Does Pax operate during normal business hours? Nine to five, an hour off for lunch kind of thing? Or is it a round-the-clock type service?

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything.

“Let’s go, Dad,” I say in a loud attempt at cheer.

“Where?” he asks, wary. I can’t blame him. I’ve dragged him so far from home.

“To find Iris.”

“Who?”

“My friend.”

“Okay.”

He puts his shoes on the wrong feet, takes out his top dentures, puts them in his pocket. “I’m ready,” he says.

31

Motor vehicles must be tested for their roadworthiness.

Zurich is a neat and efficient city.

If it were a person, it would be a businessman striding to work in a well-cut suit and shoes that end in a sharp point, with a rolled-up Financial Times under his arm.

A city of banks and brands. There are no beggars on the streets. No buskers. No graffiti. No litter.

I glance at a shoe shop window. Iris could buy a pair of the strappy sandals she likes for €359.99.

If she were here, she might try them on. “How much for one?” she might ask the immaculately made-up shop assistant.

Where would Iris go in a city like this one? What would she do?

I check my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I ring her number.

The number you are calling cannot be reached at this time.

Please try again later.

We walk along the banks of the lake. I walk as slowly as I can, but even so, Dad lags behind me. “Are you okay, Dad?” I ask him.

“Are we going home soon?” he says.

“Yes,” I say, linking arms with him. It seems absurd somehow. The notion of going home.

I feel unmoored. Directionless. I don’t know what will happen next.

The only person who knows is Iris.

In the restaurants and cafés along the lake, I show disinterested waiters a photo of Iris.

Have you seen this woman?

The answer is no and, would I like a table for two? I would like a table for three.

In the fifth such place, Dad declares himself hungry. I look at my watch. It’s seven o’clock. Of course he’s hungry.

Dad orders raclette, which the waitress says one must eat when one is in Switzerland.

I order a beer.

Raclette turns out to be melted cheese served with jacket potatoes, gherkins, and onions.

The beer comes in a bottle nearly as big as a wine bottle. “Have some, Dad,” I say, reaching for his glass. He shakes his head.

“No thanks, I never touch the stuff,” he says.

He really believes it too. Never drank, never smoked, never arrived home late. Never missed an occasion. Never raised his voice. Or his hand. Never let anyone down.

He has reinvented himself. He is a curriculum vitae version of himself.

I wonder how I will see myself if I get dementia. Outgoing, adventurous, brave. A no-nonsense kind of a woman. A woman people respect and are slightly fearful of. I imagine describing myself thus to my daughters. I can’t imagine them letting me get away with it.