‘There won’t be any record,’ Zoë says. She catches the feral scent of the hashish in her nostrils. It brings her at once to the back of the Citroën, the pipe going round, Vangeli strumming ecstatically at his baglamas. ‘We were singing “Bohemian Girl”. We were all just having fun. Oh, Panagia … I can’t talk about it,’ she says, hearing panic in her voice.

‘Of course not. Of course not, little bird. Now, let’s have a smoke, eh?’

Zoë doesn’t really want to smoke the arghile, but Niko is fussing over it so diligently that when he holds it out to her she closes her eyes and takes a drag, just to oblige him. Vangeli is there again, but the smoke runs through her body like amber and she takes another drag and hands the pipe to Micho. Her thoughts start to run. ‘I’m so tired, Niko. Do you think they’ll start bombing us again? I just want to go to sleep.’

‘Of course you do, little bird. Don’t worry about the Germans. Those pricks will never hit the Cordelio. They wouldn’t fucking dare! But aren’t you hungry? I’ll send Micho out for something: a cheese pie? Some kataifi from Prokopiou?’

Zoë waves him away. She is beginning to feel awful. She gets to her feet and both men leap up to help her. ‘Sleep, then!’ says Niko. They each take an arm and lead her, cooing as if she were a child, through the bar and out to the little room at the back of the building. Niko keeps it free for her, so she always has somewhere to sleep when it is too late to go back to Kokkinia. It is clean, and the door locks.

‘I’ll bring you water so you can wash,’ says Niko. ‘Micho! Fetch some water for Zozo, you lazy bastard!’