There was a cupboard in the base of the column that reared from the lobby. That was where the garbage bins were kept – the Bertys put them out for collection at night. Rinaldi deposited a bulging plastic bag in one of the bins and gestured at the stony heights above: ‘One can imagine a woman walled up alive there as a punishment. Or thrown down the stairs, and this structure built to hide the corpse. Things like that used to happen. Those who are chosen feel the reverberations still.’

He smiled then, showing humble teeth the colour of old paper. ‘You understand astrology, of course,’ he informed me. Now we were on familiar ground. Astrology was one of the subjects that came up around me in Australia. The others were cricket, Buddhism, yoga and lentils. ‘I am a Ram,’ announced Rinaldi. ‘You, mademoiselle, are certainly a Virgin. Fire and Earth. It might appear that we have little in common. But there is everything to discover.’

I edged towards the stairs, and he stood aside to let me pass. But he followed close behind, talking nonsense about Destiny – ‘That which is shrouded but certain. You might believe you have eluded yours, but it will be waiting for you.’ On his landing, he said he hadn’t forgotten that we’d agreed to have a drink. He said, ‘Tuesday evening, then.’ That was how he spoke – in assertions. I replied that I didn’t have a free evening that week. To forestall any suggestion of meeting over the long weekend, I added that I’d be going away for Toussaint.

‘We are all on a journey,’ said Rinaldi. ‘But what is the destination? As your Hamlet says,’ he switched to English, ‘that is the question.’

Returning from Paris, as the train pulled into Montpellier I thought back to the trip going the other way. Then the train had deposited me in a city of silvery light, mist and frozen white skies – it was like being delivered into a pearl. Montpellier was a sapphire, a cold, glitzy blue. As soon as the shops opened, I bought a two-bar electric radiator. It would cost a packet to run, but what was that to me? The bill would go to Monsieur Laval, which seemed only fair. That night I set the heater on low, plugged it in and slept in blissful warmth. A gentle plastic fragrance woke me towards dawn. The plug on the heater cord was melting into the wall socket. Too late, I remembered Monsieur Laval telling me with pride that he’d done all the wiring in the building himself.

One morning soon afterwards I touched the tiled wall while showering, and an electric shock thrilled up my arm. This time I went to a cafe to call so that I’d be warm while I waited. Monsieur Laval answered at last. My voice was triumphant – the apartment was unsafe, he’d be forced to act! I repeated, ‘The shower is dangerous.’