The leaves of the great chestnut at the back of the garden shone wet in the cloud-veiled sun. Heavy drops fell into my face. The first months here I had wanted to fell the tree; its roots made a great part of the garden useless. Its beauty stopped me.

Leaning against the twisted trunk a quiet, bright melancholy took me. Rain and leaves composed an ancient melody. I could stay for hours, even as the low clouds announced winter. There was little work left to do. So close to winter, with fallen leaves here and there, the garden lay somber. I thought of the night.

A bad dream kept sounding. With Ivonne I walked on a quay, hard lit by the sun. Grass between the stones was yellowed. Suddenly a young man stood before us. I knew him from the boarding school. Jan—unpredictable fits of violent madness.

He held a large knife. I knew I had to settle with that fear. He stabbed at me. Again that look of madness. I slipped aside and pushed Ivonne back. He slashed wildly. I stayed calm, even laughed from above.

He stabbed again. I caught the sharp blade and wrenched it free. The knife turned in my hand. My arm shot forward. The steel went deep into his body.

Ivonne bound my badly bleeding hand, and suddenly we stood in an old house. Through the windows: old trees and a country lane. A white beam cut through the night and stopped before the window. Lights went on and we saw there was a front room too.

‘Who is that?’ she asked. ‘Tom, a friend from the same school. I always got on with him.’ He came in, opened a hidden door. We saw a room with a sunken, overflowing bath by the wall. Ivonne slid slowly in. Under water she held her hands out to me. I watched her as if she were a painting—at a distance, not truly involved.