“Athina,” said the man. “Nekros. Athina.”

“Athena?” Mimi raised her voice, in case volume was going to lead to understanding. “The goddess of wisdom and war?”

“I think he means Athens. They’re either dead or they went to Athens.”

“Nei, nei.” The old man hurried to the iron gate and held it open. “Mavrias,” he said again, with emphasis. “Mavrias.”

The house was a square two-storey. It sat by itself on a piece of land with a view of the valley to the west. There was a large tree in the yard that had probably been there when my grandfather was a child. To the side of the house, on the second floor, was a balcony that looked out at the church in the distance.

The old man stood by the fence and gestured me forward with his hands.

“Look, Bird,” she said, “he’s telling you that this is yours.”

“Maybe.”

“The family pile,” said Mimi. “Your grandfather’s house. Come on, Bird, that’s got to make you feel good.”

“Sure.”

I stood in front of the house and looked out across the land. There were clouds in the distance that weren’t going to reach us anytime soon. The air was warm and filled with the smell of dry grass and olive trees.

Mimi reached down, picked up a grey and white stone and handed it to me. “Thomas Blackbird Mavrias,” she said. “Lord of the manor.”

BY THE TIME MIMI returns to the table, her cappuccino and chocolate cake are waiting for her. I’ve already tried a bite of her cake, and this is the first thing she notices.

“You ate my cake.”

“You always eat mine.”

“That’s different.” Mimi sips her coffee. “So, how is it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you depressed again?”

“Just tired.”

“It’s the refugees, isn’t it?” says Mimi. “You don’t like seeing children in distress.”

I can’t imagine that anyone likes to see anyone in distress, but as soon as I think this, I remind myself that I’m wrong. For the most part, no one much cares what happens to other people, just so long as it doesn’t happen to them. We have the capacity for compassion. We simply don’t practise it to any degree.

It’s more an ideal that we hang on a wall where it’s easy to see and almost impossible to reach.

“The cake is good,” says Mimi. “You should get your own piece.”

“Not hungry.”

“Then I could have a bite of yours.”

“We should head back to the station.” I check the clock on the wall. “You want to try to find the university and that copper strip?”

“What about the refugees?”

I don’t see the rage until it’s on me. “Maybe we can talk Two-Cent Jim into donating a couple pallets of bottled water.”

“That’s not nice.”