‘It wasn’t work,’ Tom says. He draws in the condensation on the table with a paint-stained finger. ‘I was looking for Zoë Valavani. You remember me talking about her, don’t you?’

‘Of course! Your mysterious singer from Smyrna. Wait a minute. Don’t tell me that’s why you’re here?’

Tom starts to answer, but at that moment, Seferis returns with Egyptian beer.

‘George has been with the Winston circus as well,’ says Dimitriou.

‘Ah, yes. Finally, the British Empire has noticed us.’ Seferis shakes his head. ‘I am as yet undecided if this is a good or a bad thing.’

‘Bad,’ says Dimitriou.

‘Chris would like ELAS to be triumphant,’ Seferis tells Tom. ‘And I would have agreed with him, even a few months ago. But everything has changed since October. The KKE dominate ELAS in a way that they did not during the occupation. When the choice was between Greek heroes and Nazi barbarians, well, that was no choice at all. Now, though, the choice, as I see it, is between Stalin and Churchill. I truly believe we are seeing the first shots of a new war: Soviet Empire against British Empire. If I am to be forced to choose – and we shall all be forced, alas – I will throw in my lot with Churchill.’

‘But why, George?’ Dimitriou is shaking his head with friendly exasperation.

‘Archbishop Damaskinos is to be the new regent: that’s decided. He is a bit of a peasant but he is a republican and a liberal and he is stubborn enough to resist these bloody monarchists. If the king returns, there will be disaster. But Churchill, and Ambassador Leeper, have convinced me that Britain won’t allow that. I too am a republican and a liberal. I couldn’t live under some sort of Greek politburo.’

‘I had the same thought today,’ Tom says. ‘About new beginnings. Something dreadful waiting to be born.’

‘What were you doing?’ Dimitriou asks.

‘Identifying bodies. A massacre of civilians. Seven dead, all shot in the back of the head. No apparent reason. I was with the unit which was detailed to collect any identification.’

Luckily, Seferis decides to steer the conversation to sunnier places, and when Tom goes up to bed it is with a head full of discussions on art, writing, landscape, home and exile. And an invitation to dinner tomorrow night, at the Seferises’ house on Kydathinaion Street. After Seferis said goodnight, though, Dimitriou paused in the lobby.