‘Have you been waiting?’ said Lena.

‘No, I came down early to look at the water.’

‘I like it here,’ said Lena, laying her parcel on the jetty. ‘I came down very early on the first morning I arrived. The lake was frozen and I walked all the way out to that floating platform there. I remember looking back at the building, which seemed so big and strange. It was half hidden by snow. I was wondering if I’d done the right thing.’

‘And had you?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Well, this place has an ambience, a climate of its own, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘There are so many people here who live in a world of their own torment. And yet somehow it doesn’t seem a sad place,’ he said, looking for simpler words.

‘I think that has a lot to do with the people. With Fräulein Martha.’

‘Yes, she’s remarkable.’

‘And the doctors. And Mary. Even Daisy and Hans.’

‘You may be right. Shall we look at these paintings?’

‘Most of them are drawings. Of people here at the clinic. And some I’ve just imagined.’

She pulled a string from a roll of papers and spread them flat.

‘This is a man who was here for two years. This one with no teeth used to help in the gardens. This is another patient, a very nervous old lady, but she liked to sit for me because she said it made her feel calm.’

‘Is that in Lamp Court?’

‘Yes, you can see the edge of the cloister there.’ She leaned across and pointed. He could smell the soap on her skin.

The sketches looked enviably good to someone who couldn’t draw.

‘Where did you learn?’ said Anton. ‘Or was it just natural?’

‘A little at school. Though I left when I was young. And then I did some classes in town. With a man called Tomas.’

‘They’re very good.’

‘They aren’t. Compared to most people in the class. But if you look at something carefully, and you know one or two rules, then you can do a drawing like this.’

‘What about the paintings?’

‘I’ve only brought two. Here.’

She showed him one of a man’s head. ‘Is this someone in particular? He looks … kind.’

‘Yes.’

‘But a bit remote.’

The image was not realistic in the way the sketches were. Edges were blurred and proportions were out. But there was feeling in it – a sort of commotion at least, given by the whirl of the brush.

‘It’s my father. Perhaps.’

‘I see.’

‘Have you lived in Vienna all your life?’ said Lena.

‘Me? No, I was brought up in Styria. But since university.’

‘And are you married?’ Lena was looking out over the water.

‘No. Never have been.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. The war, probably. Everything seemed different afterwards.’

‘I was too young. I was only eight when it began. School carried on the same. What was it like?’