He asked this partly to needle Max, partly genuinely wanting to know how he justified his choices. This question had been on Damien’s mind of late. He wished he could be as blithe as Max, as cheerfully unconcerned.

Max didn’t take offence; he was eager to explain. He launched into a long and complicated speech about why he couldn’t work in Italy if he tried. He knew so many people his age who were struggling to find jobs. ‘It’s not just the economy, it’s politics, everything.’ He went on to talk in a world-weary tone about how graft and corruption ‘corrode the civic fabric’.

‘Graft, huh,’ said Damien, if only to stop him going on. ‘Is that like fixing up your house with money from an earthquake fund?’

His cousin shot him daggers. ‘There was earthquake damage to the house.’

Damien, mischievous, grinned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Significant damage, was it?’

They were talking about their grandparents’ house. It was in a small, neglected village in the Italian countryside, some distance from Treviso. Thanks to a grant from an earthquake recovery fund, it had a new front facade and driveway. Damien was sure the earthquake damage was minor, the worst effects of the quake having been felt in other regions. He figured the grant application was opportunistic at best. It would be like his uncle to make the most of the situation.

‘Look, I was there,’ Max protested. ‘I went up there with Dad. What would you know? I didn’t see you there at weekends trying to fix the place.’

‘It’s his house now. Your dad’s.’

‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘No.’

‘Your dad does, though, I hear.’

‘What would he want with it? He’s old.’

‘He could give it to you.’ He said this lightly but with intent.

‘That’s what’s worrying you, is it?’

With impeccable timing, they came to their surf spot of the day, or supposed surf spot. The Playa del Silencio – or Beach of Silence – in Asturias. The silence part was apt, since they weren’t talking to each other. It was another amphitheatre cove, ridiculously steep, with a rim of dark grey sand. The surf was still non-existent, to Damien’s chagrin, but he felt sure the swell was coming because the water was cold, properly cold.

To hell with Max, he thought. I am not my cousin’s keeper.

He swam out a long way, alone, floated on his back, spouted water. Then he stared at the horizon and willed the swell to come.

Maybe he did it wrong, the whole manifesting thing. What they got was not swell but rain. They had to run back to the car. The rain wouldn’t harm the boards, but the car interiors and their bags would cop it.