‘Let’s pretend for five minutes,’ I say. We’ve been on the stairs, uncertain, as if something were holding us back from descending.

‘Pretend?’

‘You know . . . I’ll come back in two minutes.’

‘All right.’ She says this on a second’s consideration. The game’s begun.

I shuffle round the awning. Two women gaze at me, expectant and without interest. For someone doing business, a person doesn’t qualify as a customer till they display signs. I get back in less than a minute. She’s angular; defending herself from a breeze. She’s changed her spot.

‘Are you . . .’

She assesses me, non-committal.

‘How much?’

Silent. Then:

‘One hundred.’ Imperious. Non-negotiable. I protest.

‘I don’t have that much money!’

At Wittenbergplatz U-Bahn, there’s excitement on platforms. Groups descend; couples get off. People shout across the tracks.

Uhlandstrasse is desolate. We’re the only two in the compartment. Birgit drapes the scarf round her shoulders.

At Wittenbergplatz, we merge into the melee for Line 3.

•

‘Where will you sleep, then?’ I ask.

I hang on to our make-believe but acknowledge the fact that she was here two nights ago.

‘You call the shots,’ she says. Is she still playing?

‘Go in there,’ I say, pointing to the little room. ‘You’ll find a kurta.’

‘You want me to wear it?’

•

I, at least, sleep deeply. When I get up to go to the toilet, I see a ghost-like figure near me, breathing. The kurta is torn at the pocket.

I hear the train’s long-drawn-out horn whenever it passes.

I wake up alone. 9 a.m. The blanket’s tousled.

From the passage, I lean forward, survey the drawing room. Then, cursorily, I enter the toilet. It’s filled with daylight.

•

When I emerge, I expect her to be on the sofa. There’s no one there. I proceed to the kitchen, disoriented by the prospect of having coffee and toast. Am I getting it wrong? Did I miss something?

•

I butter the dark bread, which tastes the same toasted or untoasted. I ponder upon the coffee mug.

•

Whom did I bring home last night? I try her number.

•

Finding the rooms empty, I even gaze into the closet, below the hangers, in case she crept in for some time to herself. It’s not implausible. People claim spaces without explanation.

A woman comes out of the small room. What’s her name? I know her. She’s sixty or older, tall – hefty, actually. She has a white dress on. She comes out, displaying a small bundle. My kurta.

‘Soll ich das in die Wäsche legen?’

She’s lowered her head, like a bull. Her eyes are trained on me.

I say Yes to her in English. I always say Yes. She nods, resolute. Her hair is white. Into the bathroom she goes.

The name will come back, but it doesn’t matter when. I know I trust her.

Easterners don’t know English – but they understand Yes.