The days were beginning to turn hotter, as June wore on. That day was the hottest yet, a strange sea fret hanging over the city, turning the sun into a gelatinous orb behind the clouds, making the air cling like gum. Beneath my shirt, the tightly laced brassiere was soon soaked through with sweat, and I longed to rip it off and dive naked into the pool.

Sweat beaded my forehead and upper lip as I worked in the kitchen. It ran down my neck and collected in the hollow of my throat, beneath the collar, where Langham’s hand had brushed my skin. I tried to concentrate. I couldn’t.

That thick heat sent me into a sort of delirium. When Bouzid came at eleven to inform me there would be seven guests for dinner and to ask what I would need from the market, I gave him a list that might have come from a deranged person. Oysters, with the cool water of the port still in their shells, and honey and champagne, saffron and artichokes. Bouzid seemed on the verge of asking me if I was well, but he knew my ways by then, and only nodded, mopping his own brow. Perhaps he thought it didn’t matter that I had lost my mind in the heat; everyone else was likely to be in the same state.

Later, when I looked down at that strange collection of ingredients, I felt the old kitchen-duende shiver rising in me. I had always tried to cook what I thought other people wanted, and yet, here were my own desires, laid out before me. I wanted the colour of the sea and the ochre sunsets seen from the best room in Dar Portuna. I wanted the sting of cold champagne on my tongue and the sear of spice from the medina street vendors. I wanted the perfume of dawn flowers and the must of unswept streets, the pungency of kif and the bitterness of hot coffee, served in a silver pot. I wanted to own the streets. I wanted to stride the world as Langham did. I wanted to be inside his skin.

My hand slipped on the oyster I was shucking, sending the knife slicing into my thumb. Blood welled, a droplet falling into the dish that held the liquor. I watched it disappear.

I cooked for so long that day, I barely had time to run to my room, scrub the sweat from my neck and change into a fresh shirt. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of myself; it showed a black-haired young man, red high on his cheeks, perspiration shimmering at his temples. Slowly, I drew the green silk tie from my pocket and put it on. Was I making a wrong move? No way to tell, until I saw Langham’s face.