Görlitzer Bahnhof is old. I don’t mean that it’s getting on in years. I mean it’s familiar. Just as when you say ‘He’s an old friend of mine’ you’re talking not about the friend’s age but that he’s been your friend for a long time, Görlitzer Bahnhof felt known to me. It was my second time in Berlin; I had little memory of the first visit. I should add that the U-Bahn is misleadingly named. It’s hardly an underground line. Much of it floats over the city. Görlitzer Bahnhof is itself elevated.

As I came down the stairs I saw a man in an ash-coloured plastic jacket smoking furiously. I’d for gotten what Faqrul looked like, but he smiled at me and I smiled back distantly. He had the huddled look of a man who likes snatching time to himself. ‘Be careful, they’re all pickpockets,’ he said. Africans had been waiting for me to descend. ‘Esho,’ he said, navigating. He was shorter and older than me. He wore thick glasses and had a moustache. He was strong.

We crossed the road. I wondered what we’d eat. He had a pre-emptive air: of someone who not only knew me for years, but could predict my questions. After seven or eight minutes, we came to an Indian restaurant. We went up the steps and entered a large yellow space. It had a luncher: an old man. Faqrul introduced me to a plump young man. ‘Here’s the person I was telling you about.’ The plump man ushered me in the way a prince of a small state might show the dignitary of a major nation his modest palace.

Pakoras and mango lassi arrived. ‘Should we do the interview now or later?’ asked Faqrul. ‘Thhaak, let’s eat first!’ ‘Yes, we can do it later. If we don’t fall asleep after the meal.’ Faqrul’s compact being shook with laughter. The plump proprietor asked pointedly: ‘Tandoori prawn khaiben?’ I don’t like prawns in Indian restaurants in Europe because they’re frozen, but they were his most prized gift and I nodded.

•

I admit I was a bit disappointed. I didn’t expect to be having Indian food in Berlin on my fourth day. I asked:

‘Have you heard of Himalaya Imbiss?’

‘Himalaya Imbiss?’

Faqrul had a deep voice – suited for radio.

‘A friend mentioned it.’

‘A friend? Achha?’

I was thinking of Adhir Roy; a sociologist and misfit. He’d been here in 1987. When I told him I was off to Berlin, he’d gone into a reverie. ‘You must go to Himalaya Imbiss,’ he said. ‘It’s a small place. Very nice. You can get curry there. I’d sit there for hours.’

‘His name’s Adhir Roy.’

‘Adhir Roy . . .’