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understanding in theory) that he had been isolated for years. He had delegated the job of making contact with the outside world to Bernadette, which had meant only going out with her friends and workmates. His own social life was restricted to his work, which gave the term ‘social life’ far too narrow a meaning. All he had left was enemies. But even they were distant rather than close. Because there were bosom enemies (with whom one could seek reconciliation any time, given the fact that they used to be friends before the fight that caused the falling out), and there were distant enemies. With these, the confrontation generally took place before there could be any kind of friendly exchange or recognition of like-mindedness. Underpinning them might be a quick comment to a third party, a funny look, or a difference of opinion of little relevance on an equally unimportant subject. Since the animosity was established right at the outset, distant enemies were eternal. You couldn’t reunite what had never been united.
    Without company, Antonym ended up at the refuge of the solitary: a luncheonette. At a luncheonette, even one with tables instead of a counter, you could eat alone without attracting the pity of those who were accompanied — which wasn’t possible in a restaurant. Solitude in a luncheonette always seemed circumstantial, or even preferable for clients who came alone. Quick and bland, like the meals served in such places. This image of being in a state of desired solitude could also be emphasised by reading a magazine.
    From that night on, Antonym started spending a considerable amount of money on magazines that really didn’t interest him. However, it wouldn’t be long before he missed the time when he didn’t have friends — or when his enemies were distant.

III
    â€˜Is this right?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The name on your ID here.’
    â€˜Believe it or not, it is. The registrar was a bit out of it and typed an extra “m”.’
    â€˜Your dad could have fixed it. Or you.’
    â€˜True, but I kept Antonym. I’ve thought about correcting it, but this is a country of even weirder names … Does it bother you?’
    â€˜Why should it bother me?’
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜Bernadette.’
    â€˜That’s funny.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’ve always had the impression that there was an “r” missing in Bernadette. That the right spelling should be “Bernardette”. You know, when I was a child, I got it into my head that I should be a devotee of the saint. I saw a film about her that had a big effect on me.’
    â€˜I really liked the Infant Jesus of Prague.’
    â€˜The one with the fingers.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I have something extra, and you seem to be missing something.’
    He was going round and round in lethargic circles, reliving his first conversation with his ex-wife, but this was shattered by the sound of a car alarm. Silence had abandoned the world once and for all. Startled by his racing heart, and the bitter taste of barbiturate-induced sleep, he got up. Antonym’s intention, in deciding to take this kind of medication regularly, hadn’t been to escape his crisis; rather, it had been to put off dealing with it. Abolish, eliminate, cancel all and any drama of existence; reduce life to a white square on a white background — that was his motto.
    When he opened the window, and the white of the bedclothes blinded him, he thought he’d achieved his objective, without realising that the daylight was merely blotting out his soul, hiding the ghosts that inhabited the folds of his messy sheets. With a stupid smile, he scratched his big toe, and headed for the bathroom.
    The illusion only lasted a minute. The maids’ symmetrical tidying caused him discomfort for the first time. Was Bernadette gone forever? With her knickers hanging in the shower, the