“As soon as my commission came through. Army regulations. An officer’s got to grow some kind of hair on his face, you know. Presumably lends one the necessary air of authority. Do you hate it?”

“Not at all. I love whatever’s yours.”

He closes his eyes. She moves her hand to his cheek, newly shaved. “You’re here,” she says in wonder.

“Yes.”

“It’s here. It’s still here, it’s the same as before. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I never understood it to begin with. Why a woman like you should give the slightest notice to a plain, ungainly, ginger-haired chap like me. I’ve got nothing to offer you. A captain’s pay, a trifling inheritance. A shoulder to cry on, I suppose, but—”

Then she’s kissing him. The touch of his lips amazes her. The strange tickle of his moustache. She tastes tobacco and the wine they drank at dinner, this cool white Riesling because of the heat. His tongue is gentle on hers. His mouth is slow. Under her hands, he’s no longer the skeleton he was. His flesh has thickened over his bones. There’s simply more of him. By the time he lifts his head, she’s forgotten Helga and her viper letters, she’s forgotten her marriage, she’s forgotten the children asleep in the house behind them, God help her. All she knows is Wilfred.

“Oh, Christ,” he whispers in English.

Elfriede takes hold of his shoulders and pulls him down with her, into the grass. He goes willingly. Sheds his jacket and spreads it beneath her head. Her fingers wobble as she unbuttons his shirt.

“I do have something for you,” he says. “For what it’s worth. From the moment I learned of von Kleist’s death, God rest him, I haven’t touched another woman. Waited and hoped, that’s all I did. Does that help at all?”

She finishes the buttons and pulls his shirt from his trousers, then the undershirt of white linen. Now his pale skin attracts a little light, from the new-risen moon or the house or the last echo of sunset, who knows. She places her hands on the tender hollows between breastbone and shoulders and kisses his sternum.

“Wait a moment,” he says. “One more thing.”

But she doesn’t want to wait. She’s lost all patience. Hasn’t she waited enough? Years and years for him. She unbuttons his trousers. He’s stiff and heavy, there’s no going back. Only death can part them now.