His keenest, secret, enthusiasm was the lift. It ran, or joggled, rather, up and down through the very heart of the building. It was ancient and creaky, with a folding iron gate that shuddered shut with a satisfying clatter. Inside, it was lined with red plush, and attached to the back wall, below a framed mirror, was a little wooden seat hardly deeper than a bookshelf, covered with a raggedy piece of carpet held in place by round-headed nails worn to a shine over the years by the well-upholstered posteriors of countless well-heeled guests.

At the right when you were facing out, there was a brass wheel, about a foot in diameter, with an invitingly fat brass knob fitted to the rim. It reminded Quirke of the wheel at the back of those fire engines you see in films, that firemen spin with such amazing speed when they’re unwinding hosepipes in the glare of a burning building. Every time his eye fell on it, he had a childish urge to grasp the brass knob and give the wheel a turn or two, just to see what would happen. But he lacked the courage. In some ways, Quirke was a timid man.

Yes, he liked the Londres. He was pleased to be here, there was no denying it. This, of course, made him uneasy. What of his long-worked-at reputation as a malcontent and moaner?

Chapter 4

The Basque language, written down, didn’t look like a language at all, to his eye. It seemed made up at random from handfuls of ill-assorted letters. The words were sprinkled thickly with Ks and Zs and Xs, so that a line of it, in a public announcement or above a shop window, resembled nothing so much as a string of barbed wire. Even Evelyn, who spoke many of the major European languages and some of the minor, didn’t attempt it.

The most popular local wine, a very good, slightly fizzy white, was spelled txakoli. That was one word Quirke was quick to learn how to pronounce: tchacholy.

‘So now, you see,’ Evelyn said, regarding him with solemn-eyed mockery, ‘you are learning to speak the language. Today you know how to ask for wine, tomorrow you can find out what is the word for cigarettes. Then all your needs will be taken care of.’

‘Very droll,’ he said.

‘“Droll”? Tell me, what is that?’

On their first full day at the Londres they had lain down in bed in the middle of the afternoon and made lazy love, to the rhythm of that big friendly sea creature breathing in at the wide-open window.

Rhythm, yes. Life here, for them, on this north-facing southern coast, was simply a matter of matching one’s pace to certain regulatory dictates. The sound of the crumpling waves, of church bells tolling the hour, of the lunchtime gong, these were the padded metronome beats that measured out the dreamy melody of their days, of their sea-lapped nights.