Vincenzo’s accent suddenly sounds as strong as Gorgonzola. The man hovers in an unfriendly way. Now and again this happens to Vincenzo, despite his smart clothes and affable manner – his foreignness inspires instinctive distrust in someone. He dips into the book and reads: Have I ever told you, mon ami, that in the old Russian army it was considered bad form to spit on a Jew? Yes, we thought a Russian officer’s spittle was too precious to be wasted on Jews … Another dip: in a corner by himself a Jew, muzzle down in the plate, was guiltily wolfing bacon. He puts the book back on the table and addresses the suspicious salesman. ‘Perhaps something less … political?’

*

THE TWO MEN MEET for the final time on a warm morning in May 1933.

Notovitch waits in the sunshine outside the house. Vincenzo and Pierre Thibaut, still alive, still more than a decade away from his death in France, arrive in the Scriptovox truck to take the Imperator and the cylinders to their temporary home in the warehouse. Notovitch will be in touch about having them sent on to Paris after the transcription.

‘What word from the British Museum, Mr Notovitch, about the expedition?’ Vincenzo asks, when the machine is wrapped in old blankets and roped tightly to the bed of the truck.

‘Nothing yet,’ the old man says. ‘But I live in hope.’

Pierre cranks the engine. The truck judders into life. He drives away alone. Vincenzo is seeing the old man off at the station. They travel together in a cab south through the city, past Lord’s cricket ground, where the first test match of the summer is being held, and through the leafiness of Regent’s Park.

‘Thank you for your scepticism and honesty, Mr Dittami. They have been very instructive to me.’

‘I was perhaps too sceptic, sir. If so, I meant no offence.’

‘Not at all. It’s important that I don’t underestimate the obstacles that still confront the gospel. I intend to acknowledge my great debt to you in the book.’

‘That is very kind but not necessary.’

‘Of course, if you prefer to be anonymous, for any reason, I will respect that.’ Notovitch’s look is weighted with a wounded heaviness. He’s authorising any future denial. At that instant, Vincenzo feels a terrible pity for the old man and his vast loneliness. He remembers the hostile salesman in Hatchards. The distrust based on nothing. He recognises a commonality with Notovitch. A line from Deuteronomy: Love ye, therefore, the stranger, for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt. ‘It would be an honour to have my name in your book.’

‘Very well. As soon as I reach home, I will wire you the money for the transcripts. In the meantime, keep the cylinders safe.’

At Victoria station, a porter checks the luggage tag on Notovitch’s steamer trunk and hoists it onto a trolley. The concourse is spotted with pats of dried chewing gum.