‘What’s the fellow’s name, Kurt?’

‘Valentine.’

‘Ah, yes. An auspicious name. Like the hero of a Stendhal novel.’

‘And the other one?’ asked Laurence. ‘The one on the boat?’

‘No one knows,’ said Kurt. ‘Disappeared into thin air.’

‘Poor man,’ said Laurence.

‘Isn’t it time, László,’ asked Karol playfully, ‘you wrote something with a happy ending?’

‘I would like to,’ answered László, ‘but it would have to be a fairytale. Something for children.’

‘László lacks the balls for a happy ending,’ said Franklin, helping himself to more Calvados. ‘It’s so much safer to have everyone end in the shit.’