‘That we’d always have each other,’ Zoë says, brightly. She tries to smile and doesn’t quite manage it.

‘I don’t want to go to the cafe,’ he mutters.

‘You spend your life in cafes.’

‘Not like this.’

‘You have to be there, Pavlo. I don’t want go either, but this is the way it has to be.’

‘Here they all are. God, what a crowd.’ He sniffs, then waves. ‘Thank Christ, Apostoli is here, Apostoli and the lads.’

‘Of course they came, thick-head.’ Zoë pinches his cheek gently, then steps back and straightens his tie. ‘It’s the band. Mama’s band.’ She tries to smile. ‘Did you think they came for you?’

‘Calm down, Zozo. Aman …’ He shakes her off, but she can see the gratitude in his eyes. ‘Where are we going, then?’

She leads him around the corner to a large cafe on Kafkasou Street, where the owner is expecting them. Mama Katina had put money aside for the funeral, but Zoë has had to make all the arrangements, going reluctantly for advice to the oldest and most experienced of the neighbourhood ladies. There has to be a little gathering after the burial, and Pavlo and Zoë must pay for coffee, brandy and a paximadi rusk for each mourner. Then they will go back to the house with Mama’s closest friends for the traditional fish soup. Venetia Kodjagas, who is an encyclopaedia of all things funereal, has told Zoë exactly which cafe to book – ‘Not him, he’s a thief. Not there, the paximadi are so hard we’ll all choke’ – and has even ordered the soup from Dimitriou’s Taverna, in obvious anticipation of a place at the meal. Zoë stands at the door with Pavlo, welcoming each guest, and then makes her way from table to table, making sure that everyone has their refreshments, muttering ‘may God forgive her’ in the traditional way. Pavlo wants to sit with his friends but after they have kissed him they shoo him away to do his duty. When the ritual offerings have been eaten and drunk, Zoë pulls her brother over to stand in the doorway again to shake hands.

‘I hate this,’ he mutters.

‘I do too. But this is why we aren’t alone, Pavlo. Look. The neighbourhood.’

‘Christ, the bloody neighbourhood.’ Pavlo sniffs. ‘I suppose you’re right, Zozo. Do you think it matters if we just pretend? Do you think … do you think it hurts Mama?’

Zoë squeezes his hand. ‘Mama would be laughing her head off at all this. “You old vultures,” she’d be saying. “Save some brandy for me!”’

‘I can’t do it.’

‘You already have. I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

‘Aman,’ Pavlo whispers, but he doesn’t leave.

‘Life to you,’ they wish each mourner. ‘Life to you.’