In my first weeks, I had lunches in the cafeteria. It was a huge space – even when it was crowded, it was never full. At the end of the first week, I was scanning tables, wondering where to sit, and a pretty girl smiled at me before she sat down with her boyfriend, who was eating, oblivious. It occurred to me that she’d smiled as I’d entered the doorway. I speculated if she was a student in History and Culture and had recognised me. Unlikely. It could be she was trying to make me feel at home.

I was a semi-student in the cafeteria. But, in my second week, I gave my inaugural talk, with faculty, students and – I expect – people who were neither in the audience. Jonas introduced me: as they’d invited me to be Böll Professor, they had to pretend I was a scholar of significance. I rambled on why India was a ‘modern’ idea, not a colonial or postcolonial one, while a woman in the front row nodded, eyes sparkling.

‘I teach postcolonial studies myself,’ she said – part confession, part dry observation – when she came up later. I realised I may have misread her nods.

‘I love your work. I taught your new book to my class last year.’

My heart beat faster, as it does when I hear such words. It’s like being caught out. You write for others, in theory; confirmation of the fact is disconcerting.

‘That’s kind of you,’ I said. I left a question unasked, but she picked it up.

‘I’m Geeta Roy,’ she said.

‘Geeta Roy . . .’ I weighed the foreignness of the words.

‘Yes, my father’s from Calcutta. My mother is German.’

That explained the eyes’ refracted quality, why they’d shone from a distance.

‘Look, there are others waiting to talk. Maybe we could meet later. My husband and I would love to take you to dinner.’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You live in Dahlem, don’t you? We need to take you out of Dahlem.’

I was discovering that the area I lived in was known for its dullness. You don’t make such distinctions on arrival; they’re reported to you. They sink in; you think, ‘They’re right.’ The dullness was historical. Dahlem had been created by the Americans to exemplify suburban tranquillity. But its edge intersected, Faqrul had pointed out to me, with Grunewald. I’d glimpsed the forest on my way in from the airport. ‘From there they sent Jews to the camps,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. Grunewald’s frozen beauty felt like it would melt and rush towards Dahlem.

I needed a new jacket. With oncoming autumn, the days were clear but no longer warm. The jacket I had was six years old, and I decided my Böll professorship’s stipend was an excuse to get a new one.

‘Bhabchhi ekta jacket kinbo,’ I said to Faqrul. He’d begun to call me every day.