‘Yes, and no Paris, no Third Section. You also are a figment of my imagination,’ says Notovitch, calmly. ‘This whole room is the creation of some gnostic demiurge and visible reality is a cruel joke.’

Vincenzo ploughs on, disregarding the icy look that has lowered the temperature in the room, formulating the thoughts that are finally taking shape. ‘Perhaps the Third Section is real. Perhaps you really did some work for them. But you didn’t care about Renan’s objections. I think something else happened to you. Who knows what? At some point in your life, you realised that what Rachkovsky said and what you believed was wrong. You realised that none of us is free to choose exactly who we are.’

‘You seem very sure of this, Mr Dittami.’

‘I know this, sir, if I may. Perhaps I may tell you something of myself. Some things I have understood from my own life. I was raised in an orphanage. It’s merely a fact. I don’t want your sympathy for it. I’m free to marry a duchess. If I have money, I can send my children to the finest school. Who knows? But I am not free to tell my story in any way I like. Whatever I do, Vincenzo Dittami will always be the priest’s bastard from Genoa.’

Notovitch nods, like a fencer acknowledging the unexpected speed of a circling parry that instantly turns defence into attack. He is even more surprised by the directness of the thrust that follows.

‘You will always be a Jew from Crimea. Nothing can change that. You wanted to be a writer, you chose to convert to Christianity, but some part of you, maybe the best part of you, kept faith with the child you were. You couldn’t stop being a Jew, but you could try to change what being a Jew meant.’

‘Laughable. Almost, may I say, Rachkovskyan in its contempt for the truth.’

‘I think you wrote a version of the gospel that you thought should be true.’

‘That’s your story.’

‘And what is yours?’