‘But I do remember one particular day with my father on the Alte Donau outside Vienna. Papa used to work at the Semperit tyre factory. He wasn’t an educated man. He worked with his hands, his back. And he worked hard. But on Sunday mornings in summer he would wake me before sunrise, and we would drive out to the river with our rods and nets. I was not a good fisherman. Not gifted. But this particular day I cast my line and caught the most beautiful trout in all of Austria. I swear to you, it was almost the length of my arm, and when I reeled it in the water of the river was the colour of the sunrise, so that it appeared I was pulling the fish from a lake of molten fire! When we went home I presented it to my mother. You know how boys are. I gave it to her as though it was the head of a dragon I had slain in single combat. She kissed me, and for reasons I did not understand at all, she was crying. Crying and smiling. I suppose she was proud of me.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why that day has stayed with me when I must have forgotten other, equally good days. Maybe it was the last completely innocent day of my life...’

‘No!’ protested Laurence, who hated the idea of any irreversible loss. ‘You’re still the same boy. Isn’t that so, László?’

‘Compared to dangerous old people like us,’ said László, ‘he’s as innocent as a choirboy. A Viennese choirboy!’

‘You’re next, Laurence,’ said Karol.

She smiled, wearily, and slowly twisted one of her rings. Three small sapphires.

‘I’m afraid my happiest day was my first date with Franklin.’

‘Oh, Lordy!’ said Franklin.

‘I was twenty-two and wore a cream satin dress with a pattern of roses on it. Franklin wore a suit he’d borrowed from...’

‘Ed Sullivan, who’s dead now.’

‘Let her tell the story,’ said László.