5 am. Woke up sweating. Outside the window, the hotel car park, some municipal flowers, a few trees. I stared hard, as if something were missing.

Hamburg to Kiev.

We arrived at the hotel early and so, with time to spare, I packed Thom off to the balcony with his dictionaries while I lay down and tried to remember my night on the Reeperbahn. There had been brandy, I knew that. Lager, whisky. One show, two, three.  The third show, yes, that's interesting. Was that actually a show? .

Thom ordered a taxi to the stadium. Since he now considers himself European, it was easy for us to fall in with some Spanish fans and pretend we weren't English. Frankly, football bores me. For Thom, it was the most beautiful game he had ever seen. While he claims to discern algebraic forms in the Spanish passing, all I see is a snowstorm of galumphing spermatozoa. But I was happy enough to sit with him, even though he did keep saying, somewhat loudly, maravilloso!

Halftime, I rang Helen. Last summer she met a man, Ross, at a therapy workshop. After a couple of months of tentative dating she decided, quite reasonably, that I should stop my afternoon- and sometimes very early morning- visits to her room. I minded, a bit. Rather than missing her body I found, unaccountably, that I missed talking to her, which we'd never really done. Initially, Gareth was euphoric. Ross had come between me and Helen and so for a few weeks Gareth came into work beaming. He even looked younger. It was as if he'd grown a couple of inches. However, even his enthusiasm fell when it became clear that Ross was an insufferable prick.

It's not uncommon in therapy circles. Sometimes you meet them, therapists who have no other interest in life other than therapy. They care for nothing but optimizing their emotional and physical wellbeing. They have no sense of humour, no hinterland. They will never admit to their previous, unsuccessful career. And then they seduce vulnerable women, like Helen. She should have known better.

Ross invited her to a therapy retreat on a Greek island. With his beard and pony tail, Ross runs the course as an eclectic mix of meditation, group work and optional naturism. Within days of her arrival Helen suspected that half of the women on the retreat were previous or future lovers of Ross and so, furious with him and herself, she fled back to England. She retuns to work next week.

And so it was, with images from last night on the Reeperbahn eliding into familiar, but equally sexy, images of Helen, I was relieved from it all by the roar of the crowd. We were hauled into a  mass hug by the fans next to us. Spain had won. We had won.

I found Thom sat writing at a desk in one of the drawing rooms. Renoir nude over the fireplace, possibly the one Axel mentioned, the one the Russians were pleading to have back. Thom shot out of his seat and directed me over to a wall of pictures. It was a collection of 1920's photographs of women in flapper poses. Now I think, said Thom. I was quite clear he wasn't thinking anything. What had happened to my son? He scratched his chin. I think that a photograph must have a title. You cant just take a picture and not give it a name. Can you, really? His eyes softened a little. Clearly, he didnt want me to know what he was writing at the desk. Well, probably these pictures are anonymous, so we if we don't know the photographer, then. I sounded rather lame but looked him hard in the eyes. Where had my son gone?

Gertrude entered carrying a cheeseburger and chips.

Dankschoen, said Thom, without turning round.

Bitte, said Gertrude, quietly leaving the plate on his desk.

I was angry with her, but I'm not now. She kept correcting my pronunciation, he said. For a moment, we looked at the pictures. I was reminded of a photo of my mother. I felt a yearning to be out of Hamburg, to be hurtling on down to Auschwitz. The memory of my mother, dead when I was nine, had also softened Thom. He looked down at the floor. I am writing a diary, he said. He looked up quickly and said, to be certain there was no misunderstanding, but it's not secret.

Of course it's secret, Thom. If your diary is any good, you will never show a soul. Now, I am going to sit over here, you go back to your diary and write. Just write! And so we passed the time. My son on the other side of the drawing room, hiding his words with his cupped hand, the light fading on the Rumanian rug, the last of the brandy on my lips while, on and off, looking up at the Renoir. For a moment, like a dying man, I lacked for nothing.

3 am. I woke up in the chair. Thom had gone, and his diary. He was in bed, a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the table. Quietly, I let myself out the side entrance, onto the Reeperbahnn. I heard my voice saying, research, research. Another voice, also my own, did not reply.

I hear so many secrets in my professional life that I am happy for my friends ( and my wives, come to that ) to retain a little mystery. I never felt the need to probe into Axel's erotomania. If I did occassionally wonder at him I suspected a distant mother, a hint of violence, perhaps. But today he seemed rather frail and, amongst his lifetime collection of books, I felt the fanaticism of the man. It takes a mania born of great pain to have pursued these books over the course of a life. I tried to forget about the Chorier and to honour what my old friend was saying.

If my life is to mean anything, he said, it will be after my death. I will do two things. Some of the sculpture will be sold, there will be money for Gertrude, but the entire collection of erotica will go to a library. He paused. I intend to open an Academy of Erotic Studies. It will be based here, in Hamburg, and will have a curriculum covering every aspect of erotic culture. It will be the first of its kind in history and, equally, will arrive at the most crucial time for the sexual life of our species. In short, I am trying to do some good.

My phone rang. Helen?  We had not spoken for weeks but I was aware of her tendency to call me when I had least need of her. But to cancel a call from Helen felt akin to killing a small animal, so I apologised to Axel. ' HE'S BROKEN MY FUCKING HEART', she yelled. I had never known her swear. I consoled her briefly, and switched the phone off, and for a second pictured some further consolation, a few days hence.

A filthy mind is a perpetual feast, said Axel, smiling.

You see, I have lived in the greatest of times. What gay man of my age could have expected to have enjoyed, legally, such a cornucopia of dick? What woman of my age could have seen the freedom her children have? The pill changed everything. The women's movement would have curled up and died in the water forty years go without the pill. But we live in dark times, said Axel. Young girls and boys grow up awash in pornography. They are rancid creatures. He scowled darkly, as if looking around the room for Thom. But it will be the women who pay for this, it always is. So my Academy is designed to rediscover the erotic, the aesthetic of sex. And seduction, too. We'll teach the lost art of seduction.

And where do I come in?

I want you to write a book, said Axel. You will inherit my copy of Walter's Secret Life if you write a book proving that it is not a work of fiction, but a true history of one man's sexual life. I have done the research, I have the proof. He tapped on the desk. It's a conspiracy.

Wasn't there a book proving it was all made up by Henry Spencer Ashbee?

Yes, but it's lies, all of it. No-one wanted to accept that one man could give so many women so much pleasure. But what has my boat party been, if not a living proof of it? I stared rather dimly at Axel. Yes, I had enjoyed myself over several decades at his boat parties but the greater meaning of this was lost to me. Goddamit, man! Do I have to spell it out?  I am talking about female ejaculation! Why do I keep a pair of Wellington boots in the cabin of the boat? I have to wade through floods of ejaculate! And that is why they say My Secret Life is fiction, because noone will accept the last and final truth of a woman's desire! Walter did! I did ! And so do you, my friend. The greatest love is that of a gushing woman! And you know it! He paused. So that, dear boy, is the book I want you to write. Now let's drink.

With Thom in the house, I wasn't keen to explore the delicate balance between dementia and illumination within my host. I picked up one of the eleven volumes, looked briefly at the various watermarks, and decided to put the whole thing off.

Axel? I'll do it.

The scullery girls, he said,  nodding towards the door.

If I were in possession of an art collection like Axel's, I would also want a housekeeper as scary and sour as Gertrude. Even a pleasantry would invite her disdain so I decided to ignore her and, delightfully, Axel was fine with that. Gertrude has a frown draped over her face, her lips are as hard as pressed rubber. It's probably not her fault. One can sense  generations of repression had gone into that frown but I did wonder why the presence of so much erotic art and sculpture had not made her more accepting of human foible. If I didn't know Axel better I would think there was a blood tie. But as a professional homosexual who considers himself to have evolved beyond blood ties I know he would never be seen dead with a relative in the house. Nevertheless, I let Gertrude take Thom down to the basement. To meet the scullery girls, said Axel, with a grin. I grinned back. I was here to have a conversation and it wasn't the time to be over protective.

A few magisterial nudes by Cranarch the Elder led the way into the library. A male Rodin served as a hatstand. Was that a Vallotton? Axel indicated to the left. There was an oversize Man Ray study, Natasha, nude. It also served as the door into the backroom for the antiquarian erotica. To push open the door I had to place my hand over Natasha's breast and, as I did so, I noticed Axel close his eyes, solemnly. This was his most private place, a room filled wall to wall with thousands of books about sex. And on a small table in front of me was Walter's My Secret Life, all eleven volumes, immaculate in blue quarter leather. One of only two known copies. I gasped for air. I had never seen it before. And yet, entering the room I had also glimpsed, just prior to My Secret Life, a copy of Nicolas Chorier's Aloisiae Sigeae Toletanae Satyra Sotadica de arcanis Amooris et Veneris, the first edition of 1659 and, after, a shelf full of other editions of the same up to the 18th century, including one with plates by Elluin. I was stunned. I was meant to be amazed by My Secret Life but I had spotted the Chorier. Not wanting to disappoint Axel I started sniffing the eleven volumes on the table. I caught my breath. It seemed to point to some perversity in my soul that I had ruined my moment with Walter's Secret Life. In my infinite greed, I had found something else. Was it just the unending lasciviousness of man? Or was it a defence against the hurt of merely one book? I recalled all the names that Karen had called me that summer day. I heard them raining down on me all over again and knew I deserved every one of them.

I want you to write a book, said Axel.

Coming off the plane we were met by a man carrying a sign with the name 'AXEL'. A small man, heavy with moustache. I walked towards him, half aware that Axel, in his occasional dementia, may have told his driver that my name was also 'Axel'. The man had no English, we had no German. I decided to smile as if he were my greatest friend, then a word came to me. Reeperbahn, I said, Reeperbahn. Ja, ja, he said. We followed him to the Bentley. It was while staring out the window, considering how to explain to Axel that not everyone is called  ' Axel', that Thom delivered his first shock. The driver had opened the ice box, offering us a beer, and Thom was responding in German. Stop the car, I said. The car kept moving. Did I have no control over anything anymore? I asked Thom why he was speaking German. Because I've been learning it, he said. Well, when was that? Why didn't you tell me? I don't know, he said. I wasn't thinking. It's just that I find French so easy that in French lessons I secretly teach myself German. To be honest, German is really easy, too. I think all European languages are just regional variations of each other. Maybe Chinese would be a challenge. He sipped his beer.  The hot stink of the leather hit me. I tried to open a window but couldn't. I swiveled round to Thom: so, what's the driver saying? He says that Axel is very sorry that the beer is warm. It's because the ice box is broken. He said that Axel has been thinking of nothing else all day. So what does beschamt mean? I disctinctly remembered hearing the word beschamt. Mortified, said Thom. He feels mortified about the beer. I felt dizzy, and hurt. I came to Flughafen thinking I was showing Thom the world. Clearly, he was showing it to me. And if he felt any pride in this, he wasn't letting on and I was doubly hurt by that. Did Serena know? It was a ridiculous question. I was casting around to find someone else as stupid as me. I tried to picture it. Was he hiding his German dictionary inside his French dictionary? Yes, that is exactly what I do, he said. Some momentary relief. But then I felt the sting of his isolation. Was this normal schoolboy behaviour? Surely there were pranks, some mischief, someones ears he could ping? Or was that isolation mine, at his age? As we turned into the Reeperbahn, I tried to imagine Thom and a whole gang of his mates, secretly whispering German to each other in their French lessons.

To Auschwitz!

First, two nights in Axel's townhouse in Hamburg, on the Reeperbahn. Thom should be packing his case but in fact he is googling Hamburg and has already discovered the Erotic Musuem. He doesn't yet know that Axel owns nearly all the exhibits in that musuem. He even has sleeping quarters in the basement.

Axel  is now in his late seventies and, as one of his older friends, he once asked if I would be executor of his will after his death. I demurred, envisaging the rest of my life as an eternal battle with scholars of erotica and musuem curators with no discernible reward for me. Axel said nothing for a few weeks and, as ever, I was invited to the boat party. Feeling under the weather and not fully partaking in the activities upon the boat, Axel drew me aside. Well what about Walter's Secret Life, then, surely that interests you? In what sense? Of course, this was the greatest and longest work of Victorian pornography and I had read every word. Dear boy, I am talking about the first edition. I didn't know he owned a copy.  One of only two copies, of course. Axel was planting a seed and I knew better than to try harvesting it that night. I remember taking a keener interest in the party, all the while wondering what Axel would expect of me. And I still don't know.

It will be a private conversation. If I am to inherit Axel's copy of My Secret Life, then it will be prudent if Karen doesn't hear about it. This will mean having a few hours alone with him and I am concerned as to what Thom will do without me. I called Axel. He said that Gertrude, his housekeeper, could look after him. I was hardly expecting a soft play area and a shelf of lemonade but Gertrude sounded a bit starchy and formidable, no matter. Thom won't regret it when I am gone. He can sell My Secret Life and buy himself a second home. So could I, come to that. He rang me before bed. He's glad that England were knocked out and that we'll be seeing Italy v. Germany. Italy play more beautiful football, he said. I went to sleep happy, certain that my sons scrupulous aesthetic sense will serve him better than any patriotism.

To Auschwitz!