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He was as usual, in every sense. He was always quiet and polite, not at all a difficult person to work for once you knew his little ways.’
    â€˜Was he talkative at all? I mean that some men in the little intervals of their work chat vaguely about where they’ve been, who they’ve seen, how they feel. With you, was he open or closed?’
    â€˜Closed on the whole, but he did talk to me – it wasn’t just grunts all the while like some. I mean that he mentioned things and people. Not much; just enough to be human.’
    â€˜Remember at all what he talked about the last day? A person, a thing, a book, a play?’
    â€˜Nothing specific that I can recall. It was one of those very grey lowering afternoons when one almost thinks it will snow again, and I had to turn more lights on, and he said something about how dismal the town looked. I mean it was just a vague remark with no particular bearing.’
    â€˜What did you say?’
    â€˜Oh, some inconsequential remark.’
    â€˜Yes, but what?’
    â€˜Well, I come from Brabant, you see, and I said something about there at least one had the carnival at this time of the year to cheer people up and give them some gaiety. I miss that here in Amsterdam.’
    â€˜What did he say to that?’
    â€˜Oh just vaguely that yes, a carnival would enliven things a bit.’
    â€˜And there was no oddity or tension at all? Nothing harassing or especially boring?’
    â€˜Not at all, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜I’m very grateful.’
    â€˜Not much reward for a whisky.’
    â€˜Do you know his wife at all?’
    â€˜Never even seen her. He never mentioned anything private – don’t think he was the type to weep on his secretary’s shoulder. I liked him; I miss him a lot.’
    â€˜Who is doing his work?’
    â€˜I am, most of it. Not the dining and the wining.’
    â€˜I won’t hold you up. What have you got for supper?’
    She laughed.
    â€˜Scrambled egg with deep-freeze shrimps – pretty dull, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Good appetite.’
    *
    He still had to ring the Amstel Hotel. Mr Libuda was back, and could see him straight away if he cared to come. Rememberingsuddenly that his expenses were being paid, he took a taxi. Mr Libuda was in the bar, and bought the whisky.
    â€˜Yes, it was about this time of day – let’s see – it was today a week ago. We had dinner here – I had to go to Köln the next day. Came back yesterday – glad to be out of that, I can tell you. Carnival!’ Of course. Today was Monday. The last Monday before Lent. Rosenmontag in the Rheinland – high jinks in Köln.
    â€˜Did you mention it while you were with him?’
    â€˜He reminded me, now that you mention it. I’d forgotten all about it. I was groaning and he said he liked carnivals and I said rather he than me. Good grief, I left Rio to get away from all that Mardi Gras lark.’
    There was no more to be heard from Mr Libuda, and it probably didn’t mean anything at all. Still, it was a crossbearing of sorts. It was the only damn one he had. He went home, taking the tram this time; the rush hour was finished.
    *
    There was ham omelette with spinach for supper, and the television showed snips from the carnival-gallivanting in various corners of Europe, including Köln, Mainz and München. The Germans were all roaring about happily in cowboy suits, and the beer was going down glockglockglock; herr jé, how did the German bladder stand it?
    *
    He went to the office next morning with the bored feeling of a lot of tedious routine jobs to be done, and so it proved. The day was spent with airline and shipping bookings, car-hire firms, hotel fiches. A whole damn day, and at the end of it a vague certainty that Jean-Claude Marschal hadn’t just gone off to some obscure corner of Holland to do some fishing.
    â€˜I hear you’ve got a nice soft job out