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Within a day we were inseparable. AndréJoostandBart.

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IV

André lived in an apartment complex in South Rotterdam. I parked my car by the water, crossed the road, and walked toward a large glass door. I looked for number 85 and rang the bell. I had traced his address through a lawyer with whom I was friendly and sent him a postcard. On it I had written that I would be at his place on 16 March at 11 o’clock, and he should let me know if that didn’t suit him. I got an email in reply. ‘Bring your bike with you,’ it said. ‘You looked as if you were in training.’

‘Bart!’ cried a familiar voice. ‘Good to see you, man! Same as ever! Didn’t shave this morning, I see,’ There was a buzzing tone. ‘Door’s open. Come right up. Fourth floor. Got your bike with you?’

I didn’t reply, but pushed the door open and went to the elevator.

Of all my old friends, André is the most precious to me. Or perhaps I should say: the memories of André are dearest to me. Our friendship is older than we are. Our mothers were friends because our grannies were already friends. We went about together when our mothers sat opposite each other at table with their big tummies. Once we were born, a week apart, we were immediately an inseparable duo.