Slaving away at the stove in the standard-issue little kitchen, stopping only for the occasional helping of white wine, steam wafted up from the pan into his nose and eyes. He took a moment and coughed several times until a laugh came out of his throat. Huwah! He did again just to amuse himself, moved to the pan, and dipped a spoon into it.

Mesquite chicken was the dish today. Then he had even invented a story that Ben Chadwick of the German department and his wife Pria had cancelled at the last minute. They could have drunk the Chablis he now peremptorily poured, they could have eaten his spicy chicken. He went through to fetch his tobacco pack; on the living room table, a first draft of a poem lay. It had surprised him more than anyone, just turned up one morning. He had reached the stage where his works’ publication swiftly followed their composition: after this had occurred, appropriately enough, the words had dried up. Yet here was a tiny chink of light.

… was where he was up to, and, as he came back into the kitchen bouncing the lines in his head, the bell went. The poem would have to wait — it was time to take up his intrigue like a retired lady picking up her crochet.

The first guest at the door was Karl, and now Sebastian had a chance too for another look at this respected man. Author and editor of Kleist: seine Zeit und Auswirkung, Visions of Prosperity in Swiss Literature and The Small Collins Guide to German Slang — which had outsold the rest of his printed works put together — the eminent Karl Baummüller stood at the door. His slightly peregrine face went forward into the flat with a stoop. “I’m not too early?’” Sebastian, before answering in the negative, saw at that moment how Karl might have been attractive to women, he after all having the air of a man caught up in very important things, when in fact he was battling the iniquities of a life-long squint.

“You’re dead on time,” said Sebastian, “Drink?”

“Uh — gin tonic, no ice,— said Karl, moving into the lounge at Sebastian’s behest.

“You’ve been smoking in here, I can tell.”

“Smell it? — Yes, I had the odd stogy or two.”

“Sto — gies?” repeated Karl, seating himself on the divan and placing a cushion over his knees.

“A slang word for cigar — beloved of General Patton, I believe. Ice in that?”

“No ice — I said.”

“My bad, as the students say. Here we are with you. Skål!”

“Gezondheid,” said Karl in genuine Dutch this time, but it was just a gesture. Karl was in English tonight. “So how is the term going?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. Are the students enjoying it?”

“Do they like you, you mean?” Karl asked. It was unclear whether it was a joke. “As much as they like any of us, nineteen as they are.”

“I get the impression very few of them read my books.”

‘Very few of them read books,” Karl replied. It was true; these days so few people read that one could make a career out of it, as the Professor himself demonstrated.

“How’s the GT?”

“Delicious,” said the guest flatly, at which point the doorbell rang.

Rich stood at the door with a shirt on, long hair brushed oh so calculatedly back though liable to straggle into infirmity over the course of the evening, blinking. His lips were slightly atremble, instructing, gearing himself up for his entrance line “goede avond,” but he fluffed it, the “g” going somewhere through the “d” and the second word being turned into a seal-like baying sound, upon which Sebastian intervened, “Come in.”

Once inside, Richard took an interest in different things than Baummüller had; “Wow man, gnarly pictures!” The various substandard watercolour landscapes and the single frame of a smoky Dublin tavern had piqued his interest; pointing to the potage the drinkers ate, he asked “Is that what we’re having?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” said Sebastian, moving him on into the lounge. “Now, young man, what can I get you?”

“Err … Bacardi and coke? I’ve been drinking lots of Bacardi and coke recently. I don’t know why, I don’t even like it,” said Rich, in a distracted voice.

“I don’t have any Bacardi, but I do have a rather fine bottle of Cuban rum that I happened to bring with me from Holland.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Rich, “Don’t forget the coke!”