“They say he is a successful politician,” said Wavery warily.

“He’s a better politician than human being. Everyone knows politicians are not real people. You don’t give them a minute if you can help it, or they’ll contaminate you. You don’t believe me? When Menendez took power here he said something that puzzled me. He said corruption came all the way to his front door. When a man says corruption goes as far as that, to me it indicates he has no sense of smell. Or he doesn’t use that door.”

“Is he so untrustworthy?”

“You can’t improve on one hundred per cent. He would change the face of the moon if he could take a cut. He also steals hats.”

Zamora knew how petulant he sounded. The petulance was a mask to hide his emotions. But it made him ridiculous. Sitting opposite this taciturn, courteous Englishman he felt the same embarrassment for himself as late in the Caudillo’s life he had felt for Franco. There had been a time when Zamora listened to recordings of that high-pitched voice with pleasure. But the day came when he burned them all. As he watched the black discs cavort and buckle in the flames, he thought: few of us look into ourselves and discover things we like.

“Aren’t you rather cold here. Let’s go by the fire.”

He coupled two cups and saucers from a stack on the table. “You don’t play dominoes?”

“Sadly not,” said Wavery, who would have shortly to leave.

“And how are you enjoying our city, señor?”

Wavery refused sugar. “So far – mainly by reading about it.”

“Ah, yes,” said Zamora. His eyes took on the smoky hue of his coffee. “You and I, we’re in a class above,” he told Wavery, indicating two green leather chairs. “We’re intellectuals with a common purpose. Neverthless,” and he lifted a bushy grey eyebrow, “there can’t be much for a diplomat to do.”

“Oh, it’s quite interesting really,” said Wavery deciding he would after all take sugar. “And I dare say things will liven up.”

Absent-mindedly Zamora stirred his cup, lingering over a brew that managed not to taste of burned egg. He said, “One of my uncles was a diplomat.” As children Senator Zamora and his two cousins used to play charades in Uncle Eduardo’s garden. When it came to acting out the identity of the Ambassador, they dealt playing cards. “That was all my uncle did. Play cards. But I’m sure things have changed.”

“Asunción can tell you better than I.”

“And Asunción?” said Zamora, embarrassed again. His daughter was causing no trouble he hoped. She much enjoyed working at the Consulate.

In the British Consulate Asunción could forget her poor father’s obsessions.

She could forget about her husband the film-maker who had the fantastic arrogance to assume that television was in some way important, much more so than their marriage, and who was forever saying without meaning it, “That would make a great film, Teodoro.”

And she could forget about Pablo, who had Minerva’s eyes but not alas! her manners. Zamora, stirring his coffee, saw the boy with gravy on his face at Christmas lunch. He had coloured his hair with one of Tromso’s presents, a sediment called Green Goo. He was refusing to eat the pork and clams.