‘It would be nice to sing again, wouldn’t it, Apostoli?’ Zoë says. It is somewhere around Christmas. Perhaps: the calendar is gone. Andromache has fallen into a shallow sleep; she is no better. Zoë and Apostoli are sitting on the floor next to her with their backs against the wall, listening to gunfire crack and echo through the streets. Apostoli takes a drag on his cigarette. They have both been chain smoking all morning, and the British Army jam tin they are using for an ashtray is filling up.

‘There’s no music any more, Zozo,’ he says.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Apostoli! What do you mean?’

‘Just listen. The war. This has been going on for ever. Hasn’t it? Who’s to say it will ever end? There’s hardly any air to breathe, let alone for singing.’ He reaches up and strokes his wife’s limp hand. ‘It’s gone. I can’t feel it any more. If this does end, I’m … I’m not going to play again.’

‘Apostoli, dearest …’

‘I can’t. I’m finished. Did you know, Zozo, when I was quite small I was apprenticed to a roofer? It was when they were building the first houses in Kokkinia. I had to run up and down the ladders, bringing the men nails and drinking water. And when the men had gone home, I’d go up and just sit on the roof we were building. Above all the mess. I’m going to go back to that.’

‘A builder? For Christ’s sake!’

‘It’s all done for, Zozo. When I was sitting on my roofs I’d see these guys walking past, with the swagger and the clothes – the manges. That’s what I wanted to be then, not a nail carrier, a monkey working for a couple of drachmas a day. And I was a mangas, and it was good. But that’s all gone. There won’t be any manges now. There won’t be any Greece left after this, or Greeks. We’ll either be Russians or Americans.’

‘Or English.’

‘The English are done for. They can’t even beat a few children.’ As if to prove his point, a mortar round bursts close by. They both flinch. Andromache half wakes. She raises her head and moans. Apostoli squeezes her hand and she falls back into her uneasy sleep.

‘Americans and Russians need music too,’ Zoë points out.

‘Yeah, but what music? The rembetiko is finished. No more manges, no more hash, no more tekédhes. You’ve heard the stuff they want in the clubs now – light.’ He practically spits the word. ‘Do you want to sing that shit? Do you think they’ll want to hear Smyrneika? No one will want to remember the Catastrophe, or the slums, or …’ He shakes his head. ‘People will want to forget. Christ almighty, I want to forget. Don’t you?’