I look out of the window. Jenö too looks elsewhere. Two men in an enclosed space, our suspicions a third in the room. Everything we cannot talk about is here.

I want to say how much I miss her.

I want to say sorry.

I want to say how I should have insisted she left with him. But he knows I did not, and nothing can change. ‘You went to the funeral.’

‘Irmi made a nice speech.’

‘How is she?’

‘The same. Very funny.’

‘And Teddy?’

‘Good, good. He’s a chef now. He didn’t think much of Dacia’s vol-au-vents.’

‘She never was a very good cook. She passed off a lot of things as old Russian recipes, but I think they were just bad.’

He smiles. ‘We buried Walter under a linden tree.’

‘Ah. Yes. Young Werther at last.’

‘You couldn’t make it?’ he says. ‘Irmi said you were busy with an exhibition.’

‘I wasn’t busy. I just didn’t want to be there.’

Something new passes over his expression, something I can’t read.

‘What’s Berlin like?’ I ask.

‘The border crossings are distinctly unpleasant. Did you know they call the crossing at Friedrichstrasse the Palace of Tears?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

Friedrichstrasse. Friedrichstrasse.

I ask Jenö if he wants some tea. I wonder whether he’ll say something about us turning English, but he doesn’t. When I return he’s on his haunches, looking at the self-portrait I thought I’d hidden: the axed man, the eyes a-swim. ‘That’s nothing,’ I say too quickly, putting down the tray.

‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’

Now I see what it is that bothered me about my gaze: what I am hiding from isn’t cowardice, it’s shame. ‘You warned me. You said Steiner had his sights on the Bauhaus. I ignored you.’

Jenö rises. His knees click. ‘It’s not your fault.’ His tone is neutral, though it’s not quite an acquittal. ‘Do you know the painting Not to Be Reproduced? The Magritte?’

It is a man staring into a mirror, but the reflection shows only the back of his head. ‘Yes.’

‘Sometimes I think that’s how I should paint myself,’ he says, ‘since I can’t see much further either. I tried one of these too. Mine also didn’t work.’

We drink our tea as Jenö makes respectful noises about some of my more familiar pieces; the tart bright blocks of colour. ‘You’ve become famous, Paul.’

‘Well; hardly.’

‘Come on. You’ve done very well. Irmi said you’re rich enough to pay her back. She said to tell you that: “A message for Paul.”’

Now it’s my turn to smile. ‘I’ve sent her cheques. She’s never cashed them.’

Jenö gives me a questioning look.

‘Irmi paid for my train ticket to Amsterdam.’