I hated the three euros they put on the bill because of their insistence on giving me bottled water when I needed water. I said ‘tap water’ in English a few times, but didn’t want to offend them. When Geeta Roy came again to one of my seminars, I said immediately: ‘Don’t Germans drink tap water? Must I pay for mineral water when I go to a restaurant?’ ‘Ah!’ she smiled – having grown up in Calcutta, she had an eye for German customs – ‘say “Leitungswasser”. That should do the trick.’ ‘Sorry, what?’ ‘Leitungswasser,’ she said, patient, apologetic. I repeated the word, till it became less unwieldy, though not less odd, then took it like a mantra that night to the restaurant. ‘Leitungswasser,’ I said. They declined to understand. The Italians were ingratiating to Germans but obtuse with me. In a manner that had no connection to what I’d said, he returned with a glass of water and put it down reluctantly.

•

I was going to dive into the frutti di mare when I sensed a figure by my side. It was Professor Simons, on his way out.

‘How are you?’ He was delighted to have found me.

‘I’m well, thank you . . . Nice restaurant,’ I said. ‘I come here sometimes.’

‘It is,’ he nodded.

It occurred to me that we were both Dahlemites – though there’s probably no such word.

‘Would you . . .’ He dithered. He took in a short, gracious breath, started again. ‘Would you care to have coffee next week?’

‘Yes! That would be nice.’

‘We could go,’ he said, combining the political scientist’s instinct with a boy’s simplicity, ‘to Tempelhof Airport.’

‘The disused one?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a good idea!’

He waved cautiously. I went back to the seafood. I couldn’t fathom why so many airports in Berlin abdicated their responsibility to perform a function!

To be a Dahlemite is to be seized by a need for adventure. This took us to Tempelhof. You’re allowed, in Berlin, to gaze at buildings. It’s not an activity that’s officially recognised, yet it requires no apology.

‘Strange . . .’ I said.

It was lit up from within; it gleamed.

‘Do you remember,’ I said, turning to him, ‘how exciting air travel used to be?’

‘Yes!’

‘It’s just coming back to me.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at the airport. Here there’s little to separate endings from beginnings, the contemplation of what’s lapsed from a strong sense of imminence. ‘The packing-up – the pilots and air hostesses – the people coming to see you off – so glamorous!’

•

We had coffee on the pavement outside a place too small to be called a café. In fact, he had coffee. I had Fanta. It was like summer.