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The guy looked at him with contempt. ‘Get lost man, with your Gerrit complex.’ He stood up and pushed Joost aside. ‘Whore chaser.’

‘Yokels,’ said Joost, when he came back with a tray of beers. ‘Haven’t got a clue about art.’

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IX

We first saw her on 14 July 1981. The five of us were at the swimming pool, under the oak trees, our regular spot, where there was a slight grassy slope. We were doing what we always did: playing football, eating ice cream, catching wasps in a bottle, talking nonsense, and putting David in a double nelson. From my transistor radio came the voice of the motorbike commentator on the Tour de France. Today’s stage was over the Alpe d’Huez, and I didn’t want to miss it.

Joost was just subjecting David to what he called the diabolical punishment of Sodomites—he had read Gerard Reve’s The Language of Love for his literature exam, and that book had made as big an impression on him as The Rider had on me. He was hitting David’s light-coloured soles viciously with a branch. ‘You like it, you old fairy.’ Ever since David’s admission to the club, he had been our resident gay. It was because of his way of dressing, but also because he never took the trouble to deny that he was. He let us get on with it. He didn’t bother in the slightest about the resulting teasing by other people. Other people didn’t matter. In fact, we didn’t much care whether David really was gay or not.