He lay back in the bed, treated himself to a groan. If Calley had flown off like one of those red-eyed pigeons (he could hear them through the window, their sad, mechanical lust) he would be free. Nothing to do but gather his things and walk out, go down to the water, find a ship for Lisbon or Cadiz. Then make his way back to his regiment—or home? Why not? Had he not earned it? A month with his family, two months perhaps; to hell with the war. As for Don Ignacio Alvarez, why should he ever see him again? And if he did, would Don Ignacio even recognise him?

When he was summoned to Don Ignacio’s house in Lisbon (or the one he had use of; it belonged, perhaps, to a more powerful man) he had imagined he was about to be thanked for his work at the inquiry, even, conceivably, offered a staff job with the Junta in Seville, aide-de-camp to one of those gentlemen who pretended to run the country while the country’s true rulers sat in the Buen Retiro in Madrid, speaking French. He had followed a servant up a flight of marble steps to a room whose windows, twice the height of a man, were shuttered against the midday sun. In the shade of the room there was the glimmer of a chandelier, and above the double doors the gilded dome of a large clock that either ran soundlessly or had stopped. The servant crossed to the right-hand window, opened the shutters. The house was near the water and the light seemed doubled by reflection. Dazzled, Medina looked down at the polished boards of the floor. When he looked up again Don Ignacio was present, had, presumably, been waiting for him in the shadows.

This house we are in, said Don Ignacio (the curtain had risen, the opera had begun), was completely destroyed in the great earthquake of ’55. It was rebuilt from its own rubble, all of it, down to the last detail, a perfect replica of what stood before. Is it, then, the same house, or a different one? He cocked an eyebrow, spread his fingers, then, in his gorgeous boots, he stepped towards Medina, close enough to share the scent of the cologne he was wearing. He said he wished they had time to sit down together, drink wine, eat a dish of almonds. Unfortunately he had many, many matters to attend to and he knew the teniente would understand. These days he slept in the saddle, his life was not his own. But while Spain lay on the rack what were they supposed to do? Play cards? Sing songs? So, to business. Your thoughts, please, on the inquiry. You may speak quite openly. There is no one here but ourselves.