'And such protests don't anger the government?'

'It looks like free speech. The government worries most about Western banks. And Western banks are looking for signs of stability with just a trace of intellectual latitude. Also such protests

reassure Moscow that our regime is not giving way to liberal reformers.'

'And no one ever challenges Stefan and his beliefs?' Dicky asked.

'Is that your English way of asking whether I confront Stefan with my views? Yes, of course it is. Well, let me tell you that I am not mad. It is Stefan, and his elastic relationship with the regime, that ensures that I live in this magnificent house. How many lovely estates like this have been preserved from one generation to the next? Stefan burns a candle for the devil — is that the expression? He prevaricates and compromises in order to keep his family in comfort, and I am a part of that family. I enjoy all the material comforts: heating, hot water, a sound roof, something to eat every day. In Poland today these are not benefits to be taken lightly. I'm not complaining.'

'I thought you were,' said Dicky.

'I'm explaining,' said Uncle Nico, becoming slightly flustered at Dicky's deadpan accusation. 'I thought you should take back to England the truth . . . the true state of affairs, rather than believe a lot of play-acting.'

'Ah, that's different,' said Dicky.

'You will see,' promised Uncle Nico. And he rang the bell so that a servant would come and collect the tea-tray.

That evening Stefan took his rightful place at the head of the table. He was casually dressed in a pale yellow cashmere sweater, tailored linen pants and white buckskin shoes. His long wavy hair was perfect and his freshly shaved face dusted with talc. Next to him sat his wife, Lena, a plumpish woman with long fair hair that was plaited and coiled in a 1940s style. Her high-neck gray dress had a similar old-fashioned look. So this was the daughter of the Party official. Marriage to her had no doubt furthered Stefan's career. She spoke little apart from giving monosyllabic orders to the servants.

That evening the long dining table was differently constituted. The younger people had now been banished to the kitchen, from where I could hear their youthful and far less inhibited exchanges whenever the door was opened. There were two extra people at dinner. Muscular men in their early twenties, they sat at the very end of the table. It was difficult to decide whether they were employees or members of the family. At dinner Stefan dominated the conversation with stories about his adventures abroad. Despite his obvious vanity he had a disarming way of telling stories of his folly and naive misunderstandings of how things worked in the West.

He told of throwing away the royalties on his finest play by betting on the horses in Paris and the English races too. 'With horses I am always unlucky,' said Stefan. 'Every horse I bet on lets me down.' He reached out to caress his wife's hand. 'But with women I am lucky beyond words.'

Lena smiled.

After dinner Stefan insisted that Dicky and I made up a four for bridge with Uncle Nico. It was a miserable game. I have never been able to play bridge with any skill, despite a lifetime of fierce instruction from Tante Lisl, the gloriously unpredictable woman who'd so influenced my childhood in Berlin.

At ten minutes before midnight, Stefan brought the game abruptly to an end. He threw down his hand — it was a winning one of course — got up suddenly, sighed, consulted his thin gold wristwatch and poured brandy for himself from a large bottle that he took from the sideboard's cupboard. Only when he had done this and turned to meet everyone's eyes did he offer us all a drink. It wasn't meanness as much as a desire to be the center of attention, at least that was my interpretation of his every move.

This feeling about Stefan was endorsed when he returned to the green felt-topped card table, picked up the cards and, without a word, started performing card tricks. He went on for half an hour. His hands were slim and elegant and this was a chance to display them. The ease with which he was able to manipulate the deck of cards — fanning them across the table or tossing them into the air so that his hand emerged holding the ace — held everyone's attention. His wife Lena watched him too, and Aunt Mary put down her knitting. Even Uncle Nico, who must have seen the tricks a thousand times, was as engrossed as any of us.

Watching his card tricks was an opportunity to study Stefan. Nothing about his appearance, or the elegance of his movements, would have been remarkable had he been twenty years old. But Stefan was a mature man who'd left his youth far behind. And there were other contradictions apparent too. Who was this well-bred man in whom suppressed anger could be frequently glimpsed? Having guests obviously inconvenienced him and spoiled his household routine. He made sure we understood that, but his hospitality was always on tap. He was bored but he was passionate; he was intellectual but he was obsessed with his physical self. He supported the communist regime but lived in pampered luxury. Was it all these tensions inside him that provided him with his charm?

'One last little trick,' said Stefan. 'It's called find the knave.' He offered a fanned deck of cards from person to person. Each one took a card and then thrust it back into the pack. With that casual detached indifference that is a part of the magician's art he handed the pack to me to shuffle. Then he fanned the cards and chose a card for each of us. Turned over to reveal the faces, they were the cards we'd selected.

'Why is it called find the knave?' Dicky asked.

Stefan gave a slow smile and then leaned across to Dicky and, with a superb demonstration of palming, produced a knave of hearts from Dicky's pocket.

'Well,' said Dicky, somewhat flustered. 'How . . . ?'

'Someone always asks why it's called find the knave,' explained Stefan. His wife Lena and Aunt Mary exchanged amused smiles. It was clearly a trick de- signed to dismay visitors and small children.

Soon after that Uncle Nico said goodnight and the gathering broke up and everyone went to bed.

'What's going on here?' said Dicky when we were upstairs, as he patted his stove to see how warm it was before deciding whether to wear his woollies in bed.

'What?'

'This Stefan, is he crazy or some sort of saint? I mean, they all watch him all the time. Even his wife. Are they all shit-scared of him? Or are they all enslaved? Dependence. It's as if he is their analyst, and they are frightened of facing life without him. I don't get it. Can you understand?'

'He's the breadwinner.'

'He's more than that, old pal. He's the messiah. It's almost scary. I can feel his presence. I mean it: I can feel his presence in the house. Ever since he jumped out of that cupboard and put the fear of God into you . . .'

'He didn't put the fear of God into me,' I protested.

'Come on, Bernard. You went white.'

'I was surprised, that's all.'

'You were shit-scared. You nearly jumped out of the window.'

'Take it easy, Dicky.'

'Look out! Jesus!' Dicky suddenly yelled. 'Wow! He's coming through the door like a spirit.'

'Cut it out, Dicky. I'm tired.'

'You looked round, Bernard,' said Dicky gleefully. 'Stefan coining through the door: that made you look round.' Suddenly his face crumpled up and he held this grotesque expression for a moment before surrendering to a tremendous sneeze. He wiped his nose on a clean handkerchief Dicky had an inexhaustible supply of very large clean handkerchiefs. 'I've picked up some sort of bug,' he said. 'I'm sneezing and I have stomach cramps too. Have you been drinking the water?'

'No.

'How do you clean your teeth?'