As Jacques went on to describe his apartment near the Jardin des Plantes, Anton remembered Martha telling him that Jacques had come from a poor village on the coast of Brittany. His elder brother, Olivier, suffering from delusions, had been kept chained up with the horse in a stable. It was Jacques’s outrage at this treatment that had fired his career.

‘I’ve brought you some whisky, Herr Heideck,’ said Johanna, appearing out of nowhere at his elbow. ‘Is that right?’

‘Well … Thank you, Johanna. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. It’s nice to see you again, so soon.’

‘And how’s Lena? Is she not working tonight?’

‘No, Lena left. She’s gone back to live in Vienna.’

Anton held the glass tight in his hand. He didn’t know what to say.

‘You look as though you’d seen a ghost, Herr Heideck,’ said Johanna, laughing.

‘Do I? How odd.’

‘A nice one.’

Rallying, Anton said, ‘I’ve seen many ghosts. Perhaps too many.’

‘I’ll tell her you asked after her,’ said Johanna, moving off to fill another tray.

When he turned back, he found that Jacques had been moved on by Martha. In the hope of having a different drink, Anton decided to drain the whisky glass, trying not to flinch as he did so. Johanna had made it even stronger than Lena used to and it struggled briefly with the schnapps in his stomach before easing its way into his bloodstream.

Meanwhile, the band had started to assemble its music stands and unpack its instruments. The grand piano couldn’t be moved, but there was enough room on the half-landing of the main staircase for the accordion, fiddles and flute. The musicians wore lederhosen and silver-buttoned velvet waistcoats decorated with what looked like heraldic motifs.

For a moment, Anton regretted coming. There would be more small talk and dinner would go on for hours with windy speeches to follow. He’d have to pretend that he minded where people he had never met would spend a holiday he didn’t care about – a little house in Alpbach, how lovely; to Salzburg, nowhere better; in Vienna, so charming at this time of year. A festival for children, above all, he would agree – though having none himself, nor having ever planned to plant another soul, unasking, on this woebegotten earth. Children! Children to be indulged and made happy by scarlet paper and the fragrant brilliance of the decorated tree – when he had at best mixed memories of his own childhood in a town where the only light had been his laughter with Friedrich as they wandered home from school …

He brought his mind back to the hall, and to an elderly woman who was telling him about her festive plans. He touched Johanna’s elbow as she went past and asked if she would bring him a glass of the hot punch the others seemed to be enjoying. Near the front door, her red dress helpfully different from Martha’s green, stood Charlotte, holding the hand of a small child.