The last page of the paper—or the last of what he had—offered news of the larger world. A report of the French entry into Vienna, and in the neighbouring column—the paper so sodden it was mostly illegible—a letter from a gentleman in Lisbon where they were awaiting the return of Wellesley. (Already we are wearing our summer costumes and broadest brims. Veterans of the last campaign can be seen strolling in the squares of the city with visages almost as pitchy as those of the inhabitants, whilst newcomers from England blink in the sunshine like so many owls . . . )

The woman came by again. He ordered more brandy. He thought of Lisbon, its roofs and shadows, its beggars, its sudden glimpses of the sea. He remembered the onion loft he shared with Wood. How bored they were, how excited! In the cool of early morning they exercised the horses, winding up a hill out of the city, the clink-clink of a troop of cavalry moving at walking pace between silent houses. For the first time since his father’s death he had experienced a simple contentment, one with its roots in the body, in riding and eating and sleeping. Even in dancing, for they were invited several times into the better houses to dance in painted rooms, to dance sometimes on painted floors.

And there was that girl, Lucia de something. Bad teeth, beautiful eyes. Clumsy attempts to communicate. Much laughter. Two dances to the guitar. He had bowed to her like a German when he left the party, said he hoped they would meet again. She might have said something similar. Everybody had a sweetheart then, a girl to mention in conversation. Even Lovall.

When he looked up from the paper he saw the Scaramouche had been replaced by a black man who wore on his head the model of a ship. He was looking at Lacroix—had, it seemed, been looking at him for some time—and the moment their eyes met the man began to speak, though in the din of the place, that low human roar, Lacroix could hear no more than one word in five. It did not seem to matter much. The man was telling a story, the story involved the ship, what had passed on the ship, what he, the storyteller, had suffered. He was a human theatre and this was his performance. His only one? Or did he have other hats, other stories?

Lacroix bought him a drink and another for himself. “I admire your ship,” he said.