Download complete in 11 minutes, it said on the screen, but it looked like one of those dishonest signs telling you the estimated wait in a queue, or an unmoving traffic jam. The second hand of Jakob’s watch, on the other hand, kept circling the face.

9.12 p.m.

The next question on Who Wants to Make a Million?, the last of the day, would be asked in less than half an hour.

73 per cent of files copied.

He waited there, irritated, staring at the five posters that decorated the walls of the bar, five photographs that he had given to Cervone Spinello, and formerly to his father Basile, without claiming any privilege in return other than to be served beer, pretzels and Knackwurst imported directly from the Rhine.

The summers of 1961, ’71, ’81, ’91 and 2001.

Jakob gazed at his photographs with pride, those five pictures which gave a synoptic vision of the passing of time, from the first Canadian tents to pop-up igloos, from sleeping bags on the beach to self-inflating mattresses, from wood fires to self-lighting barbecues. Just when he was least expecting it, the download suddenly speeded up, going from 76 per cent to 100 per cent before he had time to finish his Bitburger.

Scheisse!

He downed the beer in one, grabbed a handful of pretzels and tucked his computer under his arm, and with his other hand grabbed his case of boules, because he refused ever to be separated from his Prestige Carbone 125 Demi-dure which, according to the German, were worth their weight in gold. Malicious gossips claimed that Herr Schreiber slept with his pétanque balls under his mattress, like the princess and the pea.

Night was falling. Crickets hidden in the olive trees announced the end of the day like a thousand muezzins perched in as many trees. Amidst their din, in the gloom, Jakob Schreiber paid no attention to the sound of footsteps behind him. He walked quickly and with great determination.

With his feet comfortably protected by his socks, and his socks solidly strapped into his leather sandals, they could have found their own way to the bungalow. They had already done that before in fact, on the day when Jakob had emptied the entire eight packs of Bitburger with tourists of every nationality, on 8 July 1990 – the evening when Germany won the World Cup. Hermann and Anke had still been with him in those days. He had spent the rest of the summer drinking Pietra on draught, and had sworn that he would never allow himself to be as generous again. Two years ago he had been alone in his mobile home when he had witnessed his country gaining another victory. This time he hadn’t even opened a bottle to celebrate Mario Götze’s goal in extra time.

Hermann and Anke weren’t there any more.