My Tango With Barbara Strozzi

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When she told me that her name was Bertha Strunk I said, ‘Is Bertha’s trunk anything like Pandora’s box?’

‘That isn’t something you can find out in five minutes,’ she said. This was at the Saturday evening tango class for beginners in the crypt of St James’s Church, Clerkenwell.

Why the tango? Are you sitting comfortably? It began with Mimi, my ex-wife, coming round with some things that I’d left at the house. ‘Your latest effort got terrible reviews,’ she said by way of greeting.

‘The Irish Times and the Jewish Chronicle liked it,’ I countered.

‘I think you may be running out of ideas,’ she said.

I backed away from her and made a cross with my fingers. ‘Don’t say that!’

‘It happens,’ she continued. ‘Hope of a Tree does not develop organically from its original impulse; it’s a put-together thing trying to pass itself off as a novel. I have to go now. See you.’

‘Please,’ I said, ‘be a stranger.’

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