Let others write on their doors Julius Bondy, General Motors Representative; or Dr Med. Ervin Bondy; or S. Bondy & Co. - but there was just one Bondy who was simply Bondy without further particulars. (I believe that the Pope, on his front door, has simply the word Pius, without any title or numeral. And God has no shingle at all, on earth or in heaven. It’s up to you to find out that He lives here. But this is all beside the point and mentioned only in passing.)

It was in front of that glass plate that on a scorching day a gentleman in a white sailor’s cap stopped and with a blue handkerchief mopped the massive nape of his neck. A damned superior house, he was thinking to himself, and a little uncertainly tugged the brass bell-pull.

In the door appeared the doorman, Povondra: with his eyes he sized up the fat gentleman from his boots all the way to the gold braid on his cap and inquired with reserve: ‘Yes?’

‘I say, boy,’ boomed the gentleman; ‘does a Mr Bondy live here?’

‘Your business?’ Mr Povondra asked icily.

‘Tell him that Captain van Toch from Surabaya wishes to speak to him. Oh yes,’ he remembered. ‘Here is my card.’ And he handed Mr Povondra a visiting card which bore an embossed anchor and the printed name:

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Mr Povondra inclined his head and hesitated. Should he tell him Mr Bondy was not at home? Or that, most regrettably, Mr Bondy was in an important conference? There are those visitors who had to be announced and others which a competent doorman dealt with himself. Mr Povondra experienced an embarrassing failure of the instinct which normally guided him on such occasions: somehow the fat gentleman did not fit into any of the customary categories of unannounced callers, he did not look either like a commercial traveller or like an official of some charitable organisation. Meanwhile, Captain van Toch was puffing and mopping his bald head with his handkerchief; at the same time he was guilelessly blinking his pale blue eyes. Mr Povondra abruptly decided to assume entire responsibility. ‘Come in please,’ he said. ‘I’ll announce you to the Counsellor.’

Captain van Toch was mopping his face with the blue handkerchief and looking around the hall. Hell, that Gussie had done all right for himself: why, it was just like the saloons on the ships which sailed between Rotterdam and Batavia. Must have cost a packet. And such a pimply little Jew he used to be, the captain thought in wonderment.

Meanwhile, in his study G. H. Bondy was thoughtfully examining the captain’s visiting card. ‘What does he want?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mr Povondra mumbled respectfully.

Mr Bondy was still fingering the visiting card. An embossed ship’s anchor. Captain van Toch, Surabaya. Where the hell was Surabaya, anyway? Wasn’t it somewhere on Java? Mr Bondy felt a breath of distant parts engulfing him. Kandong Bandoeng - sounds like a gong being struck. Surabaya. And today was just that kind of tropical day. Surabaya.