Zoë is having none of it. She pushes her chair away and runs around the tables to where the boy, Sólon, is still bent over, his hands on his knees, his face white. Zoë marches up to him, leans down. ‘What were you doing to my brother, you bastard?’ she barks into his ear. Sólon looks up, wincing.

‘Caught him stealing wine,’ he pants. ‘Thief … son of a Turk …’

Zoë knows just what to do next. Indeed, she has her foot drawn back, ready for the blow, when she glances over towards the band – a guilty conscience, perhaps? – and sees Mama Katina waving to her, beckoning her over. She sighs in frustration, bends down again and hisses in the boy’s ear.

‘If I ever catch you calling my brother a Turk again, you dirty pig, I’ll do you in, hear me? I’ll kick your fat arse all the way to Constantinople, and we’ll see what the Turks think of you then.’ She walks away, ignoring his strangled curses.

Mama is waving to her from under the awning. ‘Mrs Vlessas wants to hear you sing, koukla,’ she says.

‘What, here?’ Zoë stares at her in horror.

‘She always says how much she loves your voice. I told her you would.’

‘But I can’t! Not in front of all these people!’

‘Then sing with me. We can do “Elli, Elli”. It’s easy. You know it backwards.’

Zoë sees Mrs Vlessas looking at her hopefully. Oh, God … Well, she thinks, I did eat all her food. I suppose …

‘All right. But I’m going to sing quietly.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Mama grins and takes hold of Zoë’s hand, playfully but firmly. She says something to the band and before Zoë can change her mind, they launch into the song, which she has heard a hundred times and sung, yes, quite often enough to remember the words. It starts with a lurching figure, then drops into a little jog between octaves. Mr Semsis, the famous violinist, bends his head over his instrument and, looking up, winks encouragingly at her. She begins to tap her foot. Lurch, then jog. Mama nudges her.

Elli was shapely,

and her hair was black, her hair was black.

She’s never sung with a proper band before. As she sings, she feels the music – the clarinet that wails on the edge of control, the demanding voice of the violin, the drum, the jingle of Mama’s tambourine, all of it dancing inside her.

Elli, Elli, the soldier doesn’t want you

Because you kiss with jaded lips.