‘Hashish,’ he says. Hassiss. Niko leans over the bar and says something to him, and he shrugs and mutters something in reply. Tom turns around, puzzled, but Niko seems happy.

‘Pavlo, Pavlo the madman, he’s got the last piece of hashish in Piraeus,’ he says. ‘And he says, let everyone have a smoke, because when it’s gone …’ He shakes his head. ‘Good stuff too. The best: from Brusa.’

‘Isn’t it against the law?’

‘Against the law? Of course!’

‘Then what about … ?’ Tom tilts his head towards the gendarme.

‘Sólon? Sólon don’t mind. He don’t smoke but he … what do you say? He looks another way. Five years ago, hashish was legal. Well, not exactly legal. But nobody gave a damn.’ He chuckles. ‘Then the bastard Metaxas says it isn’t Greek. Greek, Turkish, I ask you: what the hell? Sólon, he hates Metaxas, so he lets us do what we want. Bouzoukis, rembetiko, hashish … eh, Sólon?’ He rattles off a burst of Greek and the gendarme sighs and rolls his eyes.