'Sorry, I don't understand.'

'The link. Do you have a cord somewhere that links you into the net?'

'No, it's not that kind of computer. I use it to write letters now and again. What are you trying to do? What do you need it for?'

Drago gives him an unbelieving smile. 'For everything. When did you buy your computer?'

'I don't remember. Years ago. Nineteen eighty something. It's not up to date. If you need something more advanced, I can't help you.'

Drago does not let the subject rest there. They are in the kitchen the next evening, having supper. He has not ordered pizza, as he said he would. Instead he has cooked quite a nice risotto, with mushrooms and Sauternes.

'Do you hate things if they are new, Mr Rayment?' says Drago out of the blue.

'No. Why do you say that?'

'I'm not, you know, blaming you. It's just the style, the style of everything.' He sits back in his chair, waves a hand casually over, as he says, everything. 'It's cool. I'm just asking. Isn't there anything new you like?'

The flat on Coniston Terrace is part of a refurbished pre-war block. It is high-ceilinged and spacious, yet not too large. He bought it after the divorce; it was exactly what he, as a rediscovered bachelor, wanted. He has lived here ever since.

Part of the deal when he bought the flat was that he should take over the previous owner's furniture. The furniture was heavy and dark and not to his taste; he has always meant to replace it, but has never found the energy. Instead, over the years, he has adjusted to his surroundings, growing a little more plodding, a little more sombre himself.

'I'll give you a straight answer, Drago, but not at the cost of being laughed at. I have been overtaken by time, by history. This flat, and everything in it, has been overtaken. There is nothing strange in that – in being overtaken by time. It will happen to you too, if you live long enough. Now tell me: what is this conversation really about? Is it about a computer that doesn't match up to your standards?'

Drago stares at him in shocked puzzlement. And indeed he surprises himself. Why such sharp words? What has the poor boy done to deserve them? Do you hate things if they are new? A fair enough question to an old man. What is there to be cross about?

'This was all, once upon a time, new,' he says, waving a hand in exactly the same gesture Drago used. 'Everything in the world was, once upon a time, new. Even I was new. The hour I was born I was the latest, newest thing on the face of the earth. Then time got to work on me. As time will get to work on you. Time will eat you up, Drago. One day you will be sitting in your nice new house with your nice new wife, and your son will turn around to the pair of you and say, Why are you so old-fashioned? When that day arrives, I hope you will remember this conversation.'

Drago takes a last forkful of risotto, a last forkful of salad. 'We went to Croatia last Christmas,' he says. 'Me and my mum and my sisters. To Zadar. That's where Mum's parents live. They're pretty old now. They also got, like you said, overtaken by time. My mum bought them a computer and we showed them how to use it. So now they can shop on the internet, they can send e-mails, we can send them pictures. They like it. And they're pretty old.'

'So?'

'So you can choose,' says Drago. 'That's all I'm saying.'

WHEN HE INVITED Drago to stay, there was, behind the invitation, nothing that he would deem – he picks up the primly disapproving word of the day, weighs it, tests it – inappropriate. His heart, as far as he can see into his heart, was and is pure, his motives innocent. He is fond of Drago with a measured, an appropriate fondness, as any man might be of an adopted son, or son-to-be.

The cohabitation he envisioned for the pair of them was to be on the mildest scale: a few companionable evenings together, Drago hunched over his homework at the dining table, he in an armchair with a book, while they waited for tempers in the casa Jokic to cool down.

But that is not how it turns out to be. Drago brings in friends; soon the flat has become as noisy and confused as a railway station. The kitchen is a mess of take-away cartons and dirty plates; the bathroom is forever occupied. None of the quiet growth in intimacy that he had looked forward to has come about. In fact, he feels that Drago is pushing him away. After the evening of the mushroom risotto they do not even eat together.

'I'm making myself an omelette for supper,' he announces as casually as he can. 'Shall I make one for you too? Ham and tomato?'

'Not for me,' says Drago. 'I'll be going out. One of my mates is picking me up. We'll get something to eat.'

'You have money?'

'Yeah, thanks, my mum gave me money.'

The mate in question is a pimply red-head named Shaun, to whom he has taken a dislike at first sight. Shaun, who according to Drago doesn't go to school much because he plays in a band, haunts the flat. He and Drago go out after dark, stay away till late, then return and shut themselves up in his ex-study, which has become Drago's room. Music and the murmur of their voices keep him awake into the early hours of the morning. Grumpy and miserable, he lies in the dark listening to the BBC.

'It is not just the noise,' he complains to Elizabeth Costello. 'Drago is used to a large family, I don't expect a monkish silence from him. No, what upsets me is the way he reacts when I dare to ask for a little consideration.'

'How does he react?'

'A shutter falls. He does not see me any more. I might as well be a stick of furniture. Marijana says he and his father are always at loggerheads. Well, I begin to see why. I begin to sympathise with his father.'

After her cold words at the riverside, he had thought he might not see Elizabeth Costello again. But no, she is back, perhaps because she cannot give up on him, but also perhaps because she is not well. She has lost weight; she looks more than a little frail; she has a persistent cough.

'Poor Paul!' she says. 'So late in life, so monkish, as you say, so set in your ways, and now so grumpy too! What a reckless venture into childminding! In the abstract I am sure you would like to love young Drago, but the facts of life keep getting in the way. We cannot love by an act of the will, Paul. We have to learn. That is why souls descend from their realm on high and submit to being born again: so that, as they grow up in our company, they can lead us along the hard road of loving. From the beginning you have glimpsed something angelic in Drago, and I am sure you are not wrong. Drago has remained in touch with his other-worldly origins longer than most children. Overcome your disappointment, your irritation. Learn from Drago while you can. One of these days the last wisps of glory that trail behind him will vanish into the air and he will simply be one of us.

'You think I am crazy, don't you, or deluded? But remember: I have raised two children, real-life, unmystical children; you have raised none. I know what children are for; you are still ignorant. So pay heed when I speak, even when I speak in figures. We have children in order that we may learn to love and serve. Through our children we become the servants of time. Look into your heart. Ask yourself whether you have the reserves of fortitude you will need for the journey, and the stamina. If not, perhaps you should withdraw. It is not too late.'

Speaking in figures. Angels from on high. It is the most mystifying speech she has made since the hocus-pocus about the woman with the dark glasses. Is she light-headed from fasting? Is she trying to make a fool of him again? Ought he to offer her more than a cup of tea? He gives her a hard look, as hard a look as he can. But she does not waver. She believes what she is saying, it would seem.