Friday came, and with it a constant ringing of the bell at the gate. Barrows of fruit and vegetables from the market, baskets of nuts, sacks of sugar and flour. Bouzid was the king of operations, and between us we carried box after box through to the kitchen. None of the delivery people were allowed within the walls of Dar Portuna. Not even the woman who brought the flowers – blood-red roses and pale lilies, voluptuous hibiscus and dreaming jasmine. Even the eccentric French decorator was allowed in only on the condition he remained with Hilde at all times. Such caution would’ve seemed extreme to me, had it not been for the conversation I had overheard the night before, the fact that Langham was clearly preoccupied with something.

When the bell rang for the twelfth time, I was ready to take a hammer to it. I yanked the gate open, ready to receive whatever crate of booze or ice or frivolity had been ordered, only to find Souissa’s little boy, his eyes huge as always.

‘Hola, Daniel,’ I told him wearily. ‘Have you brought my suit?’ In truth, I had almost forgotten about it in my worry.

But the child’s arms were empty. ‘No,’ he whispered to my shoes. ‘Papa asked if you might come to the shop. He needs to check the fit on you, señor.’

I couldn’t keep down a noise of frustration. Perhaps I had been wrong to entrust an expensive suit of white flannel to Souissa, who probably did not have occasion to make many of them.

‘All right,’ I told Daniel, a little irritably, ‘tell your father I will be there in half an hour. I need the suit ready by tomorrow.’ I knew Langham would think it the perfect thing for the party.

The boy was nodding, backing away into the dusty street. I let him go, and went to struggle into the brassiere, and find my hat. Hilde was deep in conversation with the decorator, Bouzid and Langham shut up in the study. The thought of knocking on the door and hearing their voices cut off, knowing he was keeping secrets from me, was too much for my strained nerves. Instead, I scrawled a note on a piece of brown paper and left it on the kitchen table.

Gone to tailor, back soon. A.

I walked the alleyways of the casbah, moving to the side to make way for a lady with two brimming buckets of water. I tipped my hat to Hilde’s friend Mademoiselle Alisée, who sat outside the Café Central sipping Pernod with her florid gentleman. I strolled freely, just a young man about his business, without worrying for my safety, without cringing at stares or catcalls; finally, I felt the streets were mine.

With a light heart, I pushed open Souissa’s door.

‘Hola, friend,’ I called, ‘I hear you are having some trouble—’