I went to bed early. As soon as I fell asleep, the sewage system that served as my unconscious overflowed, flooding my mind with a continuous stream of incoherent scraps of dreams: me waiting for Scotch, my feet sinking into burning hot summer asphalt; Philippe fastening my Magnum around his nude torso like it was his service weapon; DNA swallowing mouthfuls of water, desperately trying to cool down his sausage-shaped body in the freezing water of the lake, tail wagging furiously . . . In the end, I got up at five in the morning with a head full of metal filings and a desperate need to talk to somebody. I called Philippe, and then, ashamed, changed my mind. He called me straight back but I didn’t answer. Out in the hotel garden, it was already all go, thanks to the Al Fajr — the favourite prayer of the Prophet, who must have been a morning person. I headed down towards the lake for an invigorating dip, but that wasn’t to be either; a family of extremely threatening swans blocked my path.

At six o’clock, I was at breakfast, pensively buttering my Weggli. These typically Swiss bread rolls bear a striking resemblance to a pair of buttocks, a fact that suddenly struck me as scandalously haram. What the hell were the Qatari management up to? For the second time since arriving at the Belvedere, I found myself laughing alone. The rest of my day stretched before me like the road to Calvary.

By midday, I was on the train home.

The first thing that leaped out at me when I opened the door to my apartment was my banana-coloured 200 euro banknote stuck into the frame of The Little Fireworks Collector.

All of a sudden, the meaning of the message written on it seemed both crystal clear and troublingly apt. You’ll be hungry again in an hour is what you say to children when they feed themselves rubbish — and it was precisely the conclusion I had reached during my lightning trip to Switzerland. What I needed wasn’t piles of cash to splash; nor was I interested in climbing the social ladder. No . . . I just wanted to rediscover a bit of the little fireworks collector’s innocence. I realized there wouldn’t be any endless summer as long as I was unable to rid myself of my anxiety about what tomorrow would bring, the anxiety I had lived with for so many years. Before I could spend a cent on myself, I had to accumulate sufficient money so that my girls would each at least have a roof over their head.

Until that point had been reached, I would count my pennies like a shopkeeper. Then we’ll see if I’m hungry, I said to myself.

6

Talk doesn’t cook rice

Like any good shopkeeper, every time I opened the door to my basement, I despaired at seeing my stock levels fall so slowly.