At Kapfenberg, they stopped to take on water. Anton opened the window, letting the cold pour in. It had grown dark. On the platform was an old man with a lantern, walking slowly. Flakes of snow were caught by the furred glow of the platform light. No one boarded the train and no one got off. The railwayman disappeared into the darkness, his boots printing the white ground black. The train heaved and jerked backwards, then began to move. Anton dragged his sleeve down the window and touched the cold glass with his finger as the snowfields began again.

There was a coal fire burning in his room and he had time to wash and pour the schnapps from his travelling flask into a glass in the bathroom and drain it before going downstairs. The hall was covered in red-berried holly with thin trails of ivy; a bunch of mistletoe hung from the main chandelier. Thick candles on the mantelpiece and on the side tables sent shadows up the walls. In addition to the staff and patients, there were many guests that Anton didn’t recognise. One was a man, perhaps in his seventies, with a white beard and windswept hair down to the collar of his black coat. He looked like a prophet, standing with his back to the main fireplace, talking to Martha, who seemed rapt.

She shook Anton’s hand when he went up to them. ‘How nice to see you, Herr Heideck. How was your journey? Not too cold on the train, I hope. May I introduce Jacques Rebière?’

‘What a pleasure,’ said Anton. ‘More than a pleasure. A delight. I’ve spent many hours reading about you and your work.’

‘Poor you,’ said Jacques.

‘No, no, it was very interesting,’ said Anton. ‘We also corresponded briefly about the article I was writing. Martha gave me your address.’

‘I remember.’

Jacques’s tone suggested he wanted no more questions about his former work, so Anton asked him instead about Paris. Jacques described his life there, explaining that he did occasional consultations at the Salpêtrière. ‘It’s funny, I suppose. I went back to my early specialities in neurology. But I do feel quite at home there. It’s where I did my thesis years ago.’

All the time Jacques spoke, Anton was imagining him as a thirty-six-year-old, burning with rage and frustrated ambition as he travelled across the plains of America, feeling himself to be the re-embodiment of a storm-battered pioneer.

‘And your wife,’ said Anton. ‘I understand she was an important part of the clinic.’

‘Yes, she was a cornerstone. She’s not well enough to travel, unfortunately. Not this far, at any rate.’

‘Do you come back every year?’

‘If I can,’ said Jacques. ‘I’m hoping Sonia will be well enough to come next time. She made this place what it is.’

‘I envy you living in Paris. I spent a few weeks there before the war.’

‘It’s a wonderful place to work. Though I don’t think a boy from the provinces will ever fully understand the Parisians themselves.’