Do you know, for years after you died I kept finding your hairs? You hardly had any left when I met you, but the apartment was full of them nonetheless. I found the last hair a year ago. It was definitely yours. Short and blonde, almost white.

It’s nice to hear you, Camille.

Shall I tell you a story? It’s pretty gruesome. But I think it’s kind of funny, too. It’s about Kobielski. You know he’s got this thing about lawnmowers. He’s crazy about them; I think he’s got more in his garage than he has cars in his showroom. Then up and down the garden every Sunday! A godawful racket, like a motor race, and the stink of petrol to boot, do you remember? He was at it again recently. We were sitting on the patio, warm day, sun shining, and then it kicks off: Kobielski in Speedos and sandals, white belly, white legs, pushing his latest acquisition back and forth across the lawn, massive thing with an engine like a tractor. This goes on for about an hour. At least. It’s noisy, it stinks, Kobielski’s having fun, the usual. And then it happens. I don’t know why; maybe he slipped in his ratty sandals, maybe the blades hit a stone or a root – anyway, he suddenly wrenches the lawnmower into the air, staggers backwards and drops it on the ground with a crash. There’s a horrible noise and then it all goes quiet.

Who do you mean by ‘we’?

You all right, Kobielski? I ask. But he just stands there, staring at us over the garden fence, and doesn’t say a word. I notice he’s sweating profusely. The sweat is streaming down his face and shoulders. You all right? I ask again, and now he shakes his head. No, he says, I don’t think so. He lifts the lawnmower slightly and his foot appears underneath. Where the big toe was, there’s a dark hole with blood seeping out of it. The rest of the foot doesn’t seem to be damaged. As far as I can tell, even the sandal is still in one piece. Kobielski looks down at the grass. Then he bends over and picks something up. From a distance it looks like a round white mushroom. But it’s his toe. He holds it up and says: Maybe they can put it back on. He says it quite calmly, but his face is white as a sheet.

Who’s ‘we’, Camille? Who’s sitting on the patio with you on a Sunday afternoon?

Anyway, they didn’t manage to put the toe back on. Kobielski told us he keeps it in a preserving jar in his kitchen cupboard, right next to the spice box. But I’m not sure I believe him, you know what he’s like.

Yes.

I’m going away, Bernard.

Why . . . what are you saying? Of course I know what he’s like. He’s a nutter. He’s just . . . Kobielski. What can I say?