‘Let’s not tell anyone!’ Robi said afterwards. ‘At the office, Tomi told me he hit a hare with his mother once at some nature reserve. It just ran right out in front of their car. They reported it and got a fine of half a million for causing damage. When the damn rabbit practically committed suicide! Can you even imagine how much they would ask for a hawk? It was a hawk, wasn’t it?’

‘It was definitely a bird,’ she said, concentrating on her driving. The crack across her line of vision made her tense; her muscles remembered the shock of the sudden noise, the sense of the impact against the windshield, the blur of the winged body bouncing off the car.

There was nothing to report anyway. Luca thought about it long and hard while navigating the empty highway for hours on end. No carcass lay on the asphalt, although it would have been impossible for anything to survive such an impact. Maybe it landed in the grass where they couldn’t see it. Perhaps it still lived on for a little while. It might have crawled away, dragging its broken parts like a sack of pain. Then it must have stopped when the pain became too draining. It just lay there, helplessly watching the scavengers circling in the sky. The bird must have known what was coming. It must have hoped for a quick death before those other birds descended to take a nip, then another.

There were no more incidents along the way, and Robi soon fell asleep.

They arrived at the spa in the afternoon. Summer heat rose off the asphalt of the parking lot. The building was glass and metal, all sharp edges and jagged-looking windows. In the lobby there were two leather armchairs and a coffee table covered with brochures and leaflets advertising massage salons, restaurants, wine tours, guided excursions to the local lake, the local hills, the local cemeteries.

Behind the counter a smile awaited them; according to the name tag attached to his polo shirt, the smile belonged to Balázs. The polo shirt was carefully tucked into his dark blue jeans, which Luca found old-fashioned. But who knows, maybe the wellness spa had some kind of rule that everything had to be like 1972.

‘Good afternoon! My name is Viktor. How can I help you?’ asked the man behind the counter.

Luca peeked at the name tag again because she thought she’d misread the name. The tag still said Balázs. Could he have two names? Balázs Viktor? Viktor Balázs? Luca decided that his name didn’t matter, only his function.

‘We have a reservation,’ Robi said. ‘I’ve got it printed out.’