They had made no gesture of intimacy or even affection to each other but it was clear they were in this together. Richard felt it. “Don’t worry,” said Sebastian, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “We’ll sort it out.”

… Sebastian set about moulding Richard into someone else. His clothes were altered from baggy ensembles to tidy sports jackets; his shoes became leather, and he even began to read. Little poems, too, were supplied — and delivered.

And so Sebastian set about moulding Richard into someone else. His clothes were altered from baggy ensembles to tidy sports jackets; his shoes became leather, and he even began to read. Little poems, too, were supplied — and delivered. “Of course, you can do what you want with them,” Sebastian commented, though he had the feeling they arrived at Maria — ceta obscura object el desairo — pretty much as penned, though Rich in fairness chose the envelopes. Pretty soon chinks showed, a stray SMS — “how about a phone call?” or “Coffee sounds nice” and Sebastian gave the young man his firm advice then: retreat. Show little interest, if any. Reply late, if ever. This mixture of distance and neglect was calculated to kindle Maria’s interest and leave her in a state of eroticized uncertainty. Sebastian would have given in to it himself.

Meanwhile news of the grandson’s christening came via email; he thought of answering it, sitting before a computer screen. The baby had been dipped in water under a sweltering sky; local notaries had sung and ethnic kitsch had been daubed liberally on all those participant. He stared at a photograph of the event. Paused like this, trying to reply, a sudden sense of consciousness came to him of the changes he himself had lived through. To the 68ers a book, a newspaper, even a letter had still had a vastheid — a solidity — an authority. Now there were books, magazines, cds, DVDs, chatrooms, forums, blogs — what were blogs? —, DJs, VJs and even, now, a Second Life. As if the first one didn’t present problems enough. Now the babble of all the word was united in a polyphony of all voices, and people just walked on. The people out there just walked on as if nothing had happened. Of course, it was true that young people still wanted to change the world — into something comprehensible.

Sebastian took the long view, and moved to the stack of magazines on the chair. “Vorsprung durch Technik,” he said or, as they had joked back in the seventies, “Vorspiel durch Technik.” Fascism had been defeated and Europe’s reward was a half-century of ecstatic cultural degeneration. But it was ever thus; every human being needed a good wallow in the muck bath of pop culture from time to time. Sebastian thought of his collection of Playboy, the pages curling gently in his mouldering home. Some issues were always with him…

The doorbell rang and so, riskily propping the cheroot on the ashtray’s side, he went to answer it. “Hallo?” he said, tremolo on the vowel.

“Ik ben daa…” came a voice from behind the door, very close to Dutch but — Maria. He opened the frame and she was there in full; petite, velveteen, with what appeared to be black clogs set upon her feet. Her face opened; “Hallo, Sebastian: mag ik binnenkomen?”^[13]

Before Sebastian could answer she was past him, wandering around the room and speaking a most agitated mixture of English, Dutch and German: “ik heb ihn just opgehaald und — ”

“Maria,” he said quietly, “Speak English. Everybody else does.”

She paused, then said. “Right. Yes, you’re right.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“A cup of tea.”

“Sugar?”

She nodded.

When he came back in she was looking at the baroque spoon on the wall. “That’s a Celtic love spoon,” she said. “The designs symbolize love, and a belief in its enduring power.”