‘You remember your Bible stories, don’t you?’

‘Sure,’ I say, ‘they were the first stories I ever heard,’ but I don’t tell him that only one still dwells deeply fixed in my consciousness, unable to be shaken free.

‘It’s what I had to do. Turn my eyes in a different direction. Look up. Make things with my hands. Honour the earth. Believe that the next hungry, sun-blistered soul stumbling through here might be the angel.’

He rubs his eyes, and I’m not sure whether it’s to see more clearly or because tears are starting, but the idea of Donovan crying is something more than I can bear and I turn my head away until he composes himself once more. Then, in what suddenly feels like my final chance, I take advantage of this second moment of unexpected vulnerability to seize the opportunity.

‘What happened to Tuyen, what happened to her child?’

‘Mikey, Mikey,’ he says, turning again to the window.

He stares out and a silence settles on the room.

‘I need to know, Iggy. I just need to know.’

‘I know that, Mikey,’ he says, without turning around. ‘You always need to know. Always needed to know you were doing the right thing, even when, because of where we were and the times we found ourselves in, doing the right thing wasn’t always possible any more. And you, as much as anyone, know I didn’t understand what the right thing was. I was lost, Mikey, trapped inside my own darkness, unable to lift my eyes to something better.’

‘So what happened to her?’ I persist, desperate to cut through this psychobabble.

‘There was confusion everywhere,’ he says, slowly facing me, holding both his hands palms upwards so that dust seems to drift through the splay of his fingers. ‘Everything was falling apart. Everyone was getting out and those who couldn’t get out were going into hiding. She got away – that’s all I know.’

But I don’t believe him and he sees the disbelief in my face.

‘My memory’s not good, Mikey. Things get jumbled up. Faces and names don’t always match up any more. Once I could list the winners of the World Series in sequence – right back to Boston Americans, all the way back. Now I don’t know what I did yesterday.’

‘Tell me, Iggy. Did you try to get her out? Tell me the truth,’ I say, angry that when it came to the crunch he sought refuge in a weakness that the rest of his life would have disdained.

‘That’s enough, Mikey,’ Melissa says, suddenly appearing from the kitchen.

Donovan drops his hands to his sides and shakes his head slowly like a punch-drunk boxer waiting for the towel to be flung in the ring. But I have used up my compassion. Melissa comes and stands beside Donovan, resting a hand on his shoulder, and I wonder what her touch feels in the ebb of his physical strength. Does it merely serve to strengthen her love or does the emptiness fill her with fear?