‘Wasn’t that her sister?’ Zoë says, watching enviously as Mrs Bakas licks her fingers. She is stuffed to the gills, but even so … ‘Mama had a shop that sold dresses, you know.’

Mrs Bakas shakes her head, concentrating on the kataifi which has left sticky threads of pastry on her chin. ‘No, no. Katina was the singer first. Marika was much younger. Katina had the better voice anyway. She used to sing in that big cafe … What was it called? The Trieste! And in some of the others. The better ones, mind. She was respectable.’ Mrs Bakas clears her throat and waves to a boy who is going around with a brass tray loaded with little cups of coffee. ‘One of those! Thank you. Yes, she was respectable. Her father did something with the railway in Boudjah. She did sewing, too, but it was the singing she loved. Anyway, it was at the Trieste that she met your father, of course.’ Mrs Bakas takes a sip of her coffee, and frowns. ‘Not your father. Christ on the cross, I’m losing my memory. Pavlo’s father. Import, export: the fig business. Lots of money. He took her out of the cafes. Married her just like that’ – she snaps her fingers – ‘and set her up on Frank Street in her own shop. Oh, God! You should have seen that place.’ She shakes her head, drains the little coffee cup.

Zoë has never asked Mama Katina about her past, because she knows that if she hears the story of Katina’s life, she, Zoë, won’t be in it. She feels like stopping Mrs Bakas, but it is too late. So instead, she asks one of the questions she has never dared ask Mama.

‘So, her husband … what happened to him?’

‘Same as what happened to all of them.’ Mrs Bakas signals for another coffee. ‘The Turks rounded up all the men – boys as well – who were fit. The others …’ She shrugs. ‘The old, children, those they sent down to the waterfront to let fate decide. If they couldn’t walk, dear God, they killed them there and then. Katina’s husband saw a friend of his, a Turkish officer. He stepped out of line to go and talk to him, and the soldiers killed him with their bayonets, on the spot. Oh, my God … But I won’t tell you any more. It isn’t for the ears of children.’ She sighs and rubs her eyes. ‘Aman! The pity of it all. What times. What times.’