From their expressions I was sure they had been talking about Stahr. Stahr had ordered something or forbidden something, of defied Father of junked one of La Borwitz’ pictures or something catastrophic, and they were sitting there in protest at night in a community of rebellion and helplessness. Rosemary Schmiel sat pad in hand, as if ready to write down their dejection.

‘I’m to drive you home dead or alive,’ I told Father. ‘All those birthday presents rotting away in their packages!’

‘A birthday!’ cried Jacques in a flurry of apology. ‘How old? I didn’t know.’

‘Forty-three,’ said Father distinctly.

He was older than that – four years – and Jacques knew it; I saw him note it down in his account book to use some time. Out here these account books are carried open in hand. One can see  their entries being made without recourse to lip-reading and Rosemary Schmiel was compelled in emulation to make a mark on her pad. As she rubbed it out, the earth quaked under us.