She polishes a glass and holds it up to the light, steals a glance at him over the rim. She can almost feel him trying to hold on to his dignity while his hunger is forcing him the other way. He has taken off his coat and underneath it, the leather case she remembers from yesterday hangs crosswise from one shoulder. A large pistol in a leather holster is dragging a dirty khaki belt down across his hips. He is trying to eat calmly, distracting himself from his obvious hunger by looking around the room, and his eyes, she notices, are caught by everything they encounter: the swords, the print of the harem girl, the photo of New York. She puts the glass down next to the plate and pours out some of Niko’s sour yellow wine.

‘Those two chaps over there. Are they … ? I mean, do you think … ?’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ she tells him. ‘Kosta and Christo are both members of the communist party. They want you to know that they have also fought against fascism.’

‘Oh!’ He almost doubles over in relief. The old men are looking over at him with unabashed curiosity and he waves a long hand in greeting. ‘How do you say “good morning” in Greek?’ he asks her.

‘Καλημέρα.’

‘Kaliméra! ’ the officer says, experimentally. The two old men raise their hands and nod their heads politely. He waves back shyly, takes a gulp of wine. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he says.

‘Then don’t. In any case it is just fate.’

‘Fate?’

‘You driving by when you did. You might not have stopped. Or I might have been dead.’ She says it flatly, and his eyebrows go up. I’ve shocked you, she thinks. You are easy to shock, you English.

‘Well, yes, that’s true,’ he says after a pause. ‘But I’m very glad you’re not.’ He sighs. ‘And I’m bloody glad I’m not, too. We’re both lucky.’

‘Forgive me for saying that no one in Greece is particularly lucky today. We have lost the war. And we have lost our freedom.’

‘For now! But …’

‘I look into your face and I see that you do not know what that means. We have lost, and you have not, Mr English Officer. You still have hope.’

‘But that isn’t bad, surely?’

‘In England, no. Or Berlin. In Athens, even – in Kolonaki, where the nice houses are. But down here in Karaiskaki, everyone here learnt not to hope a very long time ago.’

‘I can’t believe that!’

‘Really? We might have hoped that the Germans would be beaten. We might have been hoping the British Army would save us. Imagine the disappointment. Luckily, no one dared think any such thing. Do you understand?’

‘That seems terribly grim.’

‘But useful. Yes? Sensible. Learn to expect nothing, and you are never disappointed.’