A short figure in pleats and lace, a shadow over by the old fig tree, the buzz of wasps in the figs, the green, resinous scent of fig … The shadow ripples, shifts to reveal a face, not young but not old either: tight skin; sharp, upturned nose; round chin; mouth that looks as if it doesn’t know how to smile, but when it does … She’ll do anything to tease out that smile.

‘Érchomai, Miss Butland!’

‘In English, Zoë!’

‘I’m coming, Miss Butland …’

Tea and cakes inside, English tea, English chocolate biscuits from Xenopoulo on Rue des Franques. Running up the path, taking care not to land on the gaps between the paving stones, because she doesn’t want to invite the evil eye. Skipping up the front steps, brushing past Miss Butland, breathing in the smell of sunlight on freshly ironed linen, clean heat and rosewater. Looking up to catch the smile as they both pass into the cool house. Inside, the ticking of many clocks, the soft voice of Mama and her friends coming from an inner room. A ribbon of sweet tobacco smoke. The train whistle again, telling her that Papa is on his way back from the city, from Smyrna, bringing her a little present as he always does: a box of loukoumi from Orisdiback, tied up with a pretty ribbon; a wooden dancing bear from the Turkish man on the corner of Trassa Street.

Until this summer, the biscuits were always from Xenopoulo and the cakes from Portier, but now those things are gone, and when she thinks of them they are slipping past her, slipping past like a carriage of the little train that always whistles as it pulls into Bournabat Station. It has been days since the train last whistled. She went every day to listen for it, and then one day … She hugs herself tightly, but the memory still comes.

‘Zoë! Come here at once!’

Outside the painted black iron of the garden gate, a man lying on his face, half on, half off the line of whitewashed stones. There is a smear of dark red on the whitewash, and flies are buzzing. A Greek man. She can tell by his clothes. There is a hole in his back.