‘He says – he doesn’t speak good English – that he wants to help any man who has been fighting the Germans.’ The gendarme speaks again; Zoë nods. Tom tries to follow the conversation but it is impossible. ‘There is a soldier, Yiorgos, who is trying to escape. Sólon knows this man. He is going to try and help you leave Greece with Yiorgos and some other soldiers, but it is very dangerous for him.’ She says something to Sólon, who shakes his head, smiling ruefully. He says something back, and looks at Tom. ‘He says he would like to go with you to … to join the British Army, but he believes it is his duty to stay. I told you, he is a good man.’

‘Tell him thank you,’ says Tom, very touched. ‘I would never have expected such kindness from strangers.’ Zoë translates, and to Tom’s amazement the gendarme takes his face between his rough palms and plants two bristly kisses on his cheeks. Then he turns to Zoë and says something else, laughs.

‘He wants to know if I am going to sing some more,’ she says.

‘Are you?’

‘Do you like it? Our music?’

‘Very much. I don’t understand it at all, but … what is it called?’

‘The first song we played, the slower one, we call that Smyrneika. The songs we brought with us from Asia Minor.’

‘It’s funny, I thought they sounded Indian.’

‘Indian!’ Zoë’s eyebrows go up. ‘I’ve never heard Indian. Is it a good thing?’

‘I think so, yes. What about the other songs, like the one your brother sang? They’re different.’

‘You liked them?’ He nods sincerely. ‘That is called rembetika. That is our music. Smyrneika is memory. Rembetika is our life now.’

‘And what do you sing about?’

‘Oh! Death. Murder, hopeless love, drinking, poverty, hashish …’ She chuckles at the look on his face. Taking a cigarette from his packet, she leans forward for a light. ‘Now I must sing again,’ she says, and once again her face transforms into a mask. She turns away and makes her way serenely to where the band are waiting.

She sings a song with her brother, the music snapping at their heels as they mix their pure and rough voices. ‘Rembetika?’ Tom wonders, aloud. Sólon grins and nods.

‘Rembetika! Good, good,’ he says. ‘I …’ He taps his chest. ‘I like rembetika very much.’

‘So do I,’ says Tom, and leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes and listens. The song comes to an end and there is a sudden commotion. Tom sees Pavlo laughing and holding up a small dark object between a finger and a thumb. The audience is cheering.

‘What’s that?’ Tom asks the gendarme, who is shaking his head, looking amused but slightly irritated.