‘We’ve had a good response,’ said the editor. ‘I know we’re not your natural home, so we’re grateful for the trouble you took. I hope you thought it came out all right?’

‘Yes. Thank you. I liked the photographs. And the little inset of the Schiele painting.’ He coughed. ‘I’m afraid I got a bit carried away with the Freud stuff.’

‘No, you made it very clear. And he needed to be in it. He’s our own local man, after all.’

‘You didn’t think I was too rude?’

‘We’ll have letters, but we don’t mind that. And you acknowledged his influence, at least. And his later work.’

‘I’m sorry there was no room for a picture of the maids. Johanna and Lena. They rather embodied the spirit of the place.’

‘Yes. Now could I interest you in another piece for us, Herr Heideck? It would mean travelling to Germany. There’s a political rally due to take place in a medieval town called Nuremberg. Have you heard of it?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard of it. I almost deserted there once. There was a little blue-painted skiff …’

‘It’s a lovely place, I’ve heard. Worth a visit.’

‘Yes, it’s charming. Pastel-painted houses. A swift river. The Pegnitz. It eventually joins the sea in Amsterdam … So I was told.’

‘So, would you––’

‘I’m afraid I have other projects. A book, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps you’d let me know if you’re free again one day.’

‘I will.’

For lunch, Anton went to the restaurant Delphine had mentioned in one of her letters to Panama … That place at the top of Schottengasse that you like, with boiled beef and horseradish and the spinach purée with so much nutmeg and salt. It made me think of you when you wolf it down.

He drank some Grüner Veltliner to take the edge off the salt, then walked up to the Café Landtmann, which served the strongest black coffee he knew, with a tall glass of iced water and a side plate that held a few squares of chocolate with splinters of roasted almond inside.

As he walked home, he thought of Charlotte’s words to him in the snow. ‘You will be all right.’ There had been so much conviction in her voice, so much warmth and womanly wisdom, that he had almost believed her.

Nearly two months had passed since the party and he had stopped feeling embarrassed about how drunk he had become. He had apologised to Martha and she had assured him that no one had noticed. His dancing had helped put everyone in the mood, she said, and after that … He’d vanished. He didn’t tell her he had invited her sister up to his room. There was no need to complicate the matter.

It can’t have been a simple misjudgement or a fear of being bored that had made him drink so much. There was something else. Someone had told him something that had wounded him, made him self-destructive in his desire to erase the knowledge of it. An absence, a departure.