“A beer, please, Mohamed,” said Wavery. He examined the grain in the counter’s parquet surface, like slivers of worn fur.

Silkleigh said, “You know they came originally from Abyla?”

“What did?”

He clicked his fingers. “The apes, old soul. You see them still on La Mujer Muerta. I met a man once whose brother had been throttled by three of them. Your very good health.”

Mohamed put a beer in reach and Wavery paid for it.

Silkleigh said, “When the barbary macaque is on heat she copulates once every seventeen minutes, even with her children. She sorts out the sperm later. I believe the term is sperm competition.”

Wavery sipped his drink.

“Can you believe it! I suppose there are women like that. They haven’t come my way. I’ve been sexually inactive all year.”

Wavery counted the eggs on the metal stand.

Silkleigh said, “Women are very definitely the tripwire as far as I’m concerned. When things get really bad, I go up to the hermitage on Monte Hacho. I look down at the city and I imagine all the couples making love.” He rattled with his peculiar laugh. “They’re probably all watching television.”

“How’s the book?” asked Wavery. This man was the bitter end, a ghastly albatross. But Silkleigh was nodding at Ghanem. “Now what would he do if there wasn’t a box in the corner with two knobs on? He’d be lost. He’s only as far into the twentieth century as The Strong Tend to Leave.”

“Have you thought of a title yet?”

Silkleigh unwound the cellophane from a fresh packet of cigarettes. “Everything I Got,” he said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“As in ‘I deserved everything I got’,” said Silkleigh. He lighted a cigarette.

“I don’t think people will necessarily understand that,” said Wavery. “At least, not immediately.”

“No. You’re probably right.”

They sat in silence for a while, Silkleigh smoking with his right hand while with his left he dipped the egg into a mound of salt. Wavery drank his beer. He was about to ask Silkleigh about his diving when Silkleigh said, “How was the Zamora family tour?”

“Very interesting.”

“He’s not a buffoon, by any means. In fact, he’s pretty single-minded. For all that he can’t sack his cook.”

“He’s been very kind to me.”

Silkleigh wrinkled his nose. He put down his egg. “Something’s burning,” he said, looking down. “Maybe it’s my heart.” But it was ash he had dropped on his T-shirt. He flapped it off and resumed his seat. “It could have been my heart,” he said. Only this evening he’d seen a sight which had warmed the few remaining cockles.

A large Mercedes had stopped him on the Marina Española as he walked from the quay. The windows were tinted. He couldn’t see inside properly, but there was a woman sitting in the back. The sight of her wrist against the rear window had assassinated him.

“Her wrist?” said Wavery.

“Ah, but what a wrist! What a wrist!” said Silkleigh. He could tell it belonged to somebody exquisite. Somebody hopelessly exquisite. “It’s weird. I felt like . . . like . . . like . . . I just hope she discovers her genius for seeking out small ugly men, that’s all.”