Close to the gateway of the monastery, set back from the avenue, stood a small cafe.

“Sherbet, Yash. They’ll do a pear syrup here, too,” Palewski suggested, steering his friend gently by the arm toward the cafe path.

Two men swerved past them, running up the hill.

“So hot,” Palewski murmured, raising an eyebrow.

Cushions were scattered on carpets spread beneath the boughs of an enormous pine, whose resinous fragrance perfumed the air. A boy in a waistcoat took their orders: he seemed distracted, glancing now and then through the trees toward the avenue of limes.

“Pear, not apple,” Yashim corrected him. “Pear for my friend, and coffee, medium sweet, for me.”

The two friends lay in companionable silence, watching the sky through the boughs of the tree. Rooks cawed in the upper branches; farther off, Yashim could hear a murmur of indistinct voices like wind soughing in the pines.

Palewski dipped into his pocket. He brought out a slim volume bound in soft red leather, which he opened and began to read.

Yashim struggled for a few moments with the curiosity that comes over anyone when they watch someone else with their nose in a book. Then he gave up.

“ Pan Tadeusz — again,” Palewski replied, with a smile.

“The national epic,” Yashim murmured. “Of course.”

“Really, I never tire of it,” Palewski said. “It is the Poland I represent. Poland in the old days.” He sighed. “I wrote to Mickiewicz, proposing a French translation.”

“The poet? And did he reply?”

Palewski nodded. “Of course, he could do it himself. He lives in Paris. But he said he’d be delighted if I’d like to try.”

“And you’ve begun?”

“Awfully hard, Yashim.” Palewski leaned back and closed his eyes. He flung up a hand toward the trees and began to recite:

“Litwo! Ojczyzno moja! Ty jeste jak zdrowie.

Ile ci trzeba ceni, ten tylko si dowie,