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Sweating, unshaven.’
    ‘Bloodshot eyes. Worried glances at the depthometer.’
    ‘Well past maximum safety depth.’
    ‘“Take her deeper!”’
    ‘“She won’t stand it!”’
    ‘Creaking. Rivets pinging out like bullets.’
    ‘Every eye bloodshot and every bloodshot eye fixed on the depthometer.’
    ‘The hull about to be crushed by the pressure . . .’
    Quite suddenly they ran out of steam. The bar had thinned out. People were still arriving, Luke thought, but more people were leaving than were arriving.Alex’s glass was empty. Amanda and Michael were saying goodbye to everyone, including each other. Alex asked Luke if he wanted another drink.
    ‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘Always yes.’
    ‘Irrespective of the question?’
    ‘Almost.’
    Alex paid for two more beers and passed one to Luke. ‘It’s a great bar isn’t it?’ he said. ‘In fact it’s the best bar in the world, brackets: indoor category.’
    ‘What about outdoors?’
    ‘The San Calisto in Rome. Do you know it?’
    ‘I’ve never been to Rome.’
    ‘Me neither,’ conceded Alex. ‘But it’s something we could discuss.’
    ‘Places we haven’t been?’
    ‘No. What makes a great bar?’
    ‘Ah, a bar conversation.’
    ‘I have pretty strong views on the subject.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘All great bars are primarily neighbourhood bars.’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘But they are not exclusively neighbourhood bars.’
    ‘Also correct.’
    ‘You don’t want to add anything?’
    ‘You said it all,’ said Luke, raising his glass.
    Luke was back at work again the next day, sore from the previous day’s exertions, relieved to find that things would be far less frantic. This was another benefit of Lazare’s unusual managerial style: by imposing urgent, sometimes non-existent deadlines we often found ourselves with relatively little to do, especially if he was away from the warehouse, meeting clients, pitching for business. Typically we had two maniacally busy days and the other three were easy – which meant we could spend our lunch hours playing football at passage Thiéré. We had been mooting the idea for a while, had even played occasionally, but it was only after Luke began working at the warehouse that football became an established part of our week. Up until then we had spent most of our lunch hours talking about playing.
    We took our lunch late and the playground was never crowded. If other guys were around – the Algerians from the workshop on the corner always wanted to play but it was difficult for them to get away for any length of time – we played together, four- or five-a-side. If it was just the five of us from the warehouse we volleyed and headed the ball back and forth, making sure that the ball did not touch the ground, embroidering this basic task – whenever possible – with displays of individual skill: flicking the ball from foot to foot and on to a thigh before heading it to the next person; bringing the ball under control and restoring the flow of play following a mis-kick. We kept count of how many passes and headers we could string together without letting the ball touch the ground. Sometimes we settled into a rhythm that seemed likely to continue indefinitely until one of us fluffed a simple kick and we were back to square one and had to begin the count again. I enjoyed this but it bothered me slightly that the game did not have a satisfactory name. Keepy-uppy, Headers and Volleys: neither was adequate. Alternatively – another game without a name – one of us went in goal while the others crossed and headed or let fly with palm-stinging shots.
    After playing, especially if the weather was fine, we were reluctant to return to the warehouse and sat against the graffiti-mottled wall, the sun dazzling our eyes, gulping down water and chewing mouthfuls of bread and tomato, the minutes ticking by until, begrudgingly, like troops returning to the front, we tramped back up Ledru Rollin to work.
    If getting a job at the