“Ever eaten grasshopper?” he asked Wavery. “Tastes like chicken.” He indicated the tubs and the trellis. “I say,” he said admiringly, “you have been busy.”

Silkleigh unclipped the pencil from his T-shirt. He produced a packet of Winstons from his trouser pocket, tapped out the last cigarette which he lit and tore the empty carton open and flattened it on his knee. “Bottom line. No messing. When’s the place got to be ready?”

Wavery hesitated. But there was no need for caution. The information was unclassified. “Four months,” he told him.

“That’s too bad.” He tapped his nose and a sly expression entered his face. “On the other hand nobody knows his builders like Silkleigh. Bottom line. No messing. How much dinero do you have?”

Wavery revealed his budget and Silkleigh emitted another whistle. He looked at the figure he had written down. He said, “That’s meaner than a hotel towel. And I suppose you initial the eggs in your fridge?”

“We do run a tight ship,” conceded Wavery.

Silkleigh stood up. “Wait here,” he said with authority. “Just you wait here, Mr Wavery. I’m going to sort this out.”

Silkleigh sat down on Wavery’s bed, taking the telephone in his lap and dialled a number. He reread the cigarette packet and tore it into little pieces which he dropped into the reed basket next to the bedside table. As he waited for someone to answer, his eyes roved over the rock plant, the message pad, the cinnamon scarf.

“Barney? It’s Joe,” said Silkleigh. He spoke rapidly, in a businesslike voice, squeezing the phone between cheek and shoulder and writing. “No, Barney. Not like yesterday. Like last month. We can sort out the details later.”

“Well?” said Wavery.

“In the blink of a star,” said Silkleigh. “I haven’t pratted around here all these years for nothing.”

“But that amount will cover it?”

“Absolutely!” Silkleigh tapped his nose again. Nobody knew his builders like Joseph Silkleigh.

“You wouldn’t object if I discussed this first with Asunción?” said Wavery.

“You do that, old soul.”

“But how can I thank you?”

“Don’t think about it. Queen and country,” said Silkleigh rising from the bed. “That’s nice.” From the table he picked up the scarf. He was looking for a label when Wavery removed the scarf from him.

“The other woman?” Silkleigh said gently.

Wavery blushed. Queesal must have told Silkleigh in the Café Ulises. He turned away, looking for somewhere to put the scarf. It embarrassed him to have been discovered like this, in his own bedroom. He felt exposed and sentimental, and now he must be grateful.

“I know how you feel,” said Silkleigh, going out onto the terrace.

But Wavery was not listening. He had felt a movement in the air ahead of him, like a flag but invisible. She was there on the terrace. The low white wall was the Moorish castle and the city lay below. She whirled the scarf in her hands, wrapping Lisbon about her neck. They were walking after lunch, during which she had shown him the photographs in her purse. Two girls on a patio, their fingers pointing at the lens. Adam, lying on his back, one of the girls on his chest. The four of them on a sofa, not knowing whether the camera had clicked.