“I was at boarding school twelve years. Jesuit priests. Very strict,” came Silkleigh’s voice.

When next Wavery looked round, Silkleigh was explaining a schism in the Esperanto movement. A small group of Central Europeans wished to bring back the Latin preposition.

“Inevitable, isn’t it! But Christianity had schisms at the same stage of its development.”

Queesal nodded. He removed his spectacles, sniffing.

“Have some more of this.”

Queesal accepted Silkleigh’s glass. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Mohamed! Three kleine trinki!”

Rosita completed her fado. Silkleigh clapped. Someone called, “Flamenco!”

“The language of the future,” Silkleigh was saying.

Queesal repeated, “Al ni en Britujo makas leonoj?”

“That’s it. ‘We do not have lions in Britain.’ It’s that easy.”

Wavery tossed a glance over Queesal’s shoulder and Silkleigh caught it. “Go away. We’re talking high politics.”

Queesal loosened his rotarian tie.

Silkleigh said, “A good diplomat, isn’t he?”

“He is a good diplomat.”

Presently Wavery heard the sounds of Silkleigh’s laugh. “A house that has yet to be built? Let’s think. That would be domo konstruota. One of Esperanto’s subtle beauties, old soul. Konstruota means literally ‘to be built in the future’. Adjectives may come before or after a noun, but stylistically in this case the post-position is preferable.”

“Another drink?” said Wavery.

“Mr Wavery, sir. Thank you!”

“All right,” said Queesal. He managed a twisted smile.

Silkleigh leaned forward, touching Queesal on the arm. “Mi estas skribonta libro de mi vivo.”

“I wanted to write,” hiccupped Queesal.

Silkleigh confided him a glance. “Just one problemo . . . ”

Queesal said, “If you’ve waited that long, don’t start.”

“A Shadow in Love with the Sun . . . Crossing the Straits . . . The Mirrors of the Café Ulises . . . Fishing by Night . . . ”

“All wrong.”

“Word of Mouth . . . The Passions of the Strong . . . Snowfights in the Dark . . . ”

“Wrong, wrong.”

“The Dust We Play In . . . A Man Passing Through . . . The Leavers and the Left . . . ”

“Wrong from the start.”

“Wrong from the Start!” Silkleigh tore open his empty cigarette packet.

“Another drink,” said Queesal, confronted by the intent stare of the barman through a glass he was drying. “On the rocks,” he slurred.

Rosita sang another song, about Lisbon.

“She’s a darling,” Queesal was saying. His voice was louder now. “I think so. I love her. Isn’t she a darling?” Queesal turned to Wavery. “Isn’t she the most wonderful woman? Don’t you think so?”

Wavery said, “Who are you talking about?”

“Penny.”

“Yes,” agreed Wavery.

“Anyway. Go on,” said Silkleigh.

Rosita finished. Gallo laid his guitar flat upon the stage and she clapped him. Then she bowed, her large hurt eyes avoiding the bar. In the torturing silence Silkleigh jumped from his chair, his boots squeaking, and clapped his hands above his head. The curtain enfolded Rosita and he sat down. He felt something beating against his leg. It was Toribio’s tail. He looked about and he saw Dolores resting her elbows on the counter next to Queesal.