When the señora returned, Samanta heard the front door slam, the iron knocker sounding twice. Then along the hall the floorboards creaked with pain and the small vases and glass bowls on the shelves and side tables rattled and shook with the señora’s firm striding. A small picture frame slid flat. Samanta came out from the kitchen to see, but her mistress was already on the stairs.

‘Señora?’ she said.

‘You can go home, Samanta.’

‘Are you not feeling well?’

Elisabeth paused on the landing, looked down at the girl but said nothing. She looked right through her and Samanta felt herself shiver.

‘I can fix some tea, Señora,’ she said. ‘Special herbs I have from the mountains, they will help if you are unwell . . .’

‘Please, Samanta.’ Elisabeth held up her hand. ‘Obey me.’

‘Yes, Señora.’

Samanta stayed, of course, but was too scared to ascend the stairs and listen at the bedroom door in case the señora heard her coming. She waited in the kitchen. She made the herbal tea and prayed to the Virgin. Samanta knew she couldn’t stay all night, but was torn and in two minds. The señora would be very displeased if she discovered her there in the kitchen, but she felt that she should wait, in case she was needed, in case the señora called for her.

Samanta waited but heard nothing. What could the señora be doing? Samanta waited for as long as she could, but when the dark came, the silence seemed to thicken in her ears. She was afraid. Eventually, like a thief, Samanta crept out of the house and hurried home.

The next morning when she returned, the señora gave her money and sent her away to spend time with her family in Los Lagos.

NEW LIFE

He’d taken back his true name and found work unloading ships. He rented a small room in a faded blue hotel, full of scarred, tail-less cats over in the poorer part of town, where the lanes smelled of stale urine and the nights were loud with singing and fighting. He’d bought a book from a street stall and read from it every evening (it was Goethe, in Spanish, he had to read slowly). There was a cantina not far away, where every day Johannes Meyer ate grilled fish and drank sweet white wine the colour of straw.

He took his time with everything, settled into a calm that savoured every moment. He walked unhurriedly, ate slowly, worked hard, slept deeply, read and let his imagination roam. One of the cats adopted him. The hours were long and kind and lingered like welcome guests.

He believed them, these hours, or wanted to, but in truth he remained suspicious of the contentment they seemed to bestow. It lessened over time, this suspicion, but never truly faded. He wondered if it ever would (it wouldn’t). His contentment had a cautious air.