‘We have to understand a different culture. Live with it. Others too … it’s important that they understand ours. We are not alien. There’s a kinship …’

Marcia felt a sense of restlessness. Others had taken over her evening. She resented it. They couldn’t relinquish Domingos. They wanted to go with him to the pub. They came to the door and called Marcia.

She became stubborn. ‘You go down without me,’ she said.

‘You must come,’ Domingos pleaded, ‘this is my last evening. Don’t spoil it.’

Marcia had to be persuaded. In the pub, she gave Domingos her farewell gift. A poem.

‘Read it aloud even if we don’t understand it,’ Joyce said with slight tones of irony.

Marcia read it. Around her, people were drinking foaming mugs of beer, whisky on the rocks, cognac. In her memory the red cherries floated on the golden froth of her glass of avocat. They would sit and talk for hours, the two of them, feeling a sense of closeness among the others, each absorbed in their own concerns. Outside the glass windows, the pigeons flew about. Marcia would drop crumbs for them. Domingos would go away. She would not come to the pub again. She, too, must prepare to pack her bags, her memories, store up images, pictures of the routes, the maps, the journeys she has taken. Back to her own familiar country.

Marcia presented the poem to Domingos. There was silence as he read it. He looked up at Marcia. ‘Let me propose a toast.’ He lifted his glass of wine. ‘To the warmest, most charming and talented woman,’ he said.

It was getting late. They walked across the grass to the flat. Everybody kissed Domingos goodbye. Joyce hugged him, clung to him. ‘Come up for coffee,’ she said.

In the apartment, coffee was brewed. Marcia switched on the TV. It was a late night documentary. She did not want it to end. She felt content, not alone, with Domingos’ presence in the little lounge. He was part of all she had lived with—the table where they had sat and eaten, the chairs, the refrigerator, the electric cooker, the cupboards and shelves with the crockery and cutlery, Marcia’s dishcloth with its patterns of flowers and fruits. It was here that Domingos would come, eat stir-fry and rice, drink wine, peel fruit, bring his own offerings of a pineapple, a bottle of lambrusco.

The last programme was over. Marcia went down the stairway with Domingos. They said their final goodbye. She had managed to salvage that little bit of time alone with him to re-establish their connection, their friendship.