The boy hesitated still. He looked too young for her. He looked too young for anyone or anything. He took a swallow of tea, as if to nerve himself.

"I've just finished Next Year in Jerusalem," he said. "It's marvellous. It's the second time I've read it. It's a masterpiece. Do you feel neglected?""Forty years ago, near forty. Nothing to do with me now."

"But..."

"There's no ‘but'," he said. "No ‘but' at all. You write something. Maybe you think it's good. So you're happy. For a little. It's published and it no longer belongs to you."

"It was criticised, even attacked, as anti-Semitic, wasn't it? Did that hurt you? Anger you?"

"It meant nothing to me," he said, and wondered if that was a lie. "Maybe it was before its time. It's quite the thing to be critical of Israel now. Or so I understand. Aren't all you young people that?"

"I read somewhere that it was that novel which prevented you from getting the Nobel. Because you had your Nazi say when he was condemned to death that he admired the Israelis for their creation of a national socialist state."

The old man felt a stirring of interest. There had been a time when he delighted in controversy and argument.

"It was my character speaking, not me," he said. "Bad readers make that mistake and base their reviews on their own stupidity. I was never in line for the Nobel anyway. Only fools could have thought I was."

"Many of your admirers put your name forward."

"Many of my admirers were fools."

"Do you think most people are fools?"

"Of course. I don't make an exception of myself. I've made a mess of my life."

Johnny asked him about other novels. He knew them well enough for the questions to be almost intelligent, but his replies were laconic. They must disappoint him. Good lesson for life. Yet he felt almost apologetic. He was evidently a nice boy and he liked the way they exchanged looks. Katie put her hand on the boy's thigh. To encourage him to go on?