‘No, you’ll just have to wait.’ She put her hand in mine before the applause took it away.

Charlotte concentrated hard, watching the ballerina’s dance as if it were a code which would tell her what to do. Notes from the violins filled the hall, wantonly rich. Tears magnified her eyes, then they fell away. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her cry.

All of this; what to make of all of this.

She is wavering, I thought. She is taking Jenö’s proposal seriously.

The Russian danced alone, in dance upon dance, and the spectacle looked punishing, as if she was on the very edge of falling.

The next day we walked some of the way to Steglitz through the frozen park. Because of the grit to melt the snow, there was a reddish powder on many of the roads, and it made the city look built on sand.

The Bauhaus looked different from last week: the brickwork a shade lighter. ‘There’s still telephone cradles and candlesticks upstairs,’ she said. ‘Bits of dials and Formica too. Whenever you find something it has to go straight to the foundation class. Josef’s very strict.’

By the entrance the sign squeaked against the wall: the type so rational it might have been designed by Franz Ehrlich himself.

Charlotte must have sensed my hesitation. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘He’s not here.’

As soon as she opened the door the smell took me back to a decade before: solvents, glue, the marzipan of the Wood Workshop, the minerality of Metal; and then there was that drilling sound, which never did seem to have a source, but was always there. Just like Dessau, there were students and Masters in white coats. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.’

‘In amongst the looms. Come on. Upstairs.’

In the Weaving Workshop there were women working the machines, feet pumping the pedals. I recognised none of them. They were students, and to them Dessau – let alone Weimar – was nothing but long-gone history.

As we came in, other women filed out. ‘Hi, Lotti.’

‘Do you want lunch?’ another asked.

Charlotte said no: she was hosting a private exhibition.

‘Lotti?’ I said.

‘It’s their pet name. They won’t stop, though I’ve told them I don’t like it.’

There were balls of wool on the tables, and five or six looms. I knew these were the cheaper versions. Probably the Director had struggled to acquire even these. ‘Is Anni around?’

‘I think she’s teaching.’

Just then Otti Berger, dressed in all black, appeared in the doorway. She hardly blinked; it was as if I’d seen her days ago rather than years. ‘Paul Beckermann. I wondered when you’d grace us with your presence.’

‘I heard you were still lurking around,’ I said.