As you enter the café, Castelfranco, your eyes sweep about. A few tables are occupied outside the café. One patron, sitting alone, stands out from the ageing locals with his pale jacket and Panama hat.

Ivan Dvořák.

He looks up, as if sensing you, and his face lights up; especially when he seems to realise Timothée isn't alongside you. He waves.

There's something undemanding about him, calming. "Hello there," he says in his quaint way, when you get in earshot, "You look a little lost."