I shook my head.

‘I’m his nephew. It works out nicely for everyone.’ Walter supressed a smile and handed over the coffee with two hands. ‘Including Mrs Steiner. Irmi: how is she?’

‘She has a new boyfriend. She’s happy.’

‘I’d like to see her. Irmi always was very kind to me.’

‘She lives in Kreuzberg.’

We were warming up; we were remembering what it was to be friends. I wondered how we might conceivably operate; how I would have to lie to Charlotte about where I’d been this afternoon. I’d never thought of Berlin as a city Walter and I would share, but it might be fun to set it alight together. Maybe even Charlotte, given time, would be able to forgive him.

‘Do you see anyone from school?’ I asked.

‘Franz visits sometimes. No one else, really. What about you?’

‘Just Kaspar and Irmi. Did you see the victory parade?’

He shook his head.

‘It was a surprise to see Ernst there,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t even wanted to go. But Charlotte wanted to see history unfold.’ I wondered what he would say to this: whether he might congratulate me; tell me he was happy at least one of us had got what we wanted. ‘She lives with me now,’ I added, without any sophistication.

But there; nothing. As if I’d told him the day’s weather. Outside, the sounds of a rake against gravel. A big gull flew from the villa opposite. I looked back to Walter. He seemed self-conscious, but so was I. He took some of his coffee then looked at the painting. ‘Oh, Pauli,’ he said, ‘you make me feel very aware of how much time has passed.’

‘Do I look so old?’

He didn’t answer. ‘How is Charlotte?’

‘She’s fine. Doing lots of painting. We can’t afford a loom.’

‘Painting? That’s nice. She’s a good painter, as I remember.’

For moments he closed his eyes, like a person at prayer. They were wet when he opened them. Even for Walter this was odd behaviour.

It occurred to me that maybe coming here was a mistake.

‘Did you hear the Bauhaus has set up in Berlin?’ I said.

‘Yes. Jenö told me.’

‘Oh.’ I had always assumed Walter had been cut off from all of us. ‘I didn’t know you’d stayed in touch.’

Walter shrugged. His dressing gown fell off one shoulder and he pushed it up. There had been something there. Old burned skin. ‘When Jenö was in Dessau, and I was in Weimar, we were both quite alone. I don’t know if I was his friend, but he answered my letters when I wrote to him.’

‘Do you still love him?’