Asquith monopolised Valia’s company with minor personal questions, inserting these queries from across the table whenever Benny and his man spoke directly to each other. On several instances Asquith spoke Greek, and what he wanted in these exchanges, Lucky figured, was a special channel of exchange, an intimate connection.

‘My Greek isn’t too good,’ Valia whispered to Lucky.

‘Nor is mine,’ said Benny Goodman.

‘There’s something not quite right about the people at this table,’ she said, again in a low voice. ‘I get that feeling.’

‘What do you mean? And whatever it is, does it worry you?’

‘No, I’ll stay.’

Lucky let the other three talk. Maybe this was something you did if you were a professional artist: you put yourself in the hands of other people. They made something of you. In strange cities you sat down with people you hadn’t met before and hoped it worked out. Lucky tried to understand a public role he would never hold. Why was it touching to him, seeing that gleam of appreciation on Asquith’s face? Would it have meant anything to the real Benny Goodman? That evening he confirmed an old suspicion: Lucky believed the successful person lived a much simpler life.

All the other people in the Collins Hotel, the audience, were leaving. They were saying goodbye to Benny Goodman, offering a word or two and asking for a handshake on their way out.

‘That was real music!’ said one person.

‘Will you come back?’ said another.

‘Next time I’d like to see Benny Goodman with his band.’

Eventually the hotel looked like a depopulated dream. There was the sound of doors being shut upstairs. Gregor and Valia spoke quietly to each other, and Lucky tried to display an attitude of sangfroid, but really he felt alarmed by the idea of never seeing Valia again. Asquith left to find the hotelier, in the hope their small but important party would be permitted to continue. From the bar you could hear booms and shudders in the hotel plumbing. Lucky’s sneeze was so loud it sounded out of character. Valia linked her arm in his, and she and Lucky and the seat all seemed to creak at the same time. The table at their booth was made of marble, patched with cement. In a low voice, Lucky said: ‘It doesn’t feel right to deceive you, or even to try for much longer. I’m not Benny Goodman. But I think you already figured we’re fakes.’

‘Perhaps I didn’t,’ said Valia. Her chin dipped as she smiled; her eyes drifted over the room. ‘Why would you pretend?’

‘To be someone else for a change. To go beyond ourselves. To have fun. Until tonight it hasn’t gone much to plan, though.’

‘I think it’s amusing,’ said Valia. ‘And Mr Asquith believes everything.’

‘My real name is Vasilis.’

‘Then we have the same name. Valia is short for Vasiliki.’