Page 89 of Crosswind

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Jan's parents live on the eastern side of the city — a flat in a building that was probably built in the seventies and has been well kept. The lift is slow. Jan presses the button for the fourth floor and we stand in it in silence and I look at his face in the lift mirror and he is doing the Jan thing, composure assembled and held. Prepared.

I take his hand. He squeezes it.

The door of the flat opens before we knock.

Jan's mother stands in the doorway and for a moment she simply looks at Jan. The way a mother looks at a child she hasn't seen in months — taking him in, the whole of him, checking. Then she steps forward and takes his face in both hands and says something in Czech and kisses his cheek and then pulls him into a proper hug, both arms, her face against his shoulder.

Jan, who is taller than her, puts his arms around her.

I stand slightly back and watch this and feel something quiet and private happening in my chest that I don't try to name.

His father appears behind her, tall, where Jan gets it, the same quality of stillness, and when Jan's mother releases him his father puts his hand on Jan's shoulder and squeezes once and says something low in Czech and Jan nods.

Then they both look at me.

I had prepared myself, based on Jan's description, for warmth that was managed, practical, unexpressive. I had prepared myself to be patient. I had prepared myself for a long afternoon of careful navigation.

Jan's mother looks at me for half a second and opens her arms.

She hugs me. Properly. Both arms. She says something in Czech and pulls back and looks at me and says, in Dutch: "Patrick. Welcome. Come in, come in."

I stare at her.

She says it again — carefully, deliberately, the Dutch words sitting slightly formally in her mouth the way words do when you have learned them for this moment. She smiles.

I look at Jan over her shoulder.

He is standing in the hallway with the expression of someone who did not quite expect this and is not sure what to do with it.

"She learned that," I say. To Jan. "She learned Dutch to say that."

"A few phrases," he says. Slightly unsteady.

His father extends his hand. I shake it. He looks at me and says, also in Dutch, carefully: "Jan has told us about you." Then, switching to English: "I hope the journey was comfortable."

"It was," I say. My voice is not entirely level and I am aware of this.

Something in the man's face, a warmth, a recognition. He nods. "Come and eat," he says.

I follow them inside and I look at the back of Jan's head and I think: his parents learned Dutch phrases to welcome me. They learned Dutch phrases. For me.

I am not going to say anything about this. I am going to hold it very quietly and privately and never tell anyone how close I came to crying in the doorway of a fourth-floor flat in Brno.

Lunch is… it is good. I want to say that first. The food is good, the table is warm. The conversation is in English, with Jan occasionally translating something his parents say to each other in Czech. His mother asks about my work, my family, Haarlem. She asks about Bali, she has seen the photos. She asks about the A350. Jan looks slightly pained when she asks about the A350. I answer and she listens with the focused attention of someone who is actually interested and not just being polite.

Jan's father asks me, at some point, a direct question: "What do you want for Jan?"

I look at Jan. Jan is looking at his plate.

I look at his father.

"The same things he wants for himself," I say. "Someone who notices him. Who pays attention." I look at Jan at the side of his face, the careful composure, the jaw that has loosened slightly. "I love him. That's the whole answer, really."

Jan's father is quiet for a moment. Then he nods, the single, deliberate nod of someone who has assessed something and reached a conclusion.

Jan, I notice, is still looking at his plate. But his jaw has loosened.