Inside the cathedral, he stared, craning his neck, seeing belltowers, tiers of stone, some arches here and there. He found it all too ornate, too overwhelming to take in, and as he wandered, looking around, his thoughts strayed back to the time his cousin visited Australia. He was eighteen and alone, fresh out of school, wide-eyed and trusting and impressionable. After they’d spent a couple of months surfing in Wollongong, Damien had taken him on a surf trip down the coast, to Mollymook, Narooma, Merimbula, Green Cape – places with names that sounded exotic to Max’s ears. Paradise, he called it. A garden of Eden. The world ab initio, unspoiled. As if, unlike Europe, it existed outside of the troubles of history. You could shoot that idea down in a thousand different ways, but his enjoyment was so childlike that Damien didn’t want to spoil it.

After the cathedral, they hit the road, going back the way they’d come.

Hello I love you sang The Doors.

‘When do you think we’ll reach Bilbao?’ This was Max, checking his phone. ‘We could get back in a day.’

‘Two days.’

Laura was the third presence in the car, present in absentia.

‘Don’t you want to stop?’ Damien prodded his cousin. ‘Take a look at some surf spots along the coast?’

‘Yeah, I’m not super keen.’

‘You’re a pain, you know that, right?’

‘Yes, of course I know. How could I not know? It takes a lot of effort to be this much of a pain.’

Damien laughed. Alright. They could skip some beaches. He had his own reason for agreeing: he’d read the forecast that morning, and he wanted to get back to the river mouth, just past Bilbao.

He pushed the limit on the highway, nudging the needle. They kept the rainclouds behind them, low formations in the mirror, marshmallow turning into steel. The sight made him think of something Laura said, that he had to see a show at the Guggenheim. A Richard Serra exhibition, all steel, in great big arcs. You’ll love it, she said. I promise. Leaving the impression that she might take him to see it.

Laura, who he suspected of being remarkable. The only person he knew who had danced with a prince – and hated it.

In the evening, when they stopped, he called his dad at home. He wandered away from the guesthouse and along the darkening street. Trip’s going well, he told him. How is everything at home? Then, when the call ended, he risked making another call, dialling the number in the soft night air.

The next day was Wednesday. The sky was grey but it didn’t rain. The forecast was for swells of four to five foot. ‘We’re in business,’ Damien said.

‘How much business?’

‘Big business.’ Deciding he could afford to go easier on Max, he dug out the cassettes he had hidden in the back.