Lottie knew all but one of the guests. Elena had seated her beside a tall man, his face deeply lined, his eyes dark. She had the impression of an intense, sombre personality, and a reserve that made her wish she had been placed next to someone more light-hearted. His name was Mario, she discovered. And when he smiled unexpectedly she was reminded of sunrise above the darkened ridge she could see from her bedroom window at Langani. At first she found it daunting to make dinner conversation, after such a long absence from social gatherings such as these. There had been no parties in the wretched bungalow on Kobus’s farm, and she felt that she would have nothing interesting to say. But she found the conversation stimulating as the guests compared Kenya and Rhodesia, debating the precarious conditions that Ian Smith’s politics had generated and their own system of apartheid. No one mentioned the murder of her son, and Lottie was grateful not to be a subject of pity. When she spoke of Jan’s being obliged to go out on security patrols and described her fears for his safety, her grief and anger threatened to return. She saw that Mario was listening with intense sympathy.

‘It is hard to face the possibility of injury or death for someone you love,’ he said. ‘This is the most difficult thing.’

She looked at him more carefully and saw a sadness in him that mirrored her own, and she knew that for some reason he understood. After dinner they returned to Sergio’s house to gather round the piano. Lottie’s voice was a rich mezzo-soprano, and she found that Mario had a broad repertoire of Italian love songs and arias that he delivered in a fine baritone. And then there was Mozart. For Lottie it was as though everyone else in the room had faded away as she sang Zerlina’s duet with Mario as her Don Giovanni. When it was finished he took her hand and kissed her fingers, and she was shocked by the sensation of his lips on her skin.

‘Bellissima,’ he said. ‘A beautiful woman singing sublime music. There is nothing better.’