Rain fell, a brisk shower. Lucio and I ducked into a narrow street and came across Adalbert sheltering in a doorway. He’d given up smoking that year, and now there was a little wreath of flesh around his face. The handsome lieutenant was making way for the middle-aged Gruppenführer – he’d caress his chins while signing death warrants.

Adalbert took out his wallet and showed us a photo. He said that Ramón was dead. A neighbour charged with watering him over Easter hadn’t done so – or perhaps she’d overwatered, it was difficult to tell. Adalbert had tried to nurse Ramón back to health but in vain. His voice was steady, but his face convulsed as he spoke and tears filled his eyes. The rain was easing, and I urged him to come with us, but he wouldn’t leave his doorway. Years later Adalbert appeared before me, extraordinarily handsome and larger than life. He gazed out of a window and uttered his only line in the film: ‘What a magnificent autumn we are having.’ Behind him, Jews were dragged from wardrobes, from under beds.

Sandrine’s face as she told me about her wedding was indescribably happy. It was to take place in June. I wouldn’t be there, I explained. My friends and I were going to backpack for a month – I was heading off to Paris to join them in a week, at the end of May. Sandrine said, ‘But you’ll miss les fruits rouges!’ Her tone was scandalised, as if the prospect were unthinkable. It was ridiculous, but the appalling sensation that something had slipped through my grasp crept over me. My time in France and all it had held – faces, streets, impressions, rooms – crowded into my mind, sliding past as remorselessly as lives glimpsed from a train.

The days that remained were spiky with goodbyes. Between them, I packed up my things and cleaned my apartment. On the last Sunday of the month, I was going to Sète with Minna and Nick. I’d catch a train to Paris that night, and they’d drive to Spain the following day.

On Friday evening I came home late after a boozy farewell dinner with Dieter and other teachers from the lycée. Key in hand, I ran lightly up the stairs, past Rinaldi’s silent door. There was a smell of cigarette smoke on the stairs, but even as I registered what that meant, I was around the final bend. A man rose from the W.C. steps. ‘I thought you were never coming home,’ said Nick. ‘Where is she? What’s she told you?’ The light went off. If I stayed forever I wouldn’t get used to the light on those stairs, its heart-stopping transformations. Nick spoke through the dark, saying, ‘You have to tell me where she’s gone.’