‘You have many competitors,’ Notovitch says in a crotchety and disparaging tone. ‘Glossophone. Dictascribe. One of them has surely foreseen the needs of customers such as myself.’

It is a matter of great pride to Vincenzo that he has never had a machine returned. He explains to the old man that there is no better product on the market than the one in front of them. He enumerates the failings of the machines Notovitch has mentioned: short recording times, poor fidelity, expensive cylinders. Notovitch dismisses his arguments with the wave of one arthritic hand.

As Vincenzo considers the loss of his commission – close to £5 on a machine of this price – and the ignominy of returning the Imperator to the showroom, he notices Mr Notovitch giving him a wary, sidelong glance. It dawns on him suddenly that this isn’t a process of rejection, but negotiation. ‘Mr Notovitch,’ he says, ‘you clearly have a very specific task in mind. We at Scriptovox pride ourselves on our flexibility. How can we render the service you require?’

Notovitch takes a step towards Vincenzo and studies his face for a long time without embarrassment, like a jeweller who in the dim light of a back room is trying some doubtful gold for marks of assay.

What does he see in that face? Who is he searching for? Notovitch is so close that Vincenzo can smell the lilac eau de cologne he used that morning to dress his whiskers. Finally the old man turns away and invites the salesman to sit down on one of the heavy chairs. He riddles the glowing coals with a poker and adds a few more pieces from the scuttle. When he speaks again, it is with a new note in his voice, more conciliatory and more sad.

‘In my life,’ he says, ‘I have seen the written word falsified and abused. I wish to make a record that has unimpeachable authority. I want words that stand for all time.’

Vincenzo says something to the effect that all the company’s products carry a minimum twenty-year guarantee and that, as long as they are stored in the correct conditions, the cylinders will hold his words indefinitely.

‘That’s as may be,’ Notovitch says, wiping coal dust from his hands with the rag that hangs on the fire screen. ‘I have important work to undertake. I’m an old man. I cannot afford mistakes.’ He raises a crooked finger and wags it at the salesman. ‘This is more than the story of a man’s life. The well-being of humanity may depend upon it.’

Vincenzo is too attuned to the needs of his customers to laugh, but he finds something risible and pathetic in these claims. Who is this buffoon who has dragged him out on a Saturday to waste time with his grandiose boasts and self-regard? Vincenzo is closing in on middle age himself. He has a wife and children, and places he would much rather be. But he also has an understandable reluctance to write off the money.