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“We must be getting near the border, mustn’t we?’ I cast about in my dimly
remembered geography lessons for the relationship between the various north
European countries. “Yes, we’ll soon be in Germany, but the German customs
people are very fussy with loads like this. It may take some time at the
border post.’

He was right. He disappeared into the customs office with a sheaf of
documents, including my passport, and left me to my own devices. I couldn’t
leave the border area, of course, so I sat around, stood around, tried to
read all the notices in French and German on the walls, and finally settled
myself as comfortably as possible in a delapidated old armchair in a corner
and fell sound asleep.

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As we drove along the Belgian motorway, he began to tell me a little about
himself; his upbringing in an orphanage until he was fostered and then
adopted by an elderly couple, his short spell in prison for an idiotic smash
and grab raid which went wrong; his good fortune in getting his present job.
He had a beautiful speaking voice, and sounded better educated than most of
the other drivers. I caught myself fancying him, as I had sometimes in the
past when I saw him stride past the office window.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s not interested in you,’ I thought to myself,
and thrust from my mind the sudden image of him lying naked on the bed in
his flat. I’d never been there, of course, but people said it was a small,
comfortably furnished place overlooking the park. Hurriedly I hunted for
another topic of conversation to put the disturbing visions from my mind.