Lottie nodded and sat down again. She had been constantly at his side, watching as Jan fought for his life. He was still a terrible colour, his skin mottled, his breath laboured. It was blood poisoning, the doctor had explained. His head wound had become infected, and the sepsis had raced through his system. By rights he should be dead. He had arrived in terrible condition after hours in the truck, drifting in and out of consciousness, raving and screaming and weeping, until they had sedated him. Then he had sunk into a coma, and it had taken days before Kobus tracked down Lottie in Johannesburg. She had returned at once to take up her vigil, waiting for a sign of change, turning over in her mind the pain of her decision and the uncertainty of her future. A future without Mario.

Her first evening in Johannesburg had changed her thinking, her sense of right and wrong, tumbled her world and all that she had held dear for so many years. Sergio had encouraged her to cry, to tell him about the tragedy of her son and her problems in Rhodesia, to pour out all her sorrow and to empty herself of pent-up emotion. Then he insisted that she should rest for a couple of hours, before coming to his restaurant for a late dinner.

‘Look at me. My eyes are puffed up and my nose is scarlet, and all my clothes creased,’ Lottie said. ‘I can’t go out tonight.’

It was Elena who persuaded her to get ready, putting ice on her eyes, helping her with her make-up and her hair, calling the housegirl to press her clothes. Then she handed her sister-in-law a stiff drink.

‘You look fine,’ she said. ‘You’ll enjoy this evening. We have friends joining us, but we’re only eight.’