After Peter's departure, the fingertips tremble for a long time. I go into the kitchen, find a pack of cigarettes that the policeman forgot, and take a puff. I can safely not smoke for at least a year, but now I really want to feel something in my hand. Smoke crawls out through the nostrils in two thin streams, escaping into the window.

I understand why those for whom I have become history are not happy with me. But to feel hostility from people to whom I have done nothing - neither good nor bad - hurts. The world did not promise to become kinder, but foolish hopes sprout in...