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André’s father was caretaker at the Baudartius, our secondary school. He had been a renowned amateur cyclist with a powerful finishing sprint. In André’s parental home, the living room was full of lamps, vases, and other knick-knacks that old Gerrit had won in the criteriums of the eastern Netherlands. Perhaps that explained André’s sparse interior.

The emptiness spoke for itself and did not beg to be filled. In that emptiness stood a bike, a splendid racing bike. I walked around it once, I touched the stem and stroked the saddle. It was soft brown, like the tape on the handlebars and a strip on the tubes. The bike itself was white. Gold leaf seemed to have been applied on the down and seat tubes of the triangle of the frame.

‘Wow,’ I said. I saw André smiling contentedly as he came into the room with two cups on a tray.

‘Listen a minute.’ He took a remote off the table and pressed the button. I heard a guitar, and a little later a couple of violins, and then Nick Drake: ‘When the day is done, down to earth then sinks the sun…’