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Laura’s parents belonged to a small religious community that met twice every Sunday in an unobtrusive building in the Kuiperstraat. Laura had not gone to services there since she was 13. She didn’t want to talk about what that had meant for her relationship with her parents. ‘They can’t beat faith into you,’ she said. I suspected that Cor van Bemmel had tried.

Once, on the boat with Peter, after we had watched a film about a boy who had been brought up among the Amish, she said a little more about it. ‘Suddenly I was so full of guilt, it overflowed. Having it drummed into you every Sunday how bad and rotten you are, at a certain moment you’ve had enough.’ She said she did not understand why she always had to ask for forgiveness. And then, without any further explanation: ‘It’s as if you’re growing up in a concentration camp where you’re allowed to think only one thing, and if you don’t, you’re threatened with eternal damnation.’

‘Brainwashed,’ said Peter.

The rivalry crept up on us and was not explicit. It would not have struck an outsider, but I noticed it from casual sentences and glances, sideswipes that were never dished out before, little digs. Suddenly someone underlined another person’s weakness; the laughter at a stupid remark sounded just a little different. Suddenly André was wearing different trousers from his worn-out jeans, and Joost had bought Spanish riding boots after Laura had once let slip that she thought they were cool. Something happened to the loyalty between the five of us—it was no longer as absolute and it was replaced by distrust.