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His latest relationship collapse involved the mad pursuit of a Greyhound bus to a roadhouse on the outskirts of Dubbo; Quender was panting with the effort of that summer chase as he related spare details to the Slovak who listened, head down over a plate of meat, giving no intelligible response other than a muttering directed, perhaps, at the dozen sausages. When he reached a point where the narrative gave way to a kind of pointless exhaustion, Quender ran out of words, happily, and stopped.
The two of them were preparing the basic elements of a barbecue behind the townhouse the university had rented for the visiting academic, Mr Svatopluk Fotr. As a physical ...