The stories he tells them - about our parents hastily moving to Switzerland to trade baroque paintings on the semi-legal market - are empty, bottomless holes but he keeps on digging. Yesterday he came back from Nice with a pair of silver gray silk-blend pants from Philipp Plein. "They're for the narrative, you know, Swiss nationalism and so on", he says, bursting with the restless excitement of a little child on the verge of pulling off his pièce de résistance of elaborate pranks.
He puts them on, looks at himself in the mirror from every conceivable angle, then at me. "I don't care that he's actually German" he says, "I'm not getting a fucking Rolex".
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