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I have a photo in which the two of us are sitting in a playpen, two boys of eighteen months, in the same pink knickerbockers and the same white jumpers. ‘November 1965, Bart and André’, my mother has written on the back. We are playing with blocks, me with my left hand, André with his right. We have put our free arms around each other. ‘The two of you sat like that for hours,’ says my mother.

I think friendship is based more on shared experiences than on compatibility or attraction. I share more with André than anyone else.

He gave me a Russian bear hug, long and powerful, kissed me on both cheeks, and beamed at me. He was moved, and I was probably the only person in the world who could spot that.

‘Bart, man, I’m so pleased to see you again.’

‘Me too, André.’

‘Coffee? Cappuccino?’

‘I’d love one.’

The huge room was white. White walls, a floor of white tiles, and a white ceiling. In the middle there was a black Gispen table with six Jacobsen chairs around it. In front of the window with a view of the River Maas stood a large sofa; hanging on the wall was a TV screen of cinema proportions. In two corners were two tall speakers. Apart from that, the room was empty.