On the whole, the Cerel man is kind. If I nick a seedling with the hoe by mistake or trample on a melon vine, he ignores it. And no matter how much I’m tempted – and I am sorely tempted every day – I make sure that none of the foodstuffs in the garden pass my lips. Noticing this, as he seems to notice everything, Boss one day plucks a fat tomato and cuts it into slices with his knife. We both layer our bread with the sweet, succulent fruit. It tastes like the sun.

It’s like paradise in this garden, and I imagine working here all my life. But then, catching myself, I’ll remember why I sought out the job in the first place. I mustn’t imagine any kind of future here.

* * *

One evening, Jorzy takes me along to the pub. The place is as smoke-filled and loud with men’s voices as the last time. A fresh layer of sawdust on the floor gives off a piny smell. I follow Jorzy as he pushes through the throng to his two workmates who are sitting at a table in the corner. The man with the thick moustache leans towards me.

“Tell us what you’ve seen … him–”

The other man pushes a mug of beer in front of me. I’m a man now, among other men, and it feels good. “He takes a walk in the garden. Every day, late afternoon, around five.”

“Is there anybody with him?”

“No.” Still not used to the hoppy taste of the brew, I take a delicate sip. “He walks alone.”

The two men exchange glances, while Jorzy keeps his eyes fixed on me. “How does he seem, on these walks?”

I picture the solid, straight-backed figure of the Director in my mind. It’s been tricky not to show too much interest, and I’ve only allowed myself glances from behind the trellis. And soon enough, each time, Boss hurries me into the shed, where we spend the time sharpening or cleaning the tools, and that’s been all I’ve seen of the Director. Stolen glances. But a glance is enough.

“He has his hands behind his back, like a Travester on a Sunday stroll along the river. It looks like he’s thinking about something weighty, the state of the nation maybe.” It’s a joke, though the workmates exchange another meaningful look.

Another sip of the beer tastes better than the first. Maybe I could develop a taste for this stuff. “Once, one of the Black Marks came out on the terrace, like he wanted to talk to the … to him. Except somebody else stopped him.”

“So he’s not to be interrupted on these walks,” comments Jorzy.

Moustache leans in close, and I can smell the garlic on his breath. “What about round the front, at the entrance?”

“I’m not allowed round there,” I tell him simply.