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‘No, she doesn’t, does she? She doesn’t. Well, I’ve been trying to address that. I had hoped that we’d have fun together this summer, our last summer, all of us together. I’d hoped to change her mind. Perhaps I tried too hard. I’ll find out soon enough. Anyway. I’m sorry for what I said to you. It’s not what I believe. Whatever I might have said, I’m very proud of you, though I might not show it, and I know that you’ll do great things in the future. You’re my boy, and I’d hate for you to go off into the world without knowing that we will miss you and will want you to be safe and happy and that we love you. Not just your mum, you know how much your mother loves you. But me too. I love you too, Albie. There. I think that’s really what I came to say. So now you can go. Do whatever you want, as long as it’s safe. I won’t follow you any more. I’ll just sit here for a while. Sit here and rest.’

Later that afternoon, we went to see Guernica. We had both calmed down by then and while still not quite at ease — would we ever be at ease? — we were at least more comfortable in our silence. As we walked around the Museo Reina Sofia, I stole little sideways glances. He was, as far as I could tell, wearing the same clothes that he’d worn in Amsterdam: the stained T-shirt that showed his bony chest, jeans that cried out for a belt, sandals on his blackened feet. His vestigial beard was scraggy and unhygienic, hair lank and unwashed and he seemed very thin. In other words, nothing much had changed, and I was pleased.

We found ourselves in front of Guernica. I found the picture very striking, much larger than I expected and moving in a way that I had not associated with more abstract works (goodness, Connie, listen to me!). I would have liked to take in the picture quietly, but I allowed Albie to talk me through the historical context and significance of the work, insights he had clearly garnered from the same Wikipedia entry that I had read at breakfast. I watched him as he spoke. He talked a great deal, pointing out things that were obvious to anyone with even a passing knowledge of art. Wanting to educate me, I suppose. In fact he was rather boring on the subject, but I kept quiet and took comfort in that old saying about fallen apples and their distance from trees.

In a commuter café opposite the Atocha station we had churros con chocolate. The overhead lights blazed off the zinc tabletops, greasy discarded napkins littered the floor. It seemed entirely the wrong time of day and year to be eating deep-fried extruded batter dipped in thick hot chocolate, but it was pleasant to be out of the midday sun’s atomic heat. Albie assured me that this was what everyone did here and, despite the café being empty, I chose not to contradict him.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’m in this hostel.’

‘What’s it like?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a hostel.’

‘I’ve never stayed in a hostel.’

‘What, a seasoned inter-railer like you?’

‘What’s it like?’

He laughed. ‘It’s grim. Hostile. It’s a hostile hostel.’

‘I have a suite in a hotel on the Gran Vía.’

‘A suite? What are you, some oligarch?’

‘I know. It’s all very sumptuous.’

‘I hope you’re not drinking from the mini-bar, Dad.’

‘Albie, I’m not mad. Anyway, the point is there’s a spare room that might be more comfortable. A fold-out sofa-bed. While you decide where you want to go next.’

He paused to concentrate on wiping the sugar from his stubble beard. ‘Are you not eating your churros?’

I pushed the plate towards him. ‘How do you eat so much and stay so skinny?’

He rolled his bony shoulders and posted another doughnut into his mouth. ‘Nervous energy, I s’pose.’

‘Yes, I know something about that.’

We fetched his things and returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, and I lay on the bed while Albie showered for an absurdly long time. I had not checked my phone for twenty-four hours, and with some dread I turned it on to find a selection of texts from Connie, the impatience spiralling into irritation.

When are you home? Can’t wait to see you.

Information please. Are you alive?

Are you back today, tomorrow, ever?

Frantic here. Douglas, please just call.

There was a voicemail, too, from my sister, and I played it back with the phone some distance from my ear.

‘Why aren’t you answering your phone? You always answer your phone. Douglas, it’s Karen. What the hell is going on? Connie’s frantic. She says you’re wandering round Europe looking for Albie. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell you this but she thinks you’ve had some sort of nervous breakdown. Or a mid-life crisis. Or both!’ Karen sighed and I smiled. ‘Give it up, Douglas. Albie will come home when he wants to. Anyway, call me. Do it, D. That’s an order!’