“I think so.”

“From the Potato Institute?”

A tremor ran through the house. On the table a cheese knife rotated. Queesal jerked upright. “What the hell is that?” he asked, his eyes on the ceiling.

“They’re digging a marshalling chamber,” explained Wavery. Asunción had registered his complaint the day before, after which the tunnel foreman had made a point of calling on him personally. The Consul General was assured absolutely no damage at all would result to his house.

Wavery rang for coffee. “It’s only Nescafé. Do you mind?” But Queesal was looking at the wall. He was surveying the strange unpainted moulding on the dining-room ceiling. “You really expect the Queen to stay here, Tom?”

“There’s no problem at all,” said Wavery. “We have six months.”

Queesal prepared himself with a mouthful of Tacama. The truth was a sharp instrument and it should be wielded only when necessary. He was about to wield it now.

“Being brutal, Tom,” he said, “this house is a disgrace. I’ll have to tell London how things stand.”

“It will be ready,” Wavery repeated.

“No, Tom. It’s pathetic – and I mean pathetic in the nicest possible way. All the same.” He hoisted his eyes to the wires worming the air where a chandelier should have hung. “Jesus, Tom. Even a blind man could have done better.”

Wavery poured himself another glass. His smile went skimming down the long length of the table. “Sometimes, George, blind men are hard to find.”

Queesal was not listening. He appeared to have something in his eye.

“What’s wrong?” asked Wavery.

“Something in this house is giving me an allergy.”

“Could it be the air conditioning?” said Wavery, unable at that moment to recall whether in fact Pas de Problème had installed it.

“Do you have cats?” asked Queesal, his eyes half-closed. He made a hasty grab at his wine glass. At the taste he spluttered. He unscrewed his face. “Jesus, Tom. Where in Abyla can one get a decent drink?”

3

They walked without speaking along the Marina Española, Wavery leading the way. Ten yards from the telephone kiosk they heard an English voice. Silkleigh was talking. “I think that’s disgusting. What did he say? Oh, he tried to blame you? So what did you tell him? You should have said, ‘Because he can’t stand your guts, sunshine.’”

“In here,” said Wavery. He ordered two brandies. “Large ones, Mohamed.”

“Not that I should,” said Queesal. He took in the bull’s head, the straw hat, the endless reflections of Mohamed scratching his crotch.

“Is there nowhere else?”

“They all shut by nine.”

“All the same,” said Queesal, pulling a trollish face.

Opposite, three ibis rocked up and down the television screen. The pictures were taken through a wide-angled lens from a boat. Two birds were filmed on a ledge, touching each other with the tips of their long red bills. They swayed from one foot to the other. Another half rose from her nest, beating her wings. She threw back her head-feathers and uttered a raucous croak.