He breathed in the damp air, suffused with centuries of facts and figures on the living and the dead. But it wasn’t in vain. Seven families named Kiraly were listed as living in the quarter in that fourteen-year period. He paid the fee to receive a copy of the records and tucked it in his bag. He would look at them more closely in the pleasant surroundings of a cafe, rather than the chilly atmosphere of the mairie’s record room under the gaze of its sour-faced guardian.

* * *

The rain was slowing to a drizzle as he hunched his shoulders and headed towards the first address on his list, the rue Boulard, where a woman whose maiden name was Kiraly had once lived. She might be one of Vidor’s four sisters. The dates were right, given that the eldest sister was seventeen when he was six, and the youngest was ten. Had Vidor been the much wanted and long-awaited son, or a surprise baby – pleasant or otherwise? The answer to that question could make a world of difference. In the course of his career, he’d seen far too often the disturbing results of growing up as an unwanted child.

He pressed the bell and, after stepping inside, he explained the situation to the gardienne, a crusty old woman who announced, with a measure of pride, that she’d held her post for forty-three years. A Hungarian family named Kiraly had indeed resided in the top-floor flat, but there were only two daughters, and no sons. He crossed the name off his list and headed out into the cold drizzle to the next address, where an unmarried woman with the surname Kiraly had lived from 1963 to ’69. As he rounded the corner, a chilly wind buffeted his face and he squinted to locate the number of the building. When he pressed the bell, no one answered. The third address was another dead end. The rain was coming down hard now, and he was about to call it a day when, three blocks from the Métro, he stumbled upon the next address on his list, close to the entrance of the catacombs.

The gardienne, her eyes cloudy with cataracts, didn’t remember any Kiralys, but she suggested he try the flat on the top floor, where the resident widow had lived since the early sixties. If anyone knew the history of the building, it was Madame Joubert. The gardienne would ring to ask if she was accepting callers.