A fly came in. It flew a circuit of the room. The men stood, unspeaking, as if waiting to see if it would find its way out again. It did. Medina drew himself up, stood to attention. He asked, formally, that he might be excused this particular honour. His wish, his only wish, was to meet the enemy in open battle, to fight and if necessary, to die for Spain, as so many of his ancestors had (they had not; they had grown white grapes; they had been thin, hardy, long-lived, gentle). He made a little speech of it, concluding with some flattering references to Don Ignacio and to the people he supposed Don Ignacio served. When he finished, Don Ignacio nodded. He glanced again at the stopped clock, then gestured to the tapestry that hung on the wall between the windows. It was very old, Flemish perhaps, and its colours had faded. In places you could make out only the weave.

What do you see there? he asked.

Is it a hunt? asked Medina.

It may be, said Don Ignacio. Or a procession or a wedding party or an army on the march. He smiled. Someone would know. He reached up and touched Medina’s cheek.

The honour is yours, he said. If there was someone else who could go, well, that someone would be here now and the teniente . . . somewhere else. Anyway, he was only passing on the orders of another. He was only the messenger. Everything had already been decided. Go and come back, he said. Make us proud. Make your family proud. El honor es tuyo.

At this (it was a short opera, one act, perhaps a pantomime), the doors were opened and the servant announced a visitor. A woman, of course. Don Ignacio spread his arms. Here was the world again, beating at his door! He smiled once more, then turned away and walked into the depths of the room. Medina bowed to his back. There was no more to be said. Everything had already been decided. He went down the stairs, the heels of his boots clack-clacking on the marble steps, his yellow jacket floating in mirrors that he now saw were riddled with fine cracks as though covered in a film of cobwebs. Outside, in the shade of a flowering jacaranda tree, the English captain, Henderson, was waiting for him. Medina followed him like a lamb. It was the time of day when shadows are more real than the men who cast them.