The smell of chicory draws me towards the door. Inside, there’s the frenetic activity of a large kitchen. A fat man wearing a soft white hat is shouting orders to several young men, also wearing soft hats. Pans are being jostled over flames, dishes shoved into ovens. Steam rises up from a bubbling cauldron. Sinking down behind the bins, I watch in awe. A harried-looking Travester boy, about my own age, is ripping apart lettuces at a big sink. Another boy is scraping bits off dirty platters into a bin. So much wasted food!

A woman wearing a black dress comes running into this scene. She speaks rapidly to the chef. “The Director is coming. He’s on his way. Is everything ready?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, “everything as usual, just the way he likes it. The same as every morning.”

The woman pauses then, glancing around the kitchen, checking on everything. She clasps her hands together. “All right. But no mistakes today. He only ate one bite of the pastries yesterday. I will hold you personally responsible if he takes his custom to another restaurant,” she says, marching away.

The fat man, shaking his head, confides in one of the young men: “Only one bite, huh. He probably wasn’t all that hungry. That’s hardly my fault.”

“Perhaps he didn’t like the chocolate?” suggests the young man.

“Everybody likes chocolate. Especially the Director.” The chef looks distracted. Hands on hips, he turns to study his kitchen. “Quickly,” he says, addressing a thin young man, “get me some eggs out of the cooler. We’re going to make crepes with brandy.” And he grabs a metal bowl, plucking ingredients from shelves, muttering under his breath.

Intrigued, I creep back to the street. It’s not long to wait before the sleek black automobile pulls up to the kerb. Pedestrians hurry out of the way. The driver hops out of the car and opens the back door. A broad-shouldered Travester in a black suit gets out first. He glances in every direction, scanning the street, then bends down to the open door and says something. Then the Director climbs out and walks straight into the restaurant.

The other man and the driver stay by the car, speaking softly together. Light shines off the driver’s polished leather cap. Crouching in the shadows, I stay there for a while, listening to the hubbub inside the kitchen and keeping an eye on the street. The Director comes out of the restaurant and gets back into the automobile, which glides away down the avenue, heading towards the House of Law. I check the position of the sun: it’s around ten.

Finally, something helpful I can tell Jorzy.

10

Afternoon, and I’m dozing in my cubbyhole when Marina crawls in beside me.

“Leho,” she whispers, “are you awake?”

“I am now,” I mutter irritably. “What d’you want?”