The hen moved off a few paces, seemingly indifferent, while the smaller tom hung back, observing. After a moment the big tom glided again toward the hen, tilting his enormous fan now this way, now that, while she wandered off again, pecking nonchalantly in the grass. The tom appeared to be readying himself for his next pass. His neck had turned bright blue. Stretching it forward, he made a tender, crooning, putt-putt-putt sound. The hen paused, faltering in her indifference. The smaller tom looked from one to the other, with an air of studious fascination. Then the hen stepped forward a few paces, and very matter-of-factly lay down in the grass. At once the big tom sailed forward, puffing out his chest feathers, fanning his dark tail like some strange satanic peacock, and climbed onto her back, his curved spike of beard waving at his throat as he trod her, the wattled skin above his neck engorged and red, his head gone entirely white, the long appendage of flesh over his bill dangling weirdly, his whole body swollen and immense, as if dilated into some billowing, fantastical and irresistible idea of itself. Scooping the hen’s tail feathers to the side with his own, he lowered himself and began thrusting. After a few seconds he stepped off and walked uncertainly away. The hen stood up and did the same.

A silence descended on us; some minor awkwardness in it that was perhaps our own voyeurism catching us unawares, or perhaps just the slightly too blatant connection to what we’d just been discussing. I made another joke, quoting from Julia’s article:

“ ‘It was all over very quickly. . . .’ ”

Marco laughed good-naturedly. “Now, now . . .”

Caitlin got up to open another bottle, a thoughtful look on her face.

“But so what actually did happen that night?” she asked when she came back. “Do you remember it at all?”

Marco looked at her, taking in the slight change of tone, and then nodded, as if to say he welcomed the question.