I followed Ernst into his office. On the desk there were commissions, ledgers and newspapers, and on the walls a few paintings of an Expressionist tilt. There was also a new painting hanging above his desk: a yellow triangle, a red square, a blue circle – just like the one Kandinsky used in his seminars. ‘Didn’t know you were a fan.’

‘I bought it at the exhibition.’

‘It’s a Kandinsky?’

He nodded. ‘Collectors have rotten taste.’

‘Was it expensive?’

He tapped his nose. Though it was cool in the studio I noticed he was sweaty. I was about to ask him about Walter, but Ernst brought him up instead: ‘He’s so funny, your friend,’ he said, snapping the ledger shut.

I waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. ‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s quite an emotional person, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘This Jenö fellow’s a waste of time. Still, he insists on seeing him, and that awful woman Charlotte. The Czechoslovak.’

‘He saw them a lot?’ I doubted Walter’s version of the summer, but there was no reason for Ernst to lie.

‘Oh, he was never out of their pockets! I did try to tell him it wasn’t any good.’ He snapped his jaws. ‘That’s why I swapped his shifts. I thought it would be advantageous, to keep him busy during the day. You know, not to have to see them all the time.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, alarm growing in me. ‘I mean, for looking out for him. Is he here?’

‘He’s really such a terrific painter, Pauli, you should see him go. He has this . . . this thing he does with light. He’s a genius. I owe you for bringing him to us.’

Walter appeared just then, visible through the office glass, rubbing his hands on a rag and sporting a beard.

‘And, ho! Here he is!’ Ernst shouted, walking over to him. ‘Our very own Caspar Friedrich David. What have you been doing out there? Disposing of bodies?’

Walter hadn’t seen me yet. Instead I could see he was watching whether his handsome features were having their effect on Mr Steiner. But when he clocked me his expression froze and his eyes darted over Ernst’s desk.

Mr Steiner picked up the Christmas scene which was evidently the new commission: baby Jesus sweetly sleeping, and Mary and Joseph kneeling by the crib. ‘It’s for a bank in New York.’ Names were written inside the outlines: Daniel in the faces, Hans for the fabrics, and Walter’s name, written across the sky, in the hay-bales of light. ‘Do you want me to add you, Pauli?’ He gestured to the straw manger. ‘Maybe this?’

‘No,’ I said, surprising myself.

‘No?’

He gave me some moments to reconsider.