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I had informed David on the phone about my meetings with André and Joost, but he insisted that I come and give him a personal report. ‘I feel a reunion in the air. You can’t talk about that on the telephone. The Beatles never got back together on the telephone.’

‘They never got together again at all.’

‘That’s what I mean. When shall we meet?’

‘Wednesday?’

‘Wednesday.’

On Tuesday he sent me an email.

‘Dear Bart,’ he wrote, ‘so as not to give you a shock tomorrow, I must tell you the following. What happened? I’ve been feeling a bit tired recently, so I figure: let’s go and see the doctor. I see Doctor Coomans. He taps my chest, fishes around a bit over my belly and back with his stethoscope: in perfect shape. Blood pressure. Thing round my arm, pumps it up and lets it down again. Much too high. I’ve got to take medication and lose weight. He asks: do you do any sport? I say: I cycle. No idea why, because I don’t cycle at all. Oh, he says, that’s nice, I cycle too. Sports bike? I say: yes, a racing bike, a Koga. Only make that comes to mind. Fantastic, says the doctor, Sunday morning at 9.30 on ’s Gravenhof in front of Hotel Eden. I go straight to Van Spankeren: I need a Koga. Must it be a Koga? Yes, a Koga. He points to a Koga. Fine, I take that one. Pay out twelve hundred euros and walk out of the shop with a Koga. Plus an outfit. Sunday is the day, I’m dreading it.’