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‘Then he has an accordionist in his room.’

‘Oh, good grief.’

Now the asthmatic chug resolved into four familiar stabbing minor chords, played in rotation, accompanied by much foot-stomping and thigh-slapping percussion, provided by my son.

‘What is this song? I know this song.’

‘I think it’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”.’

‘It’s what?’

‘Listen!’

And sure enough, it was.

When — if — I thought of accordionists, the word suggested an olive-skinned male wearing a Breton top. But here, Nirvana’s howl to youthful alienation was bellowed by a primal female voice, a kind of soulful town crier, with Albie now accompanying her on percussive guitar, his chord changes always just a little way behind.

‘I think they call it jamming,’ I said.

‘As in jamming your fingers in your ears,’ said Connie.

Resigning myself to a long night, I turned on the light and reached for my book, a history of World War II, while Connie sandwiched her head between two foam pillows and assumed a horizontal brace position. The accordion, like the bagpipes, is part of the select group of instruments that people are paid to stop playing, but for the next forty-five minutes my son’s mysterious guest pushed at the musical limits of the squeezebox, regaling much of the fifth, sixth and seventh floors of the Good Times Hotel with, amongst others, a boisterous ‘Satisfaction’, a sprightly ‘Losing My Religion’ and a version of ‘Purple Rain’ so long and repetitive that it seemed to stretch the very fabric of time. ‘We are enjoying the concert, Albie,’ I texted, ‘but it’s a little late’. I pressed send and waited for the message to be received.

I heard the bleep of a text arriving on the other side of the wall. A pause, and then ‘Moondance’ sung by emphysemic wasps.

‘Perhaps he didn’t read my text.’

‘Hm.’

‘Perhaps I should call reception and complain. What’s French for “remove the accordionist from room 603”?’

‘Hm.’

‘Seems a bit disloyal, though, complaining about my own son.’

‘Hasn’t stopped you in the past.’

‘Or shall I just knock on the—?’

‘Douglas, I don’t care what you do as long as you stop talking!’

‘Hey! I’m not the one with the accordion!’

‘Sometimes I think an accordion would be preferable.’

‘What does that mean?!’

‘It doesn’t mean— It’s two thirty, just …’

And then the noise stopped.

‘Thank you, God!’ said Connie. ‘Now, let’s go to sleep.’

But the irritation lingered and we lay beneath its cloud, contemplating other nights we had spent like this, dwelling on a moment’s unkindness, impatience or thoughtlessness. I think our marriage has run its course. I think I want to leave you.

And then a jolt, like a bass drum behind our heads, followed by the particular, insistent thump-thump-thump of a headboard banging against a wall.

‘They’re jamming,’ I said.

‘Oh, Albie.’ Connie laughed, her forearm across her eyes. ‘That’s just perfect.’

We met the beguiling musician the next morning in the hotel’s gloomy basement breakfast room. Uncharacteristically for Albie, they were up before us, though it was hard to see the girl’s face at first, clamped as it was to Albie with the tenacity of a lamprey eel. I cleared my throat, and they peeled apart.

‘Hello! You must be Douglas and Connie! Christ, look at you, Connie, you’re gorgeous! No wonder your son is so hot, you’re a be-auty.’ Her voice was gravelly, Antipodean. She took my hand. ‘And you’re a very beautiful man too, Dougie! Ha! We were just having some breakfast, the breakfast here is a-mazing. And it’s all free!’

‘Well, not exactly free …’

‘Here — let me move Steve out of the way.’ Steve, it seemed, was the name of her accordion. Steve had his very own chair, where he sat toothily grinning. ‘Come on, Steve, let poor Mr Petersen sit down, he looks wasted.’

‘We enjoyed your concert last night.’

‘Aw, thank you!’ She smiled, then used her fingers to arrange her features into a clown’s sad face. ‘Or did you not really mean that?’

‘You play very well,’ said Connie. ‘We’d have enjoyed it more before midnight.’

‘Oh no! I’m so sorry. No wonder you look fucked, Mr Petersen. You’ll have to come and see me play at a reasonable hour.’

‘You’re actually playing a concert?’ said Connie, with a hint of incredulity.

‘Well, concert’s a big word. Only outside the Pompidou.’

‘You’re a busker?’

‘I prefer “street performer”, but yes!’

I don’t think my face fell, I tried not to let it, but it’s true that I was wary of any activity prefixed with the word ‘street’. Street art, street food, street theatre, in all cases ‘street’ preceding something better carried on indoors.

‘She does an amazing “Purple Rain”,’ mumbled Albie, who was slumped diagonally across the banquette like the victim of a vampire.