He tapped the photo. ‘Do you remember him?’

Eveline squinted. ‘I think so. A bit of an odd duck, if I recall. Attended a couple of parties, but didn’t mingle much and didn’t drink. That stuck out, considering the rest of us were quaffing the free wine as if dying of thirst.’

‘Do you recall his name?’

She pushed her hair off her face and closed her eyes. He waited. ‘Something with an M perhaps or an N? Michael, or Nico? Wait!’ Her eyes flew open. ‘He spoke French.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘But we all did, of course, some with atrocious accents…’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘M… Mikhail, maybe? He could have been Russian. Give me a minute… No, it’s gone.’

A heaviness fell over him. Just as he feared. Too far in the past, and the boy too inconspicuous to have made an impression.

At Eveline’s suggestion, they went out for dessert and espresso at a bistro down the street. Pleasant as the evening was, Gessen sensed he was beginning to wear out his welcome. It was nearly eleven and Eveline’s eyes showed signs of fatigue. When they’d finished their crème brûlée, Bertrand set his fork on his plate and pushed back his chair. Sadly, their time together was drawing to a close. At the corner they would part, Gessen to his hotel, his friends to their flat.

Bertrand held his wife’s elbow as they passed along the pavement, quiet now that the blustery weather had forced all but the intrepid indoors. The wind rattled the branches of the lindens overhead. The chilly air was damp with impending rain.

As Bertrand steered them along a narrow street, they passed a Vietnamese restaurant and a Lebanese takeaway. In an alley by a sushi place, two yellow-eyed cats waited for scraps. Eveline stopped short, and Gessen nearly bumped into her.

‘I remember now.’ She turned, her eyes shining. ‘Milen. That was the boy’s name. Not Michael or Mikhail, but Milen. I’m pretty sure of it. It just popped into my head. I’ve been thinking of that party ever since we left the flat, and I could see it like a film in my head. That boy skulking in the corner, so shy and awkward he was practically feral. I think he might have been from Albania, or maybe Malta? Someone tossed a crumpled paper cup in his direction and shouted his name. Milen. Attention! Or something like that.’

Milen. It didn’t quite ring a bell, but it was a start.

Her forehead crinkled in a frown. ‘Does that help? Maybe if I had more details…’