He woke in a sweat at noon and pushed back the shutters, feeling as if he’d been running all night. Outside, the city was alive. He breathed it deep, tasting the bustle of the day, the tang of the sea, burning rubber, wet dust from washing. Leaving the window open, he went back to the tangled sheets and looked down at the writing case, open on the floor, surrounded by ink-scrawled papers. The pencil-written page lay on the top now. Rubbing his eyes, he picked up the stub of pencil from the case, wondering if it was the same one which had written that feverish note.

After a while, he fished around for a scrap piece of paper. Not the stuff from the writing case, he wasn’t making that mistake again. Instead, he found the airmail letter from his parents, clumsily folded. Such a grateful son, he thought as he smoothed it out and wrote on the back:

A. L. = A?

Alejandro del Potro?

Game – rules?

28.7.1928?

Continental?

Blood and Sand?

Sorry?

There was something else, some word that had prickled at him. Going back to the beginning of the letter, he saw it:

D Portuna.

D Portuna. An unfamiliar word. Someone’s name? He scrawled it down, followed by another infuriating question mark.

By mid-afternoon, he was wandering up the Rue Anoual, turning it all over in his mind. A writing case lost to the casbah, a letter never sent, a suitcase never collected, all fifty years ago. A strange passport and now this name: Portuna.

It was like eavesdropping on a conversation, without being able to hear the whole thing. He’d fill in the gaps using his imagination; weave these fragments together into characters, events, into a story that made sense.

If you’re going to play the game, you have to learn the rules.

Smiling, he pushed open the door of the Gran Café de Paris. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the waft of warm air from the ceiling fans. He shouldn’t waste money, not even on coffee. Even with the small flush of cash from Abdelhamid, things would soon begin to look threadbare again. There was nothing else to sell, no one else to ask, except maybe Norton … The idea made him grimace. But what the hell, he decided, he couldn’t stay in his room all day, and it was only a dirham. He sat down in the corner, and placed the writing case in front of him. His head was bubbling over with ideas, just waiting to be brought to life in scratchy ink.

‘Café, shukran,’ he said to the waiter who appeared on the other side of the table.

‘Excusez-moi, vous êtes appelé Hackett?’

He looked up in shock. He’d never told anyone at the café his name.

‘Yes.’ He half stood from the chair. ‘Is everything all right?’