Sometimes I told my children stories. Usually I got home so late they were already asleep. But when I came home earlier and they were still awake, my wife insisted that I sat down and talked to them. But what were we supposed to discuss, a lawyer entering middle age and a girl and two boys between nine and twelve? Luckily, they enjoyed my stories, the adventures of a boy in the Thirty Years’ War, and I enjoyed making them up. By that point my firm had a car and a chauffeur, so on the way home I sat in the back, picking up the threads of my story, working out where I would take it next. But what Irene now wanted – how was I supposed to do that? Talk about her, about me, about us: fiction, but fiction in which we appeared as we really were?

“I don’t know…”

She said nothing, simply looked at me attentively and expectantly.

“I need a moment.”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on me.

I closed my eyes and conjured the old pictures: Irene on the wall, her laugh, her leap, Irene in my arms, Irene at the wheel, Irene telling me I had to get out, kissing me goodbye, dropping me off, driving away. I didn’t like the old pictures. I don’t know why I did as she asked.

“I went back to my car in the village and drove home. Had you noticed on Saturday that I’d tried to arrange my apartment in a way that would please you? On Sunday I went through the apartment again, taking things away, putting them back, making a bit of a mess here and there so that you wouldn’t see straight away how neat and fussy I am; so you would think I was cool and creative. I was afraid that you wouldn’t come. I kept looking out the window. I made a pot of tea, forgot to remove the leaves, forgot to take them out of the next pot as well.

“But you came. You came on foot, I saw you coming from a long way off, your upright posture, your light, determined stride – had I ever seen you stroll? You crossed the road, I ran downstairs, opened the door. I wanted to take you in my arms again, but I realized now was not the time, that for you it was not the time.