She grins at Apostoli. It is a good band tonight: along with Apostoli there is a young bouzouki player called Manousalis, and a friend of Batis on guitar. Strumming away on a baglamas is none other than Niko, who arrived out of the blue from Salonika. His sudden appearance feels like an omen of spring. It didn’t taken him long, though, to find out sad news. His old friend Micho is dead, shot by the Germans. The two old KKE men have both died in Haidari. Of the old crowd from the Cordelio, half are dead or disappeared.

‘Will you rebuild it?’ Zoë asked.

‘No. It wouldn’t be the same. I think I’ll go back to sea. Back to New York, maybe.’

It is very late. They have packed up and are sitting around, drinking brandy, talking to the owner about another engagement, when a man comes in through the back. He has his cap pulled down over his head and is wearing a long, dark coat. Zoë doesn’t recognise him. She is just wondering if he is with EAM, because the owner of this club has connections, when he comes and stands in front of her.

‘Are you Zoë Valavani?’ he asks. There is something in his voice that she doesn’t like.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m a friend of your brother. Can you come with me, if you please?’

‘A friend of Pavlo? What are you talking about?’ says Zoë, the night and the brandy making her dismissive. ‘Why should I go with you?’ Apostoli is on his feet, and the stranger holds up his hands.

‘I’m not here to make trouble, mangas,’ he tells him. ‘I have … some news, but I don’t want to tell you here, Kyria Valavani.’ He gestures towards the door.

‘I’m coming with you,’ says Apostoli. They follow the stranger to the back of the room. He takes out a cigarette with unsteady hands, cups his hands around the flame of a lighter. As the light flares it picks out his wasted cheeks, the mangas moustache only emphasising the way his skin is stretched tight over his skull. Heroin skin. Zoë already knows what he is going to say because she has been waiting for this moment, this messenger, for years.

‘Pavlo’s dead,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry you’ve got to hear it from a stranger. He’s dead. God help him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Apostoli growls, but Zoë touches his sleeve. ‘Tell me,’ she says, looking the man in the face, trying to get him to meet her eyes.

‘We were at the Teké tou Elefantás. It’s in Metaxourgeiou …’

‘I know where it is,’ says Zoë. The place where Pavlo plays when he’s not with them.