All that long afternoon I had been dogged by the sensation of there being somehow more than one of me. When I looked in the places where she had been, or touched the things that had been hers, it was if another were looking with me, through my eyes, touching those things through my fingertips. Afterwards it came to me, with the force of certainty, that by some form of sympathetic magic I must have been anticipating, I must have been foregoing, as it were, how it would be for her father, when he came there, and took the ferry, and walked up the hill to the church, and stood in that hotel room that was so full of her not being in it. I fear that between us we destroyed her, old Thespis and I. She said one day that she loved him, and I said why would she not, since he was her father, but she shook her head, closing her eyes and wincing in that way that she sometimes did, and said no, I did not understand, that what she meant was that she was in love with him, and always had been. I thought it fanciful nonsense, meant to impress or shock me, and made no more remark. Late one night, after she was dead, I telephoned the number I had found among her things, and was answered on the first ring by a man's voice. He sounded unnervingly alert, as if he had been lying sleepless, waiting for someone to call, waiting for me, perhaps. I tried to say something but I was too drunk, and was weeping besides. An actor he is, or was, so she told me. I am sure we would have many things in common, he and I. After all, I am an actor too, though only an inspired amateur. The difference is that the part I play is mine alone, and may not be taken by anyone else, on or off the stage. But then, should that not also have been true of Axel Vander?

There were further surprises in store for me, further shocks. One day at the card table in Franco Bartoli's garden room I was writing the opening pages of this record, using the fountain pen that she had sent to me, when the thing ran dry. I could find no ink in the house, and Franco was away. I went out, and after a tedious and listless search – the day was trying to rain, and schoolchildren were kicking leaves in the gutters – I happened at last upon a pen shop in a narrow back street down by the river. The place inside had, disquietingly, the desiccated, glue-and-wormwood smell of the schoolrooms of my childhood. The shop was so narrow that I had to insert myself sidelong between the counter and the display of writing implements and marbled notebooks on the wall opposite. The woman behind the counter, florid and disproportionately large, and dressed all in black, with painted eyebrows and a piled-up hive of lacquered hair, had something in her manner that was indefinably institutional; she might have been a hospital matron, or the wardress of an open prison, or, indeed, simply a schoolmistress. She met my request with a show of stylised professionalism, holding successive bottles of ink up to her bosom for my inspection and pointing out the descriptions on their labels with a long, scarlet fingernail. When I chose a bottle, at random, she nodded approvingly, closing her eyes slowly and pursing her lips, as if I had passed a test for exceptional good taste and breeding. She asked if I had brought the pen with me, and if I would like to fill it now. This invitation, along with the schoolroom smell and the proximity enforced on us by the confined space, raised a suggestion of intimacy that was at once worrying and oddly welcome, and I felt like a small boy who had been kept back for special favours after lessons. Almost shyly I produced the pen and unscrewed the barrel, not without resistance, for there was something inside, papers of some kind, tightly wrapped around what turned out to be one of those disposable cartridges – "Ecco, signore, una segreta!" – and held fast with a strand of silk, which after a miniature struggle I succeeded in untying, and unfolded the scraps of paper and laid them out side by side on the glass counter and tried to hold them flat under splayed fingertips. At first, because the papers kept curling and the lights under the glass were shining through them, I could not make out the printed words. Then I saw his picture, and mine, and our names, his misspelled. The shop woman, leaning forward so that her brow was almost touching mine and I could smell the not unpleasant, soapy scent of her hair, let fall a soft, shivery sigh, as if it were a buried treasure we had unearthed there between us. Then she looked up into my face, and an expression of concern, of solicitude, even, came into her eyes, and she reached out and laid one of her hands tenderly over one of mine. So strange they are, rare, certainly, affecting, but faintly discomfiting, too, those moments when some stranger steps out of the crowd and for no reason other than simple good-heartedness offers a word of consolation, a sustaining arm. What had she seen in me to spark such sympathy? The flinch, the wild stare, the panicked feint to this side now to that, the frozen helplessness. Look at me there, caught in the headlights, speechless with surprise and pain, my last poor secrets all on show, ready to lay my head upon this woman's bombasined bosom and weep my hard heart dry.

But here is the surprising thing. The profoundest shock was not the trick Cass Cleave had played on me, nor what was here revealed, namely that all along she had been aware of who I was and was not. As I goggled at those ancient scraps of newsprint, the Staandard announcement of his death and the two photographs that had accompanied his travesty of an interview with me in the Gazet, I was thinking not of him, nor even of Cass Cleave, but of Magda. And in that moment I realised at last what I had always known without knowing, that she too had been privy to my secret. Oh, I do not say she knew for certain that I was not Axel Vander, or that the bourgeois origins I professed to despise, the indulgent parents, the grand apartment, the poor relations, were not mine but his; I do not say she knew all this in detail. Her knowledge of my duplicity ran deeper than more detail, it reached far down into my very essence. Do not ask me how she had found me out. Perhaps she met someone who had been acquainted with me before I was Axel Vander – America in those days was rife with other people's secrets – or maybe her spurned Pole had nosed out something about me and my past and had confronted her with it. Or maybe it was simply that she guessed. No matter, no matter. What I marvel at is her silence. All those years when I thought I was preserving myself through deceit, it was really she who was keeping me whole, keeping me intact, by pretending to be deceived. She was my silent guarantor of authenticity. That was what I realised, as I stood that day in the stationer's shop on the Via Bonafous and one whole wall of my life fell down and I was afforded an entire vista of the world that I had never glimpsed before.

In an access of wonderment, the wonderment of a child who has found out one of the adult world's big secrets, I had to tell someone of these discoveries. Kristina Kovacs would not do; to her, so far advanced in dying, it would all have come as no more than a distant twittering, the mere gossip of the merely living. That I should blurt out such things to Franco Bartoli was unthinkable. I might have confided in his mother, certainly my secrets would have been safe with her, no sooner heard than forgotten. However, in the end it was Dr. Zoroaster that I turned to as confidant and confessor. It was on the day that he helped me to move Kristina Kovacs into the apartment here. Yes, I have brought her to live with me, or, more accurately, to die, as she herself remarked, with one of her wry smiles that are so rare now. There had been an ambulance from the hospital, and two blue-jawed helpers in white coats, who looked more like barbers than medical attendants but were gentle all the same, had manoeuvred her up the stairs in a wheelchair and got her into bed – I have given over my bedroom to her, and fixed up a crib for myself on the couch in the other room. The Doctor had given her a sedative, and she was barely conscious, muttering to herself in a language I could not identify, her poor head lolling. Bald and shrunken, still in her white hospital gown, she had the look of a wigless eighteenth-century savant at his levee. The Doctor and I were standing together at the foot of the bed, watching her, when I heard myself starting to tell him everything. Well, no, not everything; lifelong habits of dissembling die hard. I told him how Cass Cleave had known things about me, without saying what those things were, exactly, and how when I discovered what she knew I realised at once and for the first time that my wife had known them too. He listened with calm attention, standing there in his big coat and his scarf, not looking at me but keeping his gaze bent on the by now comatose woman. The city's first snow of the season had begun to fall, and a chill breath was seeping in at the low window beside the bed, and all around us was a muffled hush. As the waning year progressively turns paler the more pronounced becomes the Assyrian swarthiness of Dr. Zoroaster's face; he has the fierce dark eye and raptor's profile of a desert monarch. One of the most striking aspects of his curious presence, at once unsettling and reassuring, is the quality of stillness he maintains. He seems to function on a principle of intermittent entropy. He will rise out of immobility and silence into movement and speech and then subside into himself again and be as if he had not stirred or spoken. At times it will take so long for him to reply to a question or formulate a remark that it will seem he is not attending to the outer world at all, but is at rest in some remote, inner sphere of enervated contemplativeness, oblivious calm. It is, I suppose, the dwelling place of one who has survived. Now he allowed an extra lengthy silence to elapse, and, since already I regretted having spoken, I was entertaining the wistful hope that he might forgo any response at all. He was lighting a cigarette with that conjuror's gestural grace which is another of his characteristics, his hands making slow hoops through which wreaths of smoke drifted and drooped, and had I not been so mesmerised watching him perform I might have registered sooner the strangeness of what it was he had begun to say. He asked if I had noticed the surprise that he had shown when I had first told him my name. "You remember?"he said. "It was a pleasant occasion. We were having coffee, at the Bicerin." I remembered, but I did not remember him being surprised; what would constitute an expression of surprise, anyway, in that mummified, regal mask that is his face? He was surprised, he said, because he had heard the name Axel Vander before, a long time ago, in altogether different circumstances and surroundings. Here he paused, a hand holding the cigarette suspended before his mouth and his eyes narrowed against the smoke, remembering. He turned slowly and walked out of the bedroom into the study, where lamplight and snowlight were joined in feeble contest. He went to the window and gazed out through its grimy panes, watching the white flakes drifting down into the street. I could feel my heart beating, a tentatively apprehensive measure, getting ready for what shocks might come. "Snow," the Doctor murmured. "Yes, snow." He had encountered the Vanders, he said, in a place in a forest, a sort of way station, while they and he were awaiting transportation elsewhere. They were a middle-aged couple, healthy still but in a state of great emotional distress. They had exchanged for food the last of a small cache of diamonds they had managed to bring with them, concealed in the linings of their clothes, and their prospects, like the prospects of all those brought to that place, were bleak. Already they had lost a son, destroyed, so they told him, by the actions of a treacherous friend. "Destroyed?" I said faintly. Or perhaps I only thought of saying it. I sat down slowly at my desk and leaned an arm on it. There are certain exhalations that sound like one's last breath. Where were they bound, the Vanders, I asked, where were they being transported to? He shrugged, without turning from the window. "East," he said.