Ventoux. Bert Wagendorp

      ‘Lago Comabbio.’

      ‘Never heard of it.’

      ‘Never existed, it’s the tears of dottore Locatelli, mixed with the sweat of Fausto Coppi.’

      ‘And the love juices of Giulia Occhini.’

      She started roaring with laughter. ‘Bart! The child is here!’

      The latter was a quote from her mother. I immediately saw the tent before me, on the Italian campsite, the rickety table with the breakfast on it and Anna’s conspiratorial smile.

      ‘Passion or betrayal?’

      ‘Passion. If she hadn’t gone with Fausto it would have been betrayal.’

      ‘Very good.’

      ‘Bart! You’re making the child completely amoral! Of course it was betrayal.’

      It was one of our set dialogues. We had about ten of them, and both of us knew our lines perfectly. This one was extra special. On a holiday trip when she was 10 we rode to Varano Borghi, not so far from Lago Maggiore, to see where Giulia came from. I had just seen a play called Fausto and Giulia and wanted to know whether there was anything to be found in the village that evoked the most famous love story in sport.

      There was nothing. I asked a passer-by if he knew where dottore Locatelli’s old house had been, but he shrugged his shoulders.

      It was the end of February; people were still talking about the Eleven Cities Skating Race, but she had already done a few circuits. She pointed to the kilometre counter: 195 kilometres. ‘Four times. Not bad, is it? And alone, you know, you’ve got to allow for that. Average 26.1.’ We made a date for two days later. I was looking forward to it—cycling together is friendship, love and togetherness, all in one.

      We rode west. At Egmond we went into the dunes. Rays of sunshine were drawing the cold out of the ground. ‘Take it easy, Dad,’ shouted Anna. ‘I’m still not properly in shape.’

      She was talking like a pro in the early spring. I held back, rode alongside her, and gave her a push in the back. ‘You’re pedalling too hard! All women pedal too hard. It’s because they’re always toiling along on those crazy Granny bikes. You must keep it supple. Change gears more lightly.’ She did as I said. I put my hands on the handlebars and just for a moment touched happiness.

      In a café in Bakkum, a handsome lad served us coffee. Anna had taken her jacket off and he looked at her jersey.

      ‘Suits you,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, and gave him a heavenly smile.

      ‘Bottoms suit you too.’ She waved him away with a casual gesture.

      I drank a mouthful of coffee and looked at her. ‘Strange things are happening, Anna,’ I said.

      ‘Very strange things are happening. In America, a panther walked into a house on a new estate and fell asleep on the sofa. I read it this morning on…’

      ‘With me. With my life.’

      ‘Oh. What kind of strange things?’

      ‘Well, first I see my old friend André in court.’

      ‘Is he a judge?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘A lawyer?’

      ‘No, he’s a criminal.’

      ‘Christ. And is he your friend? Will he have to go to jail?’

      ‘No, acquitted due to lack of evidence.’

      ‘Lucky. For him, that is. And what else, in the way of odd things?’

      ‘A little later I read that my friend Joost has been nominated for the Spinoza Prize.’

      ‘What does he do?’

      ‘He’s a brilliant physicist. At least that was what the paper said.’

      ‘Oh. Don’t know the prize.’

      ‘Kind of Dutch Nobel Prize, you could say.’

      ‘Funny friends you’ve got. And the other one, what’s his name…’

      ‘David. From the travel agency. He doesn’t count for the moment, because I still see him regularly and he calls me twice a week.’

      ‘But what kind of strange stuff is going on then?’

      ‘Everything is coming back.’

      She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I don’t find it that strange, I think. These things happen. Chance.’

      ‘There were two other friends,’ I said. ‘Or rather, a friend and a girlfriend, Peter and Laura.’

      Now she raised her eyebrows. ‘And have they turned up, too?’

      ‘No.’

      I waved to the waiter and ordered two more coffees. I hesitated whether to tell her the story, and decided not to. The day was too beautiful.

      ‘Or are they dead?’ she asked.

      I had come across André at the beginning of 2012, in the dossier of a coke case in which ‘senior civil servants and other prominent people’ were possibly involved. I heard myself saying, ‘Hey, André’.

      I went to the trial and waited until the accused came in. André had shaved his head. He looked sharp, in a suit that had undoubtedly cost more than my entire wardrobe. His eyes scanned those present. I saw from a barely perceptible nod of his head that he recognized me. I think he knew I would be there before he had seen me.

      A few weeks later he was acquitted. André looked at me more openly now and smiled. Undoubtedly he had also read my look and interpreted it accurately: good work, you won, well done, man.

      A week later I read an article about Professor Joost M. Walvoort and his work on string theory. He was a nominee for the Spinoza Prize, worth one and a half million euros. ‘A tidy sum, which you can really do something with as a researcher,’ said Joost in the paper. I knew exactly how he had said that and how he had looked—a mixture of nonchalance and smugness.

      I looked for Joost’s name on the website of Leiden University. ‘Prof. J.M. Walvoort (Joost),’ it said. ‘Theoretical Physics’. I could see from the accompanying photo that the years had not left any excessively deep marks. He was looking confidently into the lens, with that slightly mocking expression.

      I keyed in the number and he answered immediately.

      ‘Bart here.’

      ‘Hey Pol, you again?’ As if I had him on the line for the fourth time that day. On the bike Joost called me Pol, because the sound of it suggested Flemish cycling aces. He was Tuur.

      ‘I thought: I should give Joost a call.’

      ‘Great. How’s things then? Prick still completely in order?’

      That’s the nice thing about old friendships. The fact that you call up your scholarly friend after twenty-five years and he inquires first of all about the health of your prick.

      ‘Exceptional,’ I replied.

      ‘Good. Shall we go for a few beers again?’

      ‘That’s why I’m calling you.’

      ‘Nice. Just say when.’

      I mentioned a date.

      ‘Fine. In Amsterdam where you are or in Leiden where I am? Or don’t you live in Amsterdam anymore? Alkmaar? Then let’s do it on my patch in Leiden. Huis De Bijlen, do you know it? Eight o’clock. We’ll have a bite to eat first. Nice!’

      With him it was no sooner said than done, and he took control, as if he had rung me or had at least been on the point of doing so.

      ‘Right,’