Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

The End

About the Book

Enter the financial heart of Europe – London – just before the financial crisis and meet Tristan: investment banker and celebrated playboy. Young, successful and devastatingly handsome, Tristan, one of the greatest seducers of our time, sets out to become King of the City.

About the Author

Paul Sandmann is a confirmed traveller, dreamer, and lover of classical music and the fine arts. He has been writing since he was twelve years old and in recent months has been reading his tales to his girlfriend. He has been working on this novel for six years.

Paul Sandmann is all of thirty-three years old.

www.twitter.com/paulsandmann

Paul Sandmann

Narcissus

A modern love story

Imprint

Narcissus: A modern love story

Paul Sandmann

Translated by Gordon C. Wells

Cover Design: Paul Sandmann

Cover Motif: El Ángel Rebelde by Salvatore Buemi

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de

Copyright of Translation: © 2012 Gordon C. Wells

ISBN 978-3-7375-2716-3

Praise for Narcissus:

“Tristan is successful, young, beautiful and in search of the perfect - in search of the one true love. After the first few sentences I was already enthralled by Paul Sandmann’s writing style. I think I have never read a more beautiful description of a kiss than in this novel. … You cannot read this book without being deeply moved by it - as I was, even if I did not fully understand Tristan: on the one hand hopelessly romantic and on the other cold as steel. But maybe that is what lends this man his attraction … he is fascinating and abhorrent at the same time.

It is a book of extremes. It is a very emotional book and it is a book full of suspense. Paul Sandmann enchanted me with the poetry of his words. It lingers over this novel like the breeze of a wonderful scent.”

- Martina Meyen, Eselöhrchen

“Tristan, a modern Dorian Gray? … The description of Tristan, especially his inner conflict and his relationship with others, is thrilling and beautiful. … This is a remarkable novel by a talented indieauthor.”

- Harald Faisst, Bücher und eBooks

“The narrative style is passionate, the characters well developed, the atmosphere and setting wonderful. Particularly interesting are the changes of narrative tone when the story shifts from Tristan’s private life to his uncompromising business life. In scenes of Tristan’s private life, the reader can’t help but notice the protagonist’s thirst for love. … I was deeply impressed by this modern Greek tragedy.”

- Elsa Rieger, ebook salon

“This is something different - a love story in which the focus is not on the female character, but on the male protagonist.”

- Monica Heidt, Leseleidenschaft

To my readers, who tweet, talk and write about this book.

Together we can change first ourselves and then the world.

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank Gordon C. Wells for his beautiful translation of “Tristan“. I feel grateful for having found such a talented man for this challenging task.

I

Sensuously undulating curves, with their taut covering of silky skin. So tender! Salmon pink, the flesh beneath shines through. Thirsty, it swells outwards. Demanding of love, greedy, insatiable. Across it flow tiny filigree lines – to the shadows of the opening, so microscopically fine that they are imperceptible to all but lovers, who immediately fall under their spell. Each individual line runs in only one direction, towards the opening. Like sirens they seize the beholder, commanding him to come closer. So close that his breath is almost grazing the skin. Then it happens: the shadows open and the breath of both of them mingles. All at once their flesh is as close as only a kiss can make it. With only a breath between them to hold back the hot blood pulsating through the body. How much closer can you get to a person than when you’re kissing, he asked himself.

He straightened his freshly knotted tie, then stepped back from the mirror. Fine, light-blue stripes ran through the pink of the Chinese silk. He slipped the jacket round his shoulders and pulled the sleeves of his white shirt, with their silver cufflinks, an inch or so out from under the black material. Then he looked at himself again and flared his nostrils, as a puff of scent from his freshly shaved neck below the prominent chin wafted up. On that particular morning, its fragrance, which gradually unfolded around him, was unable to dispel the troublesome thoughts that tormented him. His gaze was drawn back to his own broad lips.

How many mouths had they already kissed?

And how many merely for the taste, not for love? Just like last night.

Are such questions even allowed, he thought. Or could you then never kiss anyone again?

I want to kiss her, he thought to himself. Want her laughter to belong to me – when the little lines vanish as though by magic and the white teeth smile at me. Is kissing this mouth the longed-for promise? Does kissing someone mean anything any more? For someone who is as free with their kisses as I am, that would be more than I have a right to expect.

He smiled nervously.

Have I only ever kissed women I loved? Definitely not. If I had, I should probably have died of thirst. Do you let the buds of youth fade because you’re too serious about love? Should you not be content with affection, which can grow into love later? Those who keep the first kiss for their true love have bartered a passionate yesterday for a safe tomorrow. They were too fearful to risk falling. Wouldn’t follow their dreams. If they acted in this way, they could never be disappointed or hurt. Because if you let your counterpart carry on regardless, embraced by your own dreams and wishes, disappointment can be the result. Does this mean you regret the kiss when the cocoon that holds the illusion together bursts open?

At that moment the sound of water from the shower stopped and his visitor stepped out. Seconds later her naked body appeared in the mirror behind him, the white skin covered with hundreds of tiny droplets of water.

“Hi handsome, what’s all this about then? If I’d known you had to get up so early, I wouldn’t have come home with you,” said the stranger, resting her head on his shoulder and trying to make eye contact. He felt the material of his jacket soaking up the dampness of her chin.

“Yes you would,” he replied, without looking at her. He adjusted his tie once more, then he turned round and wiped a droplet of water from the tip of her nose.

“The bank calls, you can go back to bed. Just close the door behind you when you leave. There should still be some sushi in the fridge for breakfast.”

She pulled a face. Her blue eyes and pouty mouth had really affected him – yesterday. Now she looked rather tired. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then picked up his black briefcase from the chest of drawers and went out; he had almost completely shaken off the gloomy thoughts of that morning. Outside the lift they came back in force, but once he had said hello to the lady next door and the porter and entered the lift he began to wonder whether he ought to feel ashamed of that passionate yesterday. After so many disappointments, should he simply bid farewell to all hope?

No, no! Each morning, when you wake, you should hold fast to your dreams before they escape. Keep them safe till the day has fully dawned. Each day afresh. And if the world tries to destroy your dreams, hacks away at them till they bleed, then protect them with everything you’ve got. Give them the night for healing and guard their presence with you – each day anew. You must never betray them, never lose hope of love. Or your heart will die. At that moment he thought of her wonderful body, and how it had been silhouetted under the bed sheets that morning, while she was still asleep.

He sucked his cheeks in a little between his slightly parted teeth, looked up at the polished metal door of the lift, and a captivating smile crept over his face, making his elderly neighbour sigh.

II

She heard the door shut. He had gone and she was alone. But she was not overwhelmed by any feeling of loneliness or of regret that he had left her so soon. Yesterday they had got to know each other in a trendy bar. He was good-looking, in top physical form, his smile irresistible. Moreover, he had charm. Hearing him talk reminded her of one of those stars of the films she was so fond of. Every phrase had been just right. So why shouldn’t she go with him? True, she had only known him for a few hours, yet the temptation had simply been too great. She went into the kitchen to look for some juice. The apartment was smart, furnished with every facility imaginable. Over there, next to the door, was a symmetrical area let into the marble floor, filled with black pebbles, with three bamboo plants that reached right up to the ceiling. The shower-room, where, as well as the shower itself, she had been targeted by spray from all four walls. The living room with the glass front, through which the early morning sun shone – and through which there was a marvellous view on to the London streets and surrounding area. And the black leather couch, where she was now sitting cross-legged and naked, drinking her orange juice. She had left the sushi in the refrigerator untouched – she didn’t care for this exotic stuff. Her glance fell on the wall shelving filled with CDs and records. She found everything unusually neat and tidy for a man’s apartment. Not one of his dark hairs, which would have shown up on the white floor, was visible – and even the toilet seat had been down! She could not immediately put into words the feelings all this aroused in her, so she pushed the thought to one side.

Marie put the glass down. She went back into the bedroom to get dressed. As she stood at the foot of the bed the word she had been looking for suddenly came to mind: sterile. That was the word that described the atmosphere in Tristan’s living room so precisely. The apartment was not welcoming, but rather too clean and tidy – at least to her way of thinking. She could scarcely imagine how anyone could live here. Although at first sight everything looked modern and stylish, she found the coldness she sensed there frightening. She wondered who did the cleaning here – but she comforted herself with the thought: He’s a man. Men are only concerned with necessary and practical things and have no time for accessories like candles, plants and so forth. He probably has a hyperactive Mexican cleaning lady, too. Her friends were fortunate in that respect – Miranda, a small, stocky mid-forty-year-old from Puerto Angel even smoothed the bedclothes over the children after they had gone to sleep.

Then her thoughts returned to this man, who she scarcely knew and with whom everything had happened so quickly. Tristan came across as sensitive and charming; she would not have believed it possible that she would ever meet a man like that. The night had been fantastic; until yesterday she had never experienced such waves of ecstasy. He always seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and wanting. It went beyond words – he was right on her wavelength. It was as if there was a transparent connection between them, something that was completely new to her. But, it wasn’t every day that she went home with a stranger either. After dressing she picked up her handbag from the sofa and walked towards the door of the apartment. She opened it and cast a final glance back into the living room. With a satisfied smile she closed the door behind her.

The warm feeling she had experienced vanished as soon as she stepped out on to the street. One glance at her watch was enough to transform her inner calm into anxiety. It was a quarter to nine. She looked around for a taxi, but of course there was none in sight. It was as though they were all conspiring against her. She had to be at work at nine o’clock, so she hurried down the street and turned into a quiet side-road. After an eight minute walk she finally found a taxi and asked to be taken to Brompton Road. When she arrived at the store, completely exhausted, and made her way to the perfume department, she was greeted with a wink from her work-mate Angelina.

“I’ve already told them you had a doctor’s appointment and would be late. So you’re excused and there’s no need for an awkward meeting with Mr Howard.”

“You’re a sweetie, Angie. You’re always looking out for me. – Shall we have lunch together today?”

“Great idea – if you’re paying.”

They laughed.

“See you at one then. Ciao.”

Marie moved on. She started arranging new items on the shelves, then carried on stacking the rest of the shelves. Lunchtime arrived in a flash, because she kept thinking about the evening she spent with Tristan, and all the sweet nothings he had whispered in her ear. She had already forgotten those troubling thoughts about his apartment and now she just enjoyed the lovely memories of the previous night. Of course, she knew only too well that it had been no more than one single night and that he might well be flirting with another woman at this very minute. All the same, she wasn’t the type to give up so soon.

She had left him a short and open-ended note on the kitchen table, hoping that sooner or later he would contact her again. Marie was still rather old-fashioned in this way; she never made the first move, but always waited for the man to take the initiative. Consequently, many a time men had slipped through her fingers, simply because she was too passive. But old habits die hard, and she tried to convince herself that Tristan would call anyway, because he had enjoyed their night together too. She just had to believe it.

Suddenly a customer roused her from her reveries: “Where can I find a shower gel that goes with this scent?”

Tristan slammed the receiver down and typed something into his computer. He narrowed his eyes as he followed the trajectory of an insurance company that had just nose-dived.

“Whatever happened there?” he whispered to himself and switched to a different window to try to find the cause of the collapse. But none of the data could explain it.

“What’s going on here?” he called out to his colleague Marcus, who was sitting only a few feet away from him. Marcus quickly typed a few characters, pressed the Enter key and pushed his chair over to Tristan on its castors. In doing so he almost knocked over a rubbish bin crammed full of left-overs from a Chinese take-away that was positioned between them.

“Ah, Fensec. Yes, Tom was just sending his positive analysis for the next few months by video link to New York and Tokyo. As he was doing it, though, he suddenly had the mother of all nosebleeds and that put the mockers on it. The dealers switched off like a flash, and this,” Marcus pointed to the flickering line heading diagonally downwards, “is the result.”

“Congratulations!” exclaimed Tristan with a sardonic smile and shook his head. But Marcus had pushed himself away again and rolled back to his desk laughing.

At lunch in one of those little French street cafes near the City, Tristan was chatting with two colleagues about Tom’s misfortune.

“You’re an idiot, Tom,” said Steve straight out – he was a gaunt-looking man with short, cropped, fair hair.

Tom, who was visibly irritated, scratched his nose and cast a furious glance at Steve. Before the others had stopped laughing, he retorted loudly and clearly, addressing the whole group: “It could have happened to any one of you. So why don’t you just go fuck yourself?”

But his words only made the others laugh all the louder. George picked up the ketchup bottle and turned away, and when he turned back to face Tom he was sporting a thick, blood-red moustache above his upper lip.

“See, Tom, that’s how you looked in Tokyo!”

He turned away briefly and then looked back at the others. Nothing had changed. The tomato puree was still dripping from his nose.

“And that’s how you looked in New York!”

Tom went scarlet. Through half-closed eyes he shot poisoned arrows in the direction of the others. His pale-blue eyes blazed with anger. Then the blood spurted out of his nose again and on to his clean new tie.

“And that’s what you looked like in Frankfurt!” cried George and banged on the table, giving one of the waitresses a fright and making her drop a knife. Tristan bent down and picked up the knife, which had fallen near his shoe, while the noisy guffaws of the other two reduced the whole cafe to silence. As he raised his head and looked at the embarrassed waitress, a smile flickered across his lips. The girl was wearing white socks to the knee under her dark skirt. Her white shirt was adorned with a black bow tie. Her arms, projecting from her short sleeves, were a delicate pink, like fine china. His fingers brushed lightly against hers as he placed the knife in her hand.

“Look at that, it’s an absolute scream and Tris isn’t the least bit interested,” one of them shouted as the others all laughed.

“Of course I am, it’s hilarious,” said Tristan, with a wry grin. He took a look at Tom’s shirt and bit into his baguette. Tom realized that dabbing with his serviette was never going to rescue his shirt or his tie. So he put it aside and looked at Tristan.

“By the way, what was going on yesterday with you and that bird?” he asked.

Tristan looked up from his salad and allowed his gaze to rest for a moment on the expectant face of the banker.

“With us? Not a lot,” replied Tristan finally, then looked away and sampled the salmon pâté.

“Don’t bother to ask, he never talks about his affairs. He takes his pick-ups home one after another, but he’d like us to think that nothing ever actually happens.” Steve gave Tristan a slap on the back. “Tristan is a monk, didn’t you know that?”

“Me, I had a ball yesterday,” George interjected. “The little darling screeched like a harpy, but I’m telling you, my friends, it was a night to remember.” As he spoke, he made an unambiguous gesture, which left Tristan choking on his pâté. This looked like the start of one of those conversations that normally led to general fraternization, as each of them in turn, like a hunter with his kill, deposited the game on the table, raw and bleeding, and began to tell the rest of them all about his conquests. And as they gutted the prey all over again to satisfy the wide-eyed curiosity of the brothers, the cafe gradually emptied – the lunch break was nearing its end. Relieved it was all over, Tristan agreed to take care of the bill while the others went ahead to have a smoke, then said to the girl as he got up to go: “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I hope you can forgive these yobs.”

“No problem.” She smiled shyly.

“Are you new in town?” he asked.

She nodded.

He contemplated the blonde for a moment. She didn’t seem to believe that he could possibly want to ask her any more questions. So he just smiled, nodded to the girl and opened the door of the cafe.

Tom pushed past George and Steve as he went through the door, jostled a passer-by and hurried off with an angry look on his face. He ran past the display windows of the bistros and cafes that lined the street.

Tom’s face was that of a fine-looking man. However, a persistent tension was gradually beginning to leave its mark. His jaw was permanently thrust slightly forward, and this had affected the muscular structure, strengthening the filaments at the side of his face, while weakening those in the cheeks that controlled the action of laughter. As long as the fibres of his teeth and bones were still young, these filaments had retained their shape. Now, though, his cheeks were beginning to look hollow. To the side of his mouth the skin bulged and sent vertical creases down from the corners of his mouth, bespeaking prolonged dissatisfaction. He liked to think that this was a genetic predisposition, but no face is proof against tens of thousands of hours of the same facial expressions constantly repeated, and sooner or later these inevitably leave their mark.

What was more, Tom’s skin colour seemed to be no longer as fresh as that of his colleagues of a similar age. But can the skin be expected to be radiant when the tissue underlying it is exposed to such continual stress? Tom’s face lacked spontaneity thanks to this ingrained grim determination. He regularly smiled a few seconds too late, and his laugh was never able to completely free itself of a certain mask-like rigidity.

Unconsciously reacting to this blemish in order not to alienate his conversational partners, Tom tended to support whatever it was that his interlocutor was saying by affirmative nodding or interested murmurs. This was apt to suggest insecurity, although this would have been a mistaken impression.

On the other hand, Tom’s eyes had never lost their brightness. Even if for most of the time they were focused on the other speaker, they reacted to any touch of humour with a smile. It was perhaps due to the keen intelligence of this man that his eyes revealed this reaction more quickly than was the case for other people, which meant that there was an odd mismatch between the eyes and the mouth region when the conversation took a less serious turn. All in all, Tom was self-contradiction personified. His handsome appearance, his intelligence and athleticism ought to have made him the centre of attraction in any society. But his highly strung mentality, constantly close to breaking point, and his restless nature, prevented this. In the end, this was bound to lead to his downfall.

This was also reflected in the way Tom spoke. His voice sounded distorted, like a discordant whine proceeding from the consciousness of his inner conflicts. It was as though half his vocal cords wanted to give expression to what was being said – shrill and emotionally charged – while the other half sounded dark and was intended to convey the impression of strength.

Again, Tom bumped into a pedestrian, then apologized politely, took a few more steps and disappeared into the bank’s high-rise office building.

III

Eight hours later Tristan turned the key in the lock to the door of his apartment. Half a turn was enough; the girl from the night before had evidently simply shut the door behind her. The light from the city shone dark blue through the glass walls of his apartment. He put his hand on the switch and turned on the light. He dropped his leather briefcase on the sofa, then went over to the refrigerator and opened it. The sushi was still there. He grabbed it, and dribbled a little of the black soy sauce on the little rolls, so that the rice in them immediately soaked up the liquid and changed colour. Where had he put the wasabi? He went over to the cupboard, but the green paste was not there. He knelt down on the floor and opened the waist-level wooden doors. No luck. No sign of it on the oven either.

“There’s no wasabi in the house,” he said to himself, puzzled, and went over to the cocktail table that stood in the middle of the room. There was something on it that had not been there before. He grabbed the slip of paper. On it were written a few words and a phone number in a big round hand. Marie had taken fifteen minutes to get these words down on paper as she wanted. Tristan read them, emitting a short blast of air, which sounded like a stifled burst of laughter. Then he turned the slip of paper over and in clearly legible writing for his housekeeper Marta jotted down on it the word: wasabi. He raised his head, and in thoughtful mood, as night fell, briefly looked out of the window. Then he continued to write. He urgently needed two bottles of champagne. Marta knew the small shop that stocked his favourite brand. Then Tristan attached the slip of paper to the refrigerator, undressed and went into the bathroom. He had to hurry – in an hour’s time he was due to meet two colleagues in the Sky Lounge.

The waxen moon was just rising behind the pale skyscrapers of the City as Tristan entered the bar. Flanked by his two friends he advanced slowly past the plump floor cushions to the sound of muted conversation. His still damp dark-brown hair covered his face down to his cheeks. He hadn’t had time to shave, with the result that there was a light shadow across his face that presented a fine contrast to his blue eyes. Here in the gentle breeze of the city, which was just coming back to life for the evening, the three men made their way to their reserved table. They sat down. Marcus took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, just as though he was embarking on the second part of his working day, whereas actually all he was doing was ordering a gin & tonic. The other man ordered an absinthe.

“And for you, sir?” asked the waiter, who was dressed in formal attire.

“A rum cola – Cuban rum please.”

“Very good,” said the Indian waiter and turned away. As though on rails, he glided past more guests and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Marcus started to chat to the other man, Cirrus Baker. Marcus knew him from school. Cirrus didn’t work in the City; he was a freelance artist; he had a studio in the attic of an old brick building in Carnaby Street and was making quite good money for an artist. This was due, not least, to his eccentricity, which he always flaunted, whether he happened to be in a golf club or at a fast food outlet. Marcus was just giving him an animated account of the events of the morning.

“Excellent!” snorted the dandy, “That gives me an idea.”

Tristan stayed behind, as Marcus and Cirrus went for a short toilet break. He reached for the drink the waiter had just brought him, took a sip, and directed his attention to the guests who, despite the early evening hour, were already filling up this roof terrace.

A mixed crowd of perhaps a hundred people were milling about in the silvery light of the moon. Here, not three metres away from Tristan’s table, stood two stout businessmen – or at least their expansive gestures suggested that this was what they were. In a sudden onset of false bonhomie, one of them put his hand on the shoulder of the other and addressed him earnestly. At the same time he was waving his martini glass perilously over the heads of a young couple sitting on a chunky red foam rubber cushion. The drink was threatening to spill over at any moment, with potentially disastrous consequences for the girl’s white dress.

Further away, a group of models were standing around a lanky, obviously gay youngish man. He was wearing a strangely shaped hat, which to all appearances he had probably designed himself. But he was clearly a hit with the girls. Tristan rested his gaze for a moment on this little group of lovelies. Then he took another look around and was surprised at how many of these beauties were here today. All of a sudden he saw them everywhere: There at the bar stood an ageing mid-fifty-year-old man, with a tall redhead on his arm. Not far from them, no fewer than four blondes were having fun with two broad-shouldered gentlemen on a row of seats. It looked as though these two had not done badly for themselves either, to judge by their flashing wristwatches, or the forced laughter of the four women every time one of the gentlemen so much as opened his mouth. Tristan smoothed his jacket sleeve and scrutinized the scene before him more closely. The men hardly interested him at all. The models, on the other hand, who thronged about them, made him smile. Models, he thought to himself, are in our time what dancers in the French opera were in the age of Casanova. They were a group of girls of exceptional beauty, who had the dubious honour of being made the mistresses of the wealthy men of their time. When Casanova was alive, the aristocrats went to the opera in order to hear the audience whispering their name when the ballerinas made their entrance on the stage. At that time, as members of the Royal Academy of Music, the ballerinas all belonged to the court. Despite this, their ranks were filled with the loveliest and at the same time the poorest girls in the land, who were not even remunerated for their performances. They were delighted to accept this position, however, as it gave them the chance to be seen by the French nobility and become the mistresses of the men among them. Today, too, the rich and powerful flock round the catwalk models, as once their European predecessors did around the dancers in the theatre. In every country in the world they adorn themselves with the exquisite beauty of these girls. And that, he reflected, in spite of the fact that these days their beauty is measured only by their height and the regularity of their facial features and not by their feminine curves. Thus the taste of today’s industrial and financial aristocracy apparently resembles that of artists who, as Balzac has said, prefer the sketch to the finished painting.

Tristan couldn’t help laughing quietly to himself and had to confess that these days even he was no longer so enamoured of those womanly curves. Of course, once the girl with the cute little face had slipped out of her clothes, the sight that met your eyes was not a pretty one. It was not for nothing that the majority of these sad creatures asked for the lights to be almost totally dimmed, so that their ribs would not be thrown into relief by a shaft of candlelight. By contrast, the breasts on these naked, starving child bodies appeared much larger than they actually were. But how dreadfully bony the pelvises were! You were frightened of crushing them when you made love to these girls. Tristan didn’t believe any of these men when they claimed to be really satisfied in bed. But they evidently consoled themselves with the envious glances that came their way when they appeared in society with these girls. Then their bodies were draped in the latest fashion creations, which were only – literally only – tailored for them and which lent a truly ethereal aspect to their fairylike exterior.

How big their eyes always looked, thought Tristan to himself and felt rather sorry for these creatures. They were striving to achieve an ideal that was promoted in the media. It made them go hungry all their lives. Hungry for food and perhaps also, in the end, hungry for love. Because much as they personified the state of this starving world, they could never hope to be really loved like this, either by the men, who chose them out of vanity, or even by themselves. For Tristan was in no doubt that no one who became as wraith-like as these girls could possibly love themselves. So any compliment on their beauty was worthless in their eyes.

They thirsted for something deeper. But what did they have to offer that could give them hope? Tristan had got to know many fashion models in his life. But he had not been able to pass the time in an interesting way with any of them for longer than one evening. And usually he had had to do most of the talking himself even to fill up that one evening; to a certain extent he had needed to provoke the vanity they displayed so that he could then compliment them on their intellect. This was all lies, of course. His ideal of a beautiful woman was of quite a different order. But why worry? Everyone must live in the age into which they are born. The fifties would have been more to his taste, but in this life, for good or ill, he would just have to work with whatever was in vogue at the time. And, much as he regretted it, in this decade the world loved the faces of loneliness and of hunger.

“Tristan!” a voice suddenly brayed through the crowd – and Cirrus, the artist, appeared. He had opened his arms in a theatrical gesture as he mounted the two steps to their table. The smile on his face was the most radiant imaginable; even the moon paled before it. To Tristan the pupils of the man facing him appeared dark, and he was beginning to fear that he would be swallowed up by them when Marcus approached, drew up the other chair and laid his arm on Tristan’s shoulder.

“That was fantastic,” he grinned broadly. “Well? Anything caught your eye as yet?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tristan and reached for his glass, then called the waiter and indicated that he would like another drink.

“Tristan, Tristan...” Cirrus began, still with that appealing smirk around the corners of his mouth, “Tristan, I’ve just been chatting to Marcus about you in the gents.”

Tristan glanced at his watch and cocked his head to one side: “Well, you’ve certainly taken your time about it. What did you find to say about me?”

“You’re such a handsome chap, Tristan. I like the shine on your hair, the ironic expression in your eyes. Your chin, your physique. In a word, I have never before seen such perfection in a man!”

Tristan leaned over to Marcus, who nodded in agreement.

“How much did you pay him?” he asked in a whisper.

“In cocainum veritas,” he said with a sideways grin.

“Really, Tristan. When I first saw you my soul was stirred to its depths. In that moment I knew that the personality that seems to radiate through every fibre of your being is capable of changing what I am, perhaps even my entire life. So far I have created works of beauty, but now they seem nothing more than the prelude to the great work that I can now achieve. My art must make you my own. Let me paint your portrait!”

He paused, giving Marcus the opportunity to elegantly raise his glass and, with a grand gesture, drink a toast to Tristan. However, Tristan seemed lost in thought. His finely turned eyebrows were furrowed to form a dark shadow. Thin creases appeared beneath the corners of his mouth, though they were gone in a few seconds.

“Go on, Tristan, our friend here has been fascinated by your profile for weeks. Just think, he could make your youthful beauty immortal! Your face would age, but your image would remain as fresh as it is today.”

But Tristan was unconvinced and indicated as much with a hand gesture.

“Let’s change the subject. Sorry, Cirrus, but I haven’t got time to discuss it now.”

“I cannot accept this answer! Anyone else would be ecstatic to be immortalized by me!” protested the artist with vehemence. But Tristan could not be persuaded. There was a brief pause in which Cirrus, mortified, looked up at the moon with raised eyebrows.

Finally, Marcus, ever the diplomat, said “To our wrinkles, then,” and raised his glass. “They make us more handsome by the year, while the beauty of our women fades. So I suggest you paint our girlfriends instead, Cirrus, then we shall have something to remember them by when we end up marrying their daughters!”

Cirrus, though, after his disappointment, was in no mood for jesting. With suppressed rage he had turned his chair around and was focusing entirely on the scene that surrounded them.

“Excuse me,” said Tristan, getting up, “I’m going to get a breath of fresh air.” He took his drink and walked with measured tread in the direction of a young lady who had caught his eye during the conversation. In fact, the reason for his surprisingly dark looks just now had not been the artist’s offer to paint him. He would have thought this far too trivial to bother him. No, the reason had been the young lady who had walked past them without so much as a sideways glance and who was now standing at the far end of the roof terrace. He directed his steps quite slowly towards the long-legged beauty, as the ice-cubes quietly chinked against the inside of the glass in his hand.

She looked fabulous. Her dark-brown hair lay across her right shoulder, revealing her long, delicate, swanlike neck. Her skin shone white and cool against the moonlight, while the red of her evening gown, which scarcely covered her back, played around the contours of her body like a breath of warm air. Tristan stepped up to the railing beside her and grasped the chrome of the barrier with both hands.

He looked out at the city and took a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed her look round at him, her eyes lingering on his face for an instant. So he turned towards her and smiled. Her face was even more beautiful than he had realized at first glance, when she swept past them. She looked at him searchingly with her big chestnut-brown doe-like eyes. Her eyebrows arched delicately above them. Her forehead was high and rounded like that of a child, whilst her straight and well-formed nose divided her face into two symmetrical halves, the sensuous focus of which was formed by her lips. These were so full and alluring that she really had no need of the lipstick that she had applied. As it was, they stood out from her alabaster skin like drops of blood in the snow.

“I thought it was incredible that a young lady like you had come here unaccompanied and I wanted to offer to keep you company myself. My name’s Tristan,” he said, as he bent his head to one side and the smile faded from his features.

She stared at him for a moment in astonishment, then composed herself, shook her head hesitantly and repeated slowly: “Keep me company?”

She cast her eyes down, then looked at him again and continued: “Thank you for asking, but I’m meeting someone.”

At that point he was struck by how fragile she looked. The thin material, which flowed down her body like water, only seemed to emphasize the vulnerability that he read in her face. Her body was so soft, quite unlike those of the fashion models that were standing around her. Her truly feminine form amazed him and he felt that his prayers had been answered. At the same time, however, he recognized that the others, with their sterile toughness, were stronger than this young lady here. He was afraid that if he touched her she would shatter into a thousand white pieces and be scattered over the floor.

“In that case I’ll wait here with you and leave as soon as your companion arrives,” he replied after a short pause. “I mean, of course, if I may.”

She had turned towards the city again, but at these words she politely looked back at him. At last she said: “All right, then please stay,” and gazed out into the night once more.

“Isn’t it a pity that it never really gets dark in London?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, I’m from the country. To be more precise, I’m from a village on the continent. And when night falls there it’s dark. Here, though, it’s never dark.”

“You’re not from here?”

“No.”

She beamed at him as if he had just made her dearest wish come true.

“My parents come from Italy. My name is Eco, Isabella Eco.”

“Oh really? Then your parents and my parents were almost neighbours. My name is Tristan.”

“Tristan – and what comes next?”

“Nothing. It’s just Tristan.”

“Good, I shall call you Tristano,” she said, laughing.

The waiter was just passing. Tristan stopped him.

“Two glasses of champagne – you drink champagne, don’t you?” he asked her casually and put his half filled glass on the tray. The ice in it had melted.

“Hmm,” she muttered, and turned away in embarrassment.

“Please don’t be offended if I buy you a drink, but I had to get away from my two friends. Can you see them over there?” He pointed to Cirrus and Marcus, who seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument about something. She saw his friends and nodded.

“Those two guys will never forgive me for absenting myself unless they see me drinking champagne with you.” said Tristan and laughed.

“What is it about him?” This was the question the artist, some seven metres away, was asking of Marcus at this moment.

“What, about Tristan?" said Marcus.

“Yes,” replied the artist, “he’s so completely different from the people you meet these days.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I hardly know him, but I get the impression that he never really lets anyone get near him.”

“It’s not that.” Marcus contradicted him, smiling. “It’s just that he can’t stand listening to idle chatter. This superficial chit-chat about women, money and power he finds intolerable. An awful lot of it goes on in the bank, as you well know,” Marcus leaned back and looked around him, “and in places like this.”

“And the women?” said the artist with a wry smile. “If all the chatter is getting on my nerves, I go to the women. But I guess he doesn’t let any of them really get close to him.”

“Oh yes he does, and how.” Marcus laughed out loud. It was a short and meaningful burst of laughter that instantly combined both confidentiality and betrayal in one sound. “He makes them laugh, charms them, gives them hope with a look and finally wins them over. It’s as though he’s dancing with them, he knows so well how to go along with their every movement, even before they know they’re being led. I’ve never known a woman that hasn’t fallen for him.”

Marcus paused and turned thoughtfully towards Tristan, who was chatting with the woman in the red evening gown.

Then Marcus sighed and continued, with a smile:

“But h ow can he help it if the next morning he no longer fancies the woman he’s kissed?"

“Do you mean, he doesn’t like to commit himself?” asked Cirrus.

“Every man is searching for a woman he has something in common with; someone who, in a way, is a reflection of himself. Tristan is no exception. Each of the women he gets involved with and who I get to know reflects one facet of his character. It always turns out, however, that it is just that – one facet. The moment this dawns on him he drops her. Often it’s only the physical attractiveness that they share with him. If that’s all it is it probably won’t last more than one night. If it’s more than that, it could be a few weeks before he turns away in disappointment. But I’ve never known one to stay with him for longer than a month.” Marcus raised his arm and tried to beckon to Tristan and his companion to come over.

“Please take no notice of them,” whispered Tristan, as he touched Isabella seemingly inadvertently and joined her in looking out at the city.

“What do your friends do?” asked Isabella.

Tristan took the two glasses from the waiter, who had returned, pressed some money into his hand and passed Isabella her glass.

“One of them’s an artist,” he replied.

“An artist? I love art!” she exclaimed.

He raised his glass and looked deep into her eyes: “Then here’s to the fine arts!”

She repeated the toast and for a moment was transfixed. Tristan took a sip and had to make an effort not to cough. He could not believe that this stuff was from France.

“Is this really champagne?” asked Isabella, who had no way of knowing what Tristan thought of it, as he was keeping his facial muscles totally under control. This couldn’t possibly be champagne – at best it was Italian sparkling wine.

“It tastes like Prosecco!” she continued, visibly amused and chuckling quietly.

Tristan joined in her laughter and said: “There you are, you see, I tried to impress you and save money at the same time. I know that waiter. Whenever I order champagne he always pours me Prosecco instead. But you’re the first person to have caught me out. It takes a true Italian to do that!”

Abruptly she stopped laughing and narrowed her eyes.

But he just laughed and shook his head, then drank the rest of his champagne. He put the glass back on the Indian waiter’s tray and said to him: “Okay, my friend, and now bring us the right one!”

The young waiter looked surprised and hesitated for a second, then Tristan went on:

“Bring us a Prosecco, there’s a good chap.”

Now Isabella laughed out loud too, prompting some of the guests to look across to them questioningly. Speaking softly, Tristan said to them: “Whatever you do, don’t touch the champagne.”

At that moment, the onlookers fell back to make way for a tall, well-built South American, who went straight up to Isabella. She embraced him and he kissed her in a familiar way on the cheek. Then he exchanged a few words privately with Isabella. With his arm round her, he finally turned to Tristan and asked: “And you are...?”

“This is Tristan,” interjected Isabella.

“Pleased to meet you!” Tristan offered to shake hands with the swarthy giant and went on: “I’ve been keeping Isabella company, so as not to leave such a delightful young lady waiting on her own.”

The South American raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

“Oh well, my work here is done; I’ll have the two Proseccos brought to you.” With these words, Tristan took Isabella’s hand and drew her gently but firmly to him. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and said: “See you soon!”

“See you soon,” she replied with a smile.

Tristan nodded to Isabella’s companion and went back to his friends. On the way he met the waiter, slipped him a little money and put his business card under one of the Prosecco glasses. Then he told him to serve the drinks, and returned to the table where Cirrus and Marcus were sitting. It was no surprise to find that these two were now accompanied by three fashion models, as well as three bottles of champagne. He greeted the girls, one of whom had such dark red hair that he almost envied Cirrus his choice. When Tristan joined them Marcus looked up from an animated conversation with two brunettes and called out: “Ah, we were looking for you! Meet Michelle, Sam and Sasha!”

Tristan greeted each one of them in turn and soon afterwards found himself in a conversation with Sasha, a twenty-two-year-old photographic model from Ekaterinburg. As she excitedly told him all about her latest photo-shoot in Paris, in her broken English, he was gazing at her nose, which really was a delight. She was covered with freckles and screwed up her face in such a bizarre fashion every time she laughed that Tristan brought it to her attention.

Sasha had already had two glasses and obviously couldn’t take much more, so Tristan didn’t hesitate to start counting her freckles with his finger. While doing this he gently held her neck with his other hand and ended up with his face so close to hers that she tittered nervously. But when she became aware of the envious glances she was attracting from her two friends, she stopped and pursed her lips invitingly.

Tristan noticed this, grasped her chin and turned to face the other two.

“She’s got more freckles than there are stars in the sky tonight, Marcus.”

Thereupon Cirrus burst into loud laughter and Tristan asked him to count them for himself.

“Look for yourself,” he said, then took Sasha’s hand and the redhead’s at the same time and passed one of them over to Cirrus, while carefully removing the other from the proximity of his friend. The redhead sat down next to him.

“Hello Sam,” said Tristan and glanced at the corners of her mouth, which had turned up with pleasure. Her sparkling white teeth flashed him a smile.

“You have the loveliest Botticelli curls,” he said. She laughed, without understanding him.

“May I top you up?” he asked and went to pick up her glass, which was almost empty.

At this moment Isabella appeared behind the redhead. She stood there and looked at Tristan questioningly for a moment. Her companion, clearly rather annoyed, whispered a word in her ear and went on ahead to the cloakroom to fetch her coat.

Tristan stood up and reached for Isabella’s hand, but she only made contact for a fraction of a second – just long enough to slip the business card between his fingers. Then she was gone. He stared at the card in astonishment, as doubts began to arise in his mind. But then he turned the card over and saw that on the back she had left her phone number, immediately under his own. A smile crept across his face, as he put the card in his inner pocket and sat down again to fill Sam’s glass.

“Who was that,” she asked, with an expression that was both ingenuous and unsuspecting.

“Just a friend,” he said and kissed her hand.

IV

Next morning he awoke with a thick head. The light of the breaking day was already flooding into his bedroom, casting shadows on the white sheets of his bed. Outside the window London was just waking up to a crisp Saturday morning. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky.

Beside him, under the white of his duvet, the shape of a woman was clearly discernible. Locks of auburn hair peeped out from beneath the covers. Then he saw an arm, at the end of which a hand gently moved, as its owner awoke. For Tristan, the aroma that wafted up from the sheets was testimony to a champagne-drenched night of pleasure. He got up without waiting until she was fully awake. The hand grabbed his ankle, but he gently prised the fingers apart and descended the stairs of his penthouse. Then he took a clean towel from the shelf, hung it next to the door of the cubicle, and began to shower. Below the window of his bathroom flowed the Thames. As he shampooed his hair he watched the ships travelling along the river and the seagulls following them. Then the sliding door behind him opened, and Sam stepped in. She brushed one of her heavy red locks out of her face and gave him a cheeky look: “Not so fast, my friend,” she said and took his hand in hers. Then she gave him some of his body wash and intimated that she would like him to use it on her.

The ship that he had just been watching was already out of sight when they emerged from the bathroom. She bent over a little to dry herself. He, though, picked up a dressing gown and went out on to the balcony, oblivious of the pools of water he left behind on the marble floor. Outside, in the fresh spring air, he grabbed the hood and used it to dry his face and ears.

Tristan could feel the icy breeze off the river blowing into his sleeves and around his ears. He shivered. Yet, strangely enough, he enjoyed the cold, which enveloped him and cooled his body, still warm from the shower. How he would have loved to swim out into the swirling currents of the Thames. Just him and the water, face to face. He could practically feel the waves embracing him and himself becoming one with them. Once again he took a deep breath, then he turned back to the door of the terrace. Sam was standing there, with his mobile phone in her hand.

“It’s ringing,” she said with an ironic expression on her face.

“Thanks,” he said, distractedly, kissed her casually on the cheek and took the mobile from her hand. He walked past her and then turned round to her.

“It’ll be Marcus, we’re meeting for brunch. Would you like to come with me?”

“Where are you going?”

He named a restaurant specializing in typical German fare. Everyone in the city knew that this place served very fatty food and was therefore the ideal choice for the morning after a night of binge drinking. He already knew what her answer would be, but he still looked expectantly in her direction.

“Sorry, I can’t come with you. I’ve already got a lunch date.”

He was quite sure she had no such thing. Women like her were reluctant to eat out like that – their little secret could be in danger of being discovered. All the same, he gave a sigh, as though disappointed, patted her on the bottom and said:

“That’s a pity. Wait a minute, I’ll just get changed, then we can take a taxi to the city centre together.”

She raised her head like a child and he gave her a kiss on the forehead. Then Tristan went to his wardrobe and selected a turquoise shirt, a beige sweater, jeans and leather shoes. After dressing, he dried his hair. As he did this he saw Sam standing behind him in the mirror. Her wide brown eyes were following every one of his movements with curiosity. Before he started shaving, he reached for the phone, picked out Marcus’s number and called him.

“I thought you’d be otherwise engaged. Are you still okay to meet up?”

Tristan glanced at Sam and replied: “Of course. Where are you now?”

“I was just having breakfast with my wife and the kids. But don’t worry, I’ve hardly eaten a thing.”

“Can you manage to be there for one?”

“Yes, no problem. See you soon then.”

“See you soon,” said Tristan and ended the conversation. He picked up the shaving foam dispenser and sprayed the foam over his face and neck. As he applied the razor to his skin, to remove his two day beard, he recalled what Marcus had said. Could he really have been home to see his wife and children so early? What time management!

Tristan had never been able to work out how the marriage between Marcus and his wife could have ended up in such a crisis. They had known each other since they were at school and had started going out in year 10. He was captain of the First Fifteen and she was a girl from a well-to-do family; she was the object of the affections of many of her fellow-students but she only had eyes for him. She was so pretty. When Tristan was recruited by the bank and he and Marcus had become friends, they were still together. Amy had just given birth to her second child, a lively little boy. They were both overjoyed and proud to introduce their little family to Tristan when they invited him to dinner one day. On that occasion Tristan had taken with him a girl he’d met the day before in a cafe. His companion had been enchanted with the happily married couple, their little house and the chubby-cheeked offspring.

“You can tell they’ve known each other for decades. They’re like a single unit, like two trees that have grown into each other over the years.”

Both of them did indeed radiate such a degree of mutual trust and serenity that Tristan had felt particularly happy for his friend at that time. He had enjoyed the Sunday evenings they spent together, but couldn’t help noticing that Amy was not particularly enamoured of the continually changing names of his female companions. He felt sorry about this and was disappointed when on one occasion Marcus told him that he and Amy would unfortunately not have time to have dinner with them the following Sunday. Tristan had shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face, at which Marcus had apologized and revealed the real reason.

This was why in the following four months Marcus and Tristan had not been able to see each other so often. Of course, they worked together in the same office and still went out for lunch together. But Amy succeeded in keeping her husband well away from Tristan in the evenings and at weekends. In the office Marcus talked about more frequent trips to the country with the children, and also the fact that Amy had made contact with old schoolfriends who had also started a family and who they regularly visited. At first Marcus gave the impression of being happy with this, and Tristan was quite willing to concede that his friend had every right to this way of life, although he himself had no desire to change anything about his own easy come, easy go approach to life. He continued to see many different women, none of whom, however, had the slightest chance of forming a more serious relationship with him. He enjoyed London’s glittering nightlife to the full and had meanwhile acquired new fun-loving friends to take the place of Marcus as they partied in the clubs and bars of the city. They were also bank colleagues, but they were by nature coarse and totally incapable of the sort of friendship that would even come close to the relationship of trust that had so quickly formed between Tristan and Marcus.

They would fit the bill as drinking companions, however, and served as a springboard for his encounters with the fair sex. About six months passed, during which time the two colleagues kept company with Marcus and Tristan over lunch, slapped Tristan on the back and chatted with him about what they’d been up to the previous night. Of course, they also asked Marcus about his weekend, but they soon changed the subject when they got tired of his stories about the joys of family life. It was beginning to become clear that the worlds of the two men were out of sync and drifting apart from each other. At first this was scarcely perceptible, but after a time it became impossible to ignore, so much so that now and again they seemed to detect a glimmer of sadness in the other’s eyes when they met each other’s gaze. Marcus in particular was no longer the man he was when Tristan first met him. He had lost the ability to perform the balancing act that had enabled him to fulfil his family commitments at such a young age and still remain stable and contented through all the ups and downs of his professional life in the City. He was now more quiet when they ate out together, and at his workplace too he seemed less at ease with himself and the world. On one occasion, Tristan recalled, after a telephone conversation, he had banged on the table, glared at Tristan, quivering with rage, and stormed out of the room. This was decidedly unusual and was not in the least like the Marcus of old. A few weeks later Tristan happened to hear Marcus saying goodbye to his wife on the telephone. Tristan had pricked up his ears as his friend’s voice sounded strangely tetchy and as dark as the hammering of a piece of rusty metal. Three months later Marcus finally asked Tristan if just the two of them could go for a meal. Tristan agreed – he wanted to hear what was so oppressing his friend and had given him those dark rings under his eyes.

“It’s over,” said Marcus after a period of silence. “Amy and I are taking some time out, but I don’t think we shall ever get back together again.”

Tristan was shocked and profoundly shaken by this unhappy turn that his friend’s life had taken.

“She’s changed so much, Tristan. At one time our love was marked by freedom and mutual trust, but now I can’t do a thing without Amy trying to control me. It’s finished."

Tristan had said that he was sorry. That he couldn’t believe that this was really the end, but could see that they both needed some distance.

“Yes, we do. Let’s go out together this evening, Tristan, just the two of us. That’s what I need most right now. I love you, man!"

With these words he had thrown his arms around Tristan.

Tristan looked at himself in the mirror. The memories echoed in his head. He had finished shaving. He applied a little eau de toilette and looked round at Sam. She stood there with her arms crossed, gazing at him with a dreamy look on her face.

“Let’s make tracks,” he said, threw his jacket over his shoulders and grabbed the keys.

“Tristan!” Marcus stood up and took a few steps towards him.

Tristan went up to him and greeted him with a warm handshake.

“What happened to the pretty redhead,” Marcus asked him with a brief smile.

“I dropped her off at home; she wasn’t hungry.”

They sat down. Marcus beamed.

“You know, Cirrus wasn’t too happy you pinched that girl off him. She was the one that caught his eye, and she was the reason why we invited the three young ladies to join us in the first place.”

“I’m sorry about that. Is he furious?” Tristan laid his jacket over the chair.

“I don’t know, but he can’t really be furious; he’s too crazy about the idea of drawing you.”

“Come on,” Tristan made a dismissive gesture and sat down, “don’t start that again.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me something about her?” asked Marcus, “What’s she like? For a moment I thought you’d make a fine couple.”

“Oh, Marcus,” sighed Tristan, brushing his hand across his right eye, “there’s nothing to tell. What do you expect me to say? She’s pretty, that’s all. I could hardly manage three minutes conversation with her without getting bored.”

“So you had to kiss her.” Marcus laughed. “You had to kiss her so that she’d stop boring you. That’s what I so love about you!”

Marcus raised his arms and stretched, with an expression of visible amusement in his eyes. Then he yawned and continued in his dark gravelly voice: “Tristan, the woman who can win your heart has yet to be born!”

Involuntarily, Tristan yawned as well, then picked up the menu and said: “Anyway, I think I’ll have a large salad and a Jägerschnitzel. How about you?”

They ordered, and Marcus began to talk about his meeting with his wife. He had not taken the girl from the night before home with him – the only one of them not to. He had risen early and driven out in his four-by-four to see his family, who lived in the suburbs. He and Amy continued to let the children think that Daddy had only moved out temporarily. But it was becoming more and more obvious that this was just an illusion that was likely to be shattered at any moment. Amy had bitterly reproached her husband in the kitchen, when she found out that he’d gone out the night before. She herself had not got involved in London’s nightlife again after the separation, preferring to devote herself to her children. She reproached herself for letting her children suffer the same fate as the majority of their schoolmates, and consequently appeared even more self-sacrificing. And yet she could not, on her own, offer her children the home life that an intact family could provide. The more she understood this and read the unspoken question about their father in the wide eyes of her children, the more embittered she became. The idea that Marcus was going out again as if nothing had happened was driving her mad. At the breakfast table it was only with difficulty that she was able to conceal her anger from her children. At this point Tristan noticed the shadows of anxiety in Marcus’s face, and instantly changed the subject.

“The woman I met before I came back to your table – did you see her?”

“Yes,” Marcus seemed grateful to Tristan for banishing the demons from his life, “she was charming.”

“She was, wasn’t she?” Tristan raised his hands to add weight to his words. “I was under her spell from the first moment I saw her. It was as if sirens were calling me to her. There was no escape from their voices. Then I spoke with her, and everything she said was so absolutely right. Every word seemed to fit and...” Tristan motioned Marcus to lean towards him, “I felt as if she could read every one of my thoughts.”

“Tristan!” Marcus clapped his hands, “Now you’re singing a different tune! What made you come back at all?”

“Her companion suddenly turned up. But I shall see her again. I left her my card, and she gave it back to me with her number on it just before she left the bar.”

“Well, if that isn’t the beginning of a fairytale love affair...” murmured Marcus ironically and moved back slightly to enable the waiter to serve him his knuckle of pork and mashed potatoes.

“Just you wait. Some day I’ll find the right woman. You’ll all be amazed.”

Silently, Marcus cut into his knuckle of pork and enjoyed the aroma of the hot meat that wafted up.

“What’s happening on Monday, isn’t someone coming to see us?” he asked after a short pause.

Tristan thought for a moment as he chewed, then he remembered: “Oh yes, we’re having a visit from some pension fund managers. They want to discuss a few investments with us and have some fun in the evening.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, then with the hand that was holding the knife he began to draw little circles in the air, asking: “No, really?” He laughed out loud. “Oh, how I love this; it’s the same old routine every time! They come in their pristine white shirts, trembling with anticipation of their one big day. We run round after them because we know they’ve got millions of pensioners in their pockets – and they’re proud of it. Naturally, it’s all charged up to our bank: business lunch, nightclub and prostitutes. If the dear old pensioners only knew that we include the cost of these nights of sin in our fee.” He paused for effect, then grimaced and shouted: “Give it all you’ve got, baby, grandad’s footing the bill!”

“Hmm, you’re right.” Tristan concurred pensively, “How we like to fool ourselves when someone else is paying!”

“Oh please. These gentlemen know how the land lies, believe me. But they repress the knowledge so they can keep a clear conscience. And we make it easy for them; after all, the individual items of the evening’s expenses never appear in the invoice issued by the bank. All you find there is the consultancy fee. – Who’s escorting the gentlemen this time?” asked Marcus.

“George and me,” replied Tristan.

“It’s good that George is going with you,” said Marcus as he chewed. “No one could be better suited. You’ll never succeed in business if you take ethics too seriously. I went with them once and it had a disastrous effect on our business. We’ve never been given such a small order. One man’s pangs of conscience blight the general mood straight away. It’s as though there’s a pact in which everyone lets themselves go completely, with no limits. Anyone with limits is a spoilsport and ruins everything.”

“What did you do?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to cheat on Amy, even though things were going quite badly for us at that time. I stayed with two girls at the bar, while the others went upstairs with their ladies. The two of them were terribly disappointed. I bought the two birds all the drinks they wanted and told them about my problems at home. They were really sympathetic and one of them gave me advice that was better than I’d had from my psychotherapist. So if you should have any problems, don’t go and see a psychotherapist – go to a whore. Only to talk, of course, otherwise you might as well put a bullet in your head straight away. Never sleep with your psychotherapist."

Marcus paused to load some sauerkraut on to his fork with his knife. Between mouthfuls, he went on: “When the others came back I was so drunk that the boss gave me a dressing-down the next morning.” Marcus gave him a rather acidic smile. “He informed me that my behaviour had been unacceptable!”

They burst out laughing and motioned the waiter to bring them another two beers. The restaurant was now filling up, as more and more Londoners came in for lunch.

“And how about you? You often go with them, don’t you? The first time was soon after we’d both started at the bank.”

“Yes, the boss asked me to accompany an older colleague, so as to add the youthful touch that you need for everyone in the group to feel young.”

Tristan picked up the glass of beer that the waiter had set down in front of him, and took a deep gulp. Marcus examined him attentively, until Tristan finally continued: “I was aware, of course, that as a young analyst I couldn’t afford to break faith with the older generation. So I first put a ludo game in my pocket and produced it when I was with the prostitute in her room. I promised her that my firm would pay her for an hour and a half of her time with all the extras, but said that instead of actually indulging in the activity we should have a game of ludo. She laughed like a little girl and ordered room service to bring the champagne and fruit that we were going to play for. Then as we played she told me about herself. She was a social science student and was doing this work to finance her studies. When we’d finished, we went downstairs. The old man studied my bill with a great show of astonishment, and the others slapped me heartily on the back. It really is a pathetic spectacle, you’re quite right, but it’s part of our job, there’s no getting away from it, and so I regularly go with them,” concluded Tristan and reached for his beer again, while Marcus quietly chuckled to himself. As he did so his face, starting from the corners of his eyes, displayed a multiplicity of tiny wrinkles, some of which went up to his light-brown eyebrows, while others ran in a small curve across the top of his cheekbones. The sight of this radiant smile from the moon-shaped open mouth was infectious, and Tristan, too, soon had a smile all over his face.

“Ludo? Good grief, Tristan, I’ll never understand you!” And at last he burst into laughter; Tristan joined in and they could be heard all over the restaurant and even in the kitchen, where the two stout German cooks started to wonder what on earth was causing all the noise.

V

Tristan cursed as the fifth taxi in a row went roaring past, sending a wave of muddy water on to the pavement. On top of this, the rain was lashing down on him. Snorting with rage, he drew the collar of his overcoat closer round him, shut his eyes tight to keep out the acid rain, and continued on his way to Goodge Street tube station. The sky over London was dull and leaden. A bird flew fast through the cold wet wind, while the rhythmic sound of his leather-soled shoes on the pavement beneath him was drowned out by the hammering of the torrential rain. Why had he insisted on stretching his legs like this instead of sharing a taxi with Marcus?

His friend had drawn the right conclusions from the sudden change in the light conditions, as the brightness had faded to a dark grey and the alley, which seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of Tristan, was beginning to flood. The water dripped down from his long hair into his neck, and he looked in disgust at the rivulets of dirty water running between the pavings. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the entrance to the underground station. He stamped several times on the ground, so as to shake off the rainwater from the leather and cork of the soles of his shoes, then took his mobile out of his overcoat pocket together with the business card on which Isabella had noted down her number the day before. He wiped a wet strand of hair from his face, leaned against the cold wall and waited for her to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello Isabella. I got caught in a shower of rain and wanted to ring you before your number was washed away.” She must have known he was smiling from the way he spoke. “I’ve just finished brunch and I’m on my way home. And I wondered if you would care to accompany me to the opera tonight.”

“To the opera?” She sounded surprised.

“Yes,” he laughed, “I’ve got a spare ticket and I’d be delighted if you would do me the honour.”

There was a silence. Tristan furrowed his brow. He looked at the light-coloured tiles lining the walls of the tube station and called to mind the delightful image of Isabella in her red dress the previous evening. He went on: “It’s ‘La Traviata’ tonight, the world’s best-known opera. Please don’t say anything ... or ... wait.” He smiled again, “Just say: I’ll come with you!”

He heard her laughing, then – at last – she said: “I’ll come with you.”

Tristan made a triumphant gesture and then, before she could change her mind, quickly said: “Fantastic! I’m so glad. Just tell me where I can pick you up. Shall we say – half past seven, okay?”

“Yes,” she replied slowly and gave him her address. Tristan closed his eyes and committed the street name to memory, before saying goodbye and quickly storing her address in his phone. As he put the mobile back in his inner pocket he was surprised at himself, for he felt his heart thumping. He shook his head, smoothed down his wet hair with both hands and set off to find his tube line. On the steps he noticed that his train had just entered the station. A man jostled him as Tristan rushed to get to the doors before they shut. A woman noticed him running and stopped the train from leaving.

“My second stroke of luck today,” he said, happily, and looked at her as he passed her and got into the train. The door shut behind him, and he saw the happy smile on the face of the woman turn first to surprise and then, as the train departed, to disappointment. The woman looked as though she wanted to say something. Then she disappeared. She wasn’t exactly pretty, thought Tristan to himself, and sat down in a vacant seat by the window.

Through the window he watched the unbroken expanse of shadowy tiled walls race past.

The two women from last week appeared to his inward eye ... Marie and Sam. They writhed naked in front of the concrete pillars of the London underground as they rhythmically flashed past. Love was always fascinating, stunning, bewitching, he thought.

But what if only the women felt it?

Involuntarily, he began to ponder the ideas he used to have about love when he was a small boy. Today these ideas seemed like something handed down from an age long past, perhaps that of Goethe or possibly even Shakespeare. Is it the same feeling that spans the globe today when we speak of love?

A faint smile stole across his features, as the man sitting next to him started to eye him suspiciously. But Tristan took no notice of him. It seems to have got easier, he thought to himself. If I find a woman attractive, I take her – simple as that. The romance seems to have completely evaporated. It seems as though women expect less today – even less than they did in bygone days. He thought back to his childish ideas of perfect love and smiled once again. Once upon a time the air had been heavy with an atmosphere of romance. The man had to pay court, struggle, if necessary make himself a laughing stock, to win the heart of the object of his desire. Spurred on as he was by her exacting demands, and inspired by his own previous achievements, she set his pulse racing and stirred his emotions, Nothing could diminish his ambition, unless he was of a melancholy disposition and was inclined to give up hope when nothing seemed to be happening.

This man of an earlier age sang, danced and fought for his heart’s dream. And all this was simply taken for granted by the lady. What was more, she urged him on to greater efforts by rationing the delights she graciously bestowed, making them even more precious. Every flutter of her eyelashes was like a promise; every personal word carried weight. The distance she created made the man idolize the woman. Made her into a higher being. The flame of love that had been kindled within him and which was fanned by one gift after another, had the power either to give new life or to kill. If, after much devoted effort on your part she was graciously pleased to respond, you were ennobled by this woman. She was not a trophy but the greatest conceivable victory, achieved after hundreds of battles. Winning her was the consummation of your self-image and pride in your own abilities. This victory could energize your whole life; it could make a nobody a special somebody, radiating success. Somebody like Marcus. Unfortunately, however, Marcus had evidently forgotten what his wife had made him.

Nevertheless, said Tristan to himself, this kind of love could also kill. If you fought for a dream which, though not impossible, proved, in the event, to be unattainable, a dream in which the woman had been elevated to the status of a saviour of your own soul, and in which nothing other than she was worth anything, then this love could kill. If she was the sun around which every thought revolved – and if the man, in all that he did, became besotted with his goal and completely lost sight of possible consequences – consequences that were no part of the dream – and if she scorned him so that his love was ultimately unrequited, his life would cease to have any meaning. The man would have allowed the image of this woman to drive out everything else in his heart, indeed, to annihilate it. Instead of being blessed with the lady’s favour and basking in the glory of the victorious knight, the man would have become a tragic figure, a fool, the object of the mockery and ridicule of an unfeeling world.

What, then, has become of this love? What has become of the air redolent with music, where looks of devotion were exchanged and the man’s song found a response in a woman’s eyes and in her heart? Where one hand invited the other to dance, and Sinatra was still understood, rather than merely listened to because it was considered cool?

The filthy concrete walls flitted past Tristan’s window like framed transparencies of sentiments he had thought to be long since forgotten, but which now came back to him in vivid new colours. New questions arose within him: Could it be the failure of their parents’ marriages that causes the children to have doubts about the idea of love? They have security, but must this come at the price of waiting and of romance? Perhaps this generation of “parentless” children have lost touch with this dream. This is probably why they content themselves with the left-over scraps of love, fill their stomachs with them and fail to notice that this kind of food is tasteless. Probably they’re no longer accustomed to love, or they never had it, or the memory of it has long since faded. These children, full of fear and deprived of love in their life, grasp the nearest hand held out to them, without real emotional involvement. They take the hand – because it promises that they will never be alone again.

His right eyelid started to twitch nervously. These thoughts threatened to turn against him, but Tristan succeeded in pushing them away. In his eyes he was different and was only waiting for the right girl. He was passing the time with the wrong ones until such time as he found her. He would not let any of them linger too long with him for fear of missing the right one.

Warily, he directed his thoughts back to the world and his criticism of it.

What a wretched game is being played out in the world! If you take a fancy to a woman, you take her, without attaching any significance to what is going on between you. If you fail to devote time to the relationship or give it due respect, it ceases to have any meaning. You just take the woman for yourself, and gorge yourself on the beauty of the outer shell. Then when you are finally sated, your interest wanes. It goes as quickly as it came.

Why did interest fade so quickly these days? He didn’t know.

Tristan sighed, and the passenger opposite stood up to leave the train at the next stop. The man looked back at the young man sitting over there by the window, soaked to the skin, lost to the world and preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Tristan was convinced that what was missing was the courting. If the woman takes the time to get the man interested in her inner being, to make him understand that this – veiled – represents the real gift, then, and only then, she can say to him: “Arise, Sir Knight!” Now he can rediscover his full potential, wrestle his way to new boundaries, and value what he is fighting for. Only now is the true gift of love granted to them both. That which makes them better people: the idea. The idea of love. Once you have received this absolutely essential gift – the gift of a lifetime – everything else is child’s play. Inspired and animated by the love of your life, all the rest seems quite simple.

Tristan felt sick. Beer and schnitzel did not seem to agree with him. He held his stomach and turned his gaze away from the window. He swallowed, so as not to have to vomit there and then. The person opposite had still not left the train. The door opened, but the man remained there for another second, his gaze calmly fixed on Tristan. Now, for the first time, Tristan deliberately looked at him. This man was dark-skinned and old. There were white strands here and there in his frizzy hair, which made him resemble a panther that had gone grey. He was a poor man, that was obvious. Tristan’s gaze focused on the eyes, which gleamed at him jet black and unfathomable. The skin of his face, on which the pores were clearly visible, was loose and wrinkled. Dry quivering lips protruded into the cheeks, trying, as it seemed, to tear them apart. White incisors shone out menacingly, startling Tristan. It was as if a cold hand had grasped his heart and was squeezing it. There was a deep silence between Tristan and the panther, heavy and cruel ... and it seemed to stifle Tristan’s heartbeat.

He took a deep breath of air, closed his eyes and heard the beating of his heart. Then he looked towards the door again. But there was no one there. He looked through the window, but the man was walking past as if nothing had happened. Tristan leaned back against the plastic of his seat and felt the nausea gradually abating. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply – in and out again. No one else in the compartment seemed to have noticed his brief dizzy spell. Even the woman next to him was calmly reading her paper as though nothing had happened. And, after all, nothing really had. Tristan looked out of the window again, but the slide show had finished. Only concrete and dirt could be seen as they sped past. The frame remained empty. At the next stop he stood up and got out. He quickened his pace, reached the exit of Southwark underground station and turned towards Blackfriars Road. He strolled along Paris Garden until he finally reached Upper Ground, near where he lived. It was chiefly business people and their families that resided in the twelve-storey building in which his apartment was located. Bankers did not live here, preferring areas like Chelsea, Redcliffe Gardens and Sloane Square. But Tristan liked it here. He loved the view of the Thames and the distance that he was able to put between himself and the other men in his line of work. As he went up in the lift, the floor of which was wet and dirty from those who had arrived home before him, his phone rang.

“George, it’s you,” said Tristan.

“Hi there, mate,” called George, whose voice already seemed slightly slurred, “I’m in the pub with Steve. He’s been telling me about the coup that our bank has pulled off...”

Tristan did not want to know. “Please, George, not now. It’s the weekend.”

“Okay, okay, let’s talk about something else. How was your evening yesterday? I heard that you and Marcus were out together.”

“Yes, I’m just back from brunching with him. Yesterday we had a few drinks in the Sky Lounge. In this weather you could probably go swimming there.”

“We were down at our favourite club,” said George, adding, in a high-pitched voice, “It was simply divine, old chap.” By this time Tristan had arrived at his floor and was opening the door of his apartment as George told him about the previous evening. Tristan switched on the light in his apartment. Oh my God! The smell of Sam’s perfume had still not dissipated. Tristan felt rather disgusted with perfume manufacturers who were incapable of making a product that would dissolve into air in half a day. Yes, their product should cover the woman’s skin for the whole day, but Tristan found it intolerable that the fragrance, however exquisite, should linger in the air for hours afterwards. Equally, he could not bear the thought that the taste of a woman’s scent could remain on a man’s tongue for such a long time. Perfume fragrances should evaporate, he thought to himself with some irritation, otherwise they’re no better than sweat.

He opened the door that led out to the terrace and enjoyed the fresh breeze of the early evening, breathing it in deeply. The rain had washed away London’s city dust and had now stopped. Tristan stood by the window for a few minutes and enjoyed the taste of a new night on his tongue.

“All right then, so much for our amazing evening,” said George by way of conclusion. “All four of us plan to meet up again tonight. The others are bringing a few girlfriends with them. Do you fancy joining us?”

“Some other time, George. I’ve already got a date for tonight. I’m going to the opera. But you could ask Marcus,” replied Tristan.

“Marcus? Has he finally got over his ex?”

“They’re still married, but you’d better ask him that yourself.”

“I’m not bothered! Those who marry too soon have only got themselves to blame,” was George’s rejoinder. “She’ll make him pay dearly for the divorce. I’ll ask the lads if we can take good old Marcus with us – I’ve got his number.”

“See you on Monday then,” said Tristan.

“Yes, see you on Monday,” replied George, and Tristan hung up.

For a few seconds more he contemplated the darkening face of his phone and tried to remember what George had told him previously. He found it amusing to witness him expressing his coarse humour in actual behaviour towards the opposite sex. But George’s account the next day bored him.

Every evening George, as befitted an Englishman, resorted to massive amounts of alcohol – whether it was bottles of champagne or glasses of sparkling ale – to help him relax after the stress of the job – and he was extremely good at his job. He was one of the best bankers that Tristan knew, bursting with energy, and was possessed of the right touch of caution when things got serious. When they went out it was always George that set the pace of the orders, and when the others began to ease off a bit he ordered more drinks, even when his companions were building up a backlog. He simply loved it when the alcohol befuddled his brain, that moment when it was only functioning at half its capacity. At the same time, one of his skills was crafting witty remarks, which could hit their target with greater precision the more inebriated he became. Frequently he was able to target his companions one after the other with ironic remarks, so that eventually they were all like butterflies pinned to the corkboard in front of him. Yet this didn’t stop the victims from sharing in the general hilarity right up to the final humiliating put-down.

Of course, George thought too highly of Tristan to include him in this sport. He secretly envied him for his good looks and knew very well that he would be so offended by any barbed comment that he would drop him like a foul smelling fish.

The high point of every such evening came when together they visited one of the many overpriced clubs where the only girls present were those who were pursuing their own agenda. Here it was George who took centre stage for the evening. No one could deny that this coarse-mannered banker did not exactly convey the impression that he was stinking rich. As the undisputed alpha male of the group, he had no hesitation in following up his act, which sparkled with brutal comedy, by making advances to any girls he fancied. They would let themselves be pampered but – later in the night – would pay for the VIP status accorded them with some of the most humiliating treatment a man can inflict on a woman. Tristan didn’t know what exactly George did with the two or three women that he would arbitrarily pick out and take home with him. All he knew was that as long as they were being spoilt and plied with champagne by George and thought they were the queens of the night up on the stage, they were really happy, laughing hysterically all the time. It was as if all the wishes and fantasies encouraged by the media had been fulfilled in one go.

But if Tristan chanced to see them in the street the next day, he almost felt sorry for them as they had such a hangdog appearance and couldn’t even look him in the eye. When questioned about it in the office, George had tried to put him in his place with one of his thoroughly malicious cracks. Tristan had refused to dignify it with a laugh. He didn’t find it funny and was not going to feign amusement. He never did get a proper answer – something that at times made Tristan uneasy, although he usually let it pass as George was such an entertaining companion.

Anyway, he felt that he had to actually be there with George on those evenings. The stories he told about what happened when Tristan was not present sounded meretricious and utterly uninteresting to anyone who, like him, lived for the moment.

At that point Tristan began to shiver. The wind across London had strengthened. So he turned around, shut the door behind him and found the room cleared of all memories of the previous night. He sighed with contentment, slipped off his jacket, which he locked away in his walk-in wardrobe, and began to undress. A bath would be just what he needed at that moment. Accordingly, he bent over the black metal monster that could fill his apartment with sound, and put on the only possible music for this evening.

Tristan turned up the volume for Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. Almost immediately his whole body began to tremble. It was as if he was encountering a kindred spirit. Never before had he felt anything like this, but at this instant the feeling was very real. It ran through him like the eerie sensation of a long-awaited release, enveloped him and nearly caused him to stumble. He closed his eyes and smiled. A thousand violins burst into life, their strings screeching in wild career, yet forming only the vanguard of a fearsome chariot harnessed to snorting and frenzied steeds, whose every breath was like a thousand trumpets. Tristan lost himself in the growing turbulence of the moment, as the sound of the music swept him up to dizzy heights, untrammelled by the laws of gravity.

Then, when he thought himself at the zenith of his ride to the sun, and was about to turn towards it, all the other stars around him faded, and he saw only the deep blue of the cosmos spread out around him and his sun. It was at this moment of supreme ecstasy, when it seemed that the whole world was burdensome and mediocre and that nothing existed but himself and this moment of fraternal unity, that he opened his eyes. The trumpets and trombones blared and fell into dust about him, the drums made the air vibrate, and he was again struck with awe as his eyelids slowly lifted, revealing his dilated pupils. In that instant he was overcome by the most profound and terrible disappointment that could befall a man like him, who had no equal on earth. For amidst all this stirring music he saw only himself. Naked and beautiful he stood on the cold marble floor of his room, with nothing but the mirror image of his own body in front of him. He felt that he had been struck by the force of the dying sounds, which had smashed the wings that had just borne him aloft to meet his likeness and which now brought him to earth, angry and despairing, back to unutterable mediocrity. Back to the grasping tentacles of hideous creatures on the ground, lying deep in the morass of their own inadequacy and trying to drag him down. The music died away – and the stillness that filled the empty room was more than he could bear.

Tristan shivered. He stretched out his arm and supported himself against his own image, the face starting to blur from the sweat of his hands. The piece had finished and Tristan was gasping for air. Shaking his head, he looked down at himself and gained new confidence. Slowly, with each inch of perfect beauty that he beheld, it returned. The hideous creatures around him dissolved, and the charnel ground that he had sensed around him just before vanished into the void. He alone stood there, and what a picture he was: With every breath he drew himself up a little taller, until he stood facing himself, upright, thrusting out his chest. His dark hair hung in ringlets around his features. His lips were fuller than ever. Beneath them, his cleft chin cast a haughty shadow. Lost in thought, he knelt down once more to change the music, then went into the shower and finally began to enjoy the feel of water on his skin.

VI

In the light of the old-fashioned street lamp in New End Square, the taxi came to a halt. Along the pavement, long rivulets had formed into which big drops of water were falling from the ivy that was creeping along the fences and the walls of the houses. Now and then the wind blew rainwater from the lime tree at the edge of the little square on to the tin roof of the waiting car. It made a noise in the car, just as if someone was drumming on the metal roof with their fingers. In front of them, in the headlights, the street where she lived broadened out. It was lined with two-storey brick buildings, which seemed hunched up and huddled together in the miserable weather, as warm light radiated out from their interiors.

Tristan glanced at the gold hands of his watch, which appeared to be scarcely moving over the mother-of-pearl face. He had a feeling of impatience, which was unusual these days, although he clearly recognized it as a facet of his character. It had rarely emerged since his youth, simply because there had not been much occasion for it. Normally, he was never called upon to wait. Whenever he arrived at an appointment on time, the person he was meeting was already there. He had soon begun to regard it as normal that he would be greeted by a smiling face at these times. But how did these people manage to put on such a show of euphoria when they had been sitting there waiting for ten minutes? Tristan scratched his temple and wondered if he would be able to accomplish this feat if Isabella were to appear – still on time – in just two minutes. Be that as it may, at this particular time he was a little put out about the circumstances of his having to wait. And anyway, how did it come about that he arrived here ten minutes before the agreed time?

“Is that her?” asked the driver, and Tristan saw Isabella in a scarlet trench coat bounding down the steps of a neighbouring house. As she moved swiftly towards him, the dark rainwater scarcely splashed up at all from her high-heeled shoes, so that Tristan was able to see both her and her reflection at the same time from the car. Immediately, he forgot all about the moodiness that had overtaken him just previously.

“Yes, that’s her!” he answered, with a smile, leaned over and opened the door for her. He was still half lying on the bench seat when, through the crack in the door, he caught sight of Isabella’s face, flushed with pleasure. In a slightly awkward fashion he looked up and greeted her.

“Hello!” she gasped, out of breath, and in no time at all she was sitting next to him, where by way of greeting he kissed her hand with feathery lightness. Oh how he had missed her alabaster skin! Her whole body seemed to radiate joyous anticipation of the evening ahead.

The taxi started up and Tristan told the driver to take them to Covent Garden. The tyres splashed through the puddles beneath them and they could feel the juddering from the cobblestones. She was so warm from running that she had to unbutton her coat. Bending his head, Tristan saw the black evening dress underneath, which contrasted wonderfully with her fair skin. He could see that her heart was beating fast with excitement. Her delicate breast, on which a pearl necklace rested, quivered. Tristan smiled at her tenderly and, seemingly inadvertently, touched her hand as it rested on the seat of the taxi. She didn’t move – simultaneously surprised, happy and confused by this light touch.

“I’m really pleased you agreed to come at such short notice,” he said, at which she first returned his smile, and then, after a pause, in which she looked at him rather shyly, gently nodded. For a moment the driver looked at the faces of the pair through his rear view mirror. But when he saw them, a benevolent smile slowly formed on the lips of this rather coarse-looking man. By now, Tristan had forgotten that there was anyone else in the vehicle.

“I reserved these tickets months ago,” he added. “I couldn’t find anyone suitable to come with me, but when I met you yesterday I knew straight away who it had to be.”

He made a brief pause, during which he tried to assess the effect his words were having.

Then he went on, “I must tell you that I’ve loved Verdi since I was a boy. My father had all his operas on gramophone records, and he would always play them on days when he and my mother had a row. He would withdraw into his little library, where I often used to sit to do my homework. He would put a record on the turntable and place the needle on the vinyl. No sooner had he made himself comfortable in his big wing chair and sighed audibly, than the atmosphere in the room changed. I put my fountain pen to one side and leaned back. Any one of these operas enabled my father to forget his irritation at the row with my mother, but La Traviata seemed to touch him particularly deeply.

Once, he said: ‘You know, Tristan, this is true love.’ In those days I didn’t dare to ask him what he meant, or even to turn round, because a moment earlier my father had been very agitated. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried, with the help of my few scraps of Latin, to understand the words that floated through the room.” Tristan stopped for a moment, then he added: “I didn’t understand much, but that wasn’t necessary anyway: the music says everything you need to know.”

He laughed quietly and then continued in a very serious tone: “It’s about absolute self-sacrifice, a misunderstanding and death. And the woman’s voice was so moving that I fell in love with the sound of it. I still feel the same and probably always will.”

Isabella seemed startled.

“Soon after the needle had reached the end of the record, the arm rose with a dull noise. There was a mechanical whirring sound that cut through the stillness, as it returned to its starting point. Then my father would stand up and say something like ‘We men are dreadful creatures’ and leave the room.”

Isabella looked at Tristan, wide-eyed, as though she expected him to say something more. So as not to disappoint her, he remarked: “After La Traviata my father always made it up with my mother on the same evening. That was important, as he was away from home such a lot.”

Isabella took Tristan’s hand, gently squeezed it, and said: “That’s a lovely story.”

She looked at him without a word, then turned her face to the window, as though she was trying to hide a sudden stirring of emotion. She managed to cleverly conceal this, however, for soon he saw only calm composure in her eyes, which gave the impression of being fixed on the lights of the city as they vanished into the distance. For a moment there was a silence between them, during which he tried once more to picture her in his mind’s eye; he had missed her so much. The trench coat, on which a silvery drop of rainwater still glistened like a teardrop, and which reminded him powerfully of the dress she had worn the day before, was made of finely woven material, with large pockets and wide buttons. Her belt (also red), which she had so quickly removed, as if she needed to free herself from it, lay between them like a snake in the grass. Her black dress shimmered in the softly flickering evening light of the city. The white of the pearl necklace – its innocent glittering – moved him deeply, and he had to make an effort to restrain himself from pressing the gently heaving breast beneath it to himself with a deep sigh.

“So how was your day?” she asked him, breaking into the stillness of his thoughts, and looked at him with a calm expression.

“My day?” There was a lengthy pause as he composed this thoughts. “Well, it was one of those days that begin like any other day, and then all of a sudden veer off in a different direction, as if you’d been awakened out of slumber by the thought of some particular person or event. Even as you become aware of this, you decide, perhaps for the first time in many years, to do something different from what you would have done on any other day. It’s as if you’re finally waking up from a bad dream – and you see things clearly.”

As though pondering what he had said, she repeated his last words: “And you see things clearly...?” As she did so, she looked at him with such a questioning gaze that he could have wept: “Yes, that’s exactly it. Suddenly you see everything in its true light.” He paused, smiled, and looked at her as though he never wanted to let go of her gaze. “And you feel reborn by this knowledge.”

“I think I know this feeling,” she said finally and nodded hesitantly. There was no question about it: Tristan felt completely at home in the gaze of her sparkling eyes, so open and vulnerable. What was it about this girl, that he could pour out his heart to her on their very first evening? With every other woman in his life he was uncommunicative and enigmatic; he was prepared to share intimacies with them, but would never give a straight answer to their insistent questions.

Who was she?

The taxi came to a stop, and with childish anticipation Isabella turned her head to face him.

“We’re there!”

Tristan opened his wallet and pulled out a few notes. It was enough to cover both the fare that had clocked up on the taximeter and the curiosity of the driver, who had suddenly re-entered his consciousness. He paid. In doing so, he winked at the taxi driver as if to say that he shouldn’t place too much credence on anything he might have overheard in the back of his cab. Of course, this silent gesture was a lie, but the driver gave a quick nod and grinned broadly. Tristan leapt out of the taxi, drew his scarf more tightly round his neck, and ran round to Isabella’s door to open it. Courteously, he took her hand and helped her out of the taxi. He closed the door of the taxi and caught a glimpse of the boorish grimace of the driver, to whose superficial outlook on life Tristan had just lent support. Then he offered her his arm. Her eyes sparkled, as she thanked him and in a flowing motion slipped her arm in his. As they mounted the steps of the Royal Opera House, Tristan noticed that they were perfectly in step with each other as they placed their feet on the grey stone. She had had no difficulty in keeping in step and immediately fell in with his pace. Delighted, Tristan looked up at the entrance and simultaneously listened to the rhythmic sound of their shoes on the stone steps. It sounded as though they were one person – and at this moment it would not have surprised him to find they had even been breathing in time with each other.

With a chivalrous gesture he detached himself from her, went two short steps ahead, and opened the door for her. Then he took her arm again, and they both stood in the foyer, which was rapidly filling up with opera-goers. They either waited for their tickets in a queue a few metres long at the box office, or they stood about in small groups, chatting to people they had happened to meet there.

Tristan noticed that some of the visitors turned towards them as they entered the foyer. The laughter ceased for a few seconds, and for a moment the eyes of some of the onlookers widened and eyebrows were raised. He felt Isabella briefly tightening her grip on his arm as he led her over to join the queue.

“See how lovely you are – the whole room is under your spell,” he whispered. She looked at him and, as if by way of thanks, left the reflection of her smile on his features.

“Our seats are reserved,” he remarked, as his gaze fell on a girl in one of the groups near the entrance. Julia – he recognized her immediately. The high, finely moulded forehead, the pale-blue eyes, the full, sensuous lips that smiled so readily ... as they were doing at this moment. Their gaze met, and – as a memory suddenly came to mind – her smile froze like an unexpected outbreak of winter weather in the middle of spring. Suddenly, her facial expression looked so troubled, so joyless, that Tristan was able to read something in it that shocked him deeply. It was remorse. Unexpected and disturbing though she found the sight of him, she quickly and bravely managed to control herself and suppress the emotions that had threatened to overwhelm her a moment before. It could also have been his endearing smile that helped her do this. However, she scarcely responded to the slight nod of his head with which he greeted her across the foyer. Anyway, the three others in her party never noticed her reaction at all. Tristan, however, found it troubling, accustomed as he was to a life of unsullied pleasure.

“Do you know her?” asked Isabella gently.

“Slightly,” said Tristan, alarmed that his companion had noticed this brief incident. “She worked at our bank for a time. Then she had to leave.”

“She had to leave?” asked Isabella, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes,” replied Tristan, “such a pity, but these things happen.”

Unsmiling, he gave a brief nod in the direction of the box office. Suddenly, there were traces of concern in Isabella’s face, like a mist that settles over a clear forest lake. He smiled and said: “Don’t let it worry you. It’ll only give you wrinkles.”

In a concerned tone of voice she said: “Somehow, I cannot really believe it was losing her job that made her look at you like that just now. This woman was in love with you.”

“Isabella, are you sure you really want to talk about this now?” He touched her chin lightly, and they looked at each other for a few seconds.

As she didn’t seem to want to say anything, Tristan began: “Okay then, you’re right. When she was still working for the bank we were quite close for a time. But I soon realized that it was a mistake. In the end she decided to leave, because she couldn’t go on working there as things stood. What I learned from it was never again to allow the boundary between the professional and the private to become blurred.

Isabella thought for a moment.

“No woman would look away like that without good reason. I feel very sorry for her. What did you do to her?”

Tristan felt as though Isabella had forced him to face up to his own conscience. Every one of her questions, in their simplicity, reflected the thoughts that had preoccupied him from the moment he had seen Julia. Surprisingly, however, he was not repelled by this as he had been whenever his friends had asked him similar questions. It was just as if Isabella and he used the same words and that they therefore thought along the same lines, with the result that he could answer her questions just as easily as he could answer his own.

“Today’s the first time I’ve seen her since she left. I find her reaction just as upsetting as you do.”

Isabella’s features were still clouded in thought. Her delicate eyebrows contracted above her adorable eyes - and even these appeared narrowed and seemed to look right through the people in front of her into the far distance.

Tristan took her hand and said: “Sometimes you meet someone and that person falls so deeply in love with you – and with such speed – that they lose you and leave you by the wayside, although you ought to be treading that path together. And if you try to catch them up, you realize that it’s far too late for that.”

He could see Isabella’s face relaxing. Perhaps he had touched a chord in her, a memory that allowed her to understand him and which brought her back to him.

“Now I know why she fell in love with you,” she said. “You have a way with words. You must use this talent if you notice that other people are moving too fast for you. Try to hold them back before it’s too late.”

At that, she smiled at him and dropped the subject.

They moved up to the box office window, behind which a stocky man was sitting. From the middle of his face grew an unnaturally fat piece of gristle, which seemed to be less a nose than a gigantic truffle. Big and bulky, the gristle stood out in all its glory between the man’s two small eyes, making it hard for him to see past it. He greeted Tristan and Isabella in a friendly way, revealing an impressive set of teeth that only divine creation could have designed as such a fitting contrast to his nose.

“Good evening,” said Tristan with a disarming smile. “I’ve reserved two tickets.”

“In the name of...?” asked the little man in a squeaky whisper.

“Eco,” replied Tristan, and squinted so as to avoid seeing Isabella’s reflection in the pane of glass. He had changed the name to hers shortly before setting out. But he didn’t want to spoil the desired effect by openly showing her that he was curious to see how she reacted.

“Ah yes,” said the box office attendant in his staccato voice. “Here they are.” With his great paws he handed the two tickets through the small slit above the counter and Tristan took them.

“Have a nice evening!”

Tristan thanked him and offered his arm to Isabella. She accepted it without a word. Her face betrayed boundless astonishment.

“But I thought you’d booked the tickets months ago!” Her mouth, her wide eyes, and everything in her expression seemed to be asking him this question.

“It’s true, I did, but I added something else.” He pressed her arm rather more firmly to his body, handed the tickets to the two ladies at the entrance, received them back and walked with her towards the auditorium.

On the wall towards which they were moving there were signs indicating the different seating categories.

“Where are we sitting?” asked Isabella and tried to catch a glimpse of the tickets in his hand.

“In the box, my love. This evening you’ll have the whole of London at your feet.”

She could not conceal her surprise as she mounted the marble steps to her right at his side.

“But what do we do with the coats?” she asked, and wondered why they didn’t go first to the cloakroom, like everyone else.

“You’ll laugh, but I wanted to save the money,” he said in a serious tone of voice. At that she actually did laugh.

“No! You book seats in a box and can’t spare a few coins for the cloakroom. Let me pay for it,” she whispered, with a grin.

“To be honest, it isn’t just the money,” he whispered back. “There’s always such a long queue after the performance. You wouldn’t believe how fast pensioners can run when they want to get back home and under the duvet as soon as possible. They won’t even wait for the second curtain call. The minute the performance is over they throw their crutches away, forget their arthritis and rush up the gangways. They stick out their sharp elbows and poke them into your ribs like lances. These men all fought in the war; they don’t let anything get in their way. Don’t worry! I’ll lay our coats beside me on the floor. That way we can give the musicians their well-deserved applause and I won’t have to risk pulling a muscle from sprinting downstairs.”

“You’re impossible!” she laughed and pushed him gently away, only to shyly let herself be pulled to his side again almost immediately.

Once up there, they said good evening to the two couples with whom they were sharing the box. Like a true gentleman, Tristan first helped Isabella off with her coat before removing his own. Then, with an ironic wink to the two other ladies, put them on the carpet next to his seat. One of them responded to this behaviour by emitting a hissing sound, her lips tightly pressed together, while the other, a fiftyish portly woman, nodded to him with laughing eyes, wrinkling the tip of her nose.

Then Tristan sat down next to Isabella. The voices that wafted up to them from the circle grew louder and began to merge. Now and again, above the general confusion of conversation, more loudly uttered words could be heard, followed by subdued laughter. Slightly dazed by the background swell of murmuring in the auditorium, Tristan studied the rows of seats below them, trying to get a feel for the aura that Isabella was emanating. He wanted to discover whether she was enjoying the attention she was receiving from audience members looking up, or whether she was nervous. The ladies seated in the lower levels were trying to get a better view of Tristan and Isabella over the heads of their neighbours, but were making an effort to do this as surreptitiously as possible. The more they tried to disguise it, however, the more plainly the couple could see how many heads were turned in their direction. No matter how animated their conversational exchanges with their actual partners might be, from up there Tristan could always see if they were looking up. Tristan observed with pleasure that Isabella did not show any signs of nervousness in the face of all this attention. On the contrary, she sat quietly to his left in a proudly upright posture. The exposed part of her shoulders was silky white. He was aware of all this and it strengthened him in his feelings for her. With every passing moment spent at her side he felt an increasing serenity.

When the opera was over, the plump woman and her lanky husband took their leave of Tristan and Isabella with a few friendly words. The other couple had already left. To the accompaniment of a low murmuring, mingled with the rustle of clothing and the laughter of a few of the men, the auditorium beneath them emptied. Snatches of speech drifted up to them, slightly muffled by the velvet stage curtains. Fantastic! resounded in their ears. Violetta’s voice... sheer delight!

None of the audience members paid any further attention to Tristan and Isabella in their box. People were still under the spell of the drama they had just witnessed. There was lively discussion of the staging, the performers, their voices. How authentic the courtesan was! The sudden death – how tragic!

Emotionally stirred, the good people made their way home to the safe haven of their cosy living rooms, their heads full of images of social ruin, the fragile hopes of those