‘In a minute. Wait.’ Zoë goes out through the back door. Tom fidgets with his cigarettes, sips at his wine, but after a few minutes she reappears with Apostoli and a tall, very thin young man with brilliantined hair and a waxed moustache. A young woman with peroxide-blonde ringlets framing a pale, unformed face is clinging to his arm. Her blue eyes drift over the crowd with a sort of detached hunger. Her boyfriend would look like a caricature bounder, Tom thinks, if he weren’t genuinely good-looking. Because the young man is handsome, but there is something childlike, almost innocent about him despite the hair and the suit he is wearing, an Al Capone cast-off. He mutters something to the blonde woman and she walks off, submissively, and finds a seat in the far corner.

‘This is my brother, Pavlo Valavani,’ says Zoë, putting her hand on the young man’s shoulder. Tom stands up and holds out his hand.

‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ he says. ‘I hope your ribs are healing.’

‘Yes, they are much better. Thank you.’ The young man bows elegantly. ‘An Australian ambulance came by later in the day. And I must thank you for bringing my sister home safely.’ His English is perfect but, compared to Zoë’s, sounds forced and slightly artificial.

‘Go and help Apostoli. I will be just a moment,’ says Zoë, giving her brother a peck on the cheek. She watches him limp through the tables, then sits down opposite Tom. ‘We are going to play and sing,’ she says. ‘A special night. In a way it is a funeral for Vangeli, because …’ Her face crumples for a moment, then she is composed again. ‘They had to bury him there, by the road. And also we do not know what will happen so we will sing now in case we cannot sing later.’

‘I understand,’ Tom says. ‘Zoë, I know this probably won’t help, but I had to bury some good men too, in the last few days. Wherever we happened to be. It doesn’t mean one doesn’t care.’

Zoë reaches out and lets her hand rest on the tips of his fingers for a moment. ‘I can see that you care, Tom. But tonight’ – she looks around the room – ‘the war is just beginning for us, and we remember Vangeli and the others who have died so far – hundreds just here in Piraeus – but in a year? Two or three years? Will we still remember then? So I think it’s best if we do it now, while we still can.’

‘Apostoli is waving at you,’ says Tom. ‘Surely your brother can’t play, though? He must be in pain.’