Rich said, “When you’re drunk you go a bit Irish.”

“A bit Foxtrot,” she smiled.

“What are you rolling there Rich — is that a joint?”

“What — you —”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“That’s so cool!” laughed Rich. “He asked me if I wanted a joint! Sebastian Beetjes asked me for a bifter!”

“I’m Dutch,” Sebastian said in his most cussedly rebellious voice. “Now, which is your favourite of my novels?”

“Oh, I haven’t read them all. I think they are really great though. The whole ambience. The little coffee shops and narrow houses. And the light.”

The light is everywhere, he thought. It seemed to be shining on her now, at the expense of the rest of the party.

“… and I think it’s all about this pluralist society. It really makes me want to go and live in the Low Countries.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, refocusing. “Holland’s too small. It’s not so much of a country as a boat club. Plus the place is crawling with racists these days.”

“Really? Even the tolerant Dutch fallen victim to the caprices of modernity?” said Baummüller, appearing with a glass of punch in his hand. “I couldn’t help noticing you’d met Maria; one of my best students.”

“Well, she seems very happy with you too,” said Sebastian.

Rich lit his cigarette and watched the two men, eyes glazed.

“Maria takes detailed notes on everything, quotes mercurially, and shows the makings of a first class academic.”

“She certainly knows my work, so much so that’s she’s thinking about moving to Holland.”

“Holland! A move that could only be restrictive to a woman of her intellectual proclivities. Stimmt das nicht, Maria?”

But she had gone. The two men stood before each other, suddenly awkward in their skins.

“Well — Prost,” said Sebastian; to which Baummüller sourly replied, “Gesundheit.“^[8]

“There’s a list of your lectures in your pigeonhole, starting with the seminars tomorrow. And I wondered…”

“Yes?”

“There is football tomorrow; I wondered if you fancied going to watch the game.”

“Live?”

“No, no, in the boozer.”

“Chelsea Arsenal,” said Rich. “There’s hurling at 4.00, too.”

“Hurling?”

“Hockey for psychopaths,” said Rich, and puffed.

“Me, I’m an Ajax man,” said Sebastian with pride.

“Fine, suit yourself. If you want to come along I’ll be in the Craich and Blarney, wearing an Arsenal shirt and drinking Guinness, extra cold,” said Baummüller, blushingly silenced.