At various points in the afternoon, László, who had intended to stay for half an hour, shake a few hands and get out before someone started reciting poetry, found himself embracing strangers who were now not strangers at all. A lawyer who had practised for thirty years on the boulevard Beaumarchais. A woman who had come up from Lille and who wore a Hermes scarf that did not quite hide the scar on her neck. A little silvery-haired fellow with a limp who worked as a mechanic in the Eleventh (he gave László a business card), and who made them laugh with his story about the Viennese woman who had given him two oranges at the refugee camp, and how he had carefully hidden one, not believing that such riches would ever come his way again. Many like that, until, under the weight of so much reminiscence, so much Palika brandy, László had at last told his own story, the story of Péter Kosáry. As he spoke he dried his face with the sleeve of his jacket, while the little mechanic who was listening to him – confessing him – had wept too, such was the largeness of spirit there among the flummery of the banqueting room, and he had hushed László (who was in danger of giving way to some kind of attack, an hysteria), saying, ‘No, no, my friend, you could not have saved him. You could not have saved him or you would have done it.’