“I can’t compete,” he said, weighing the air with his palms.

“It’s not a competition,” Catharine said.

July was five months away.

“Have you seen Rosita?” Silkleigh’s voice came from the terrace, where he stood rubbing his sting with his pencil.

“No.”

“I’m not speaking to her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I got really angry with her last night.” She was having dinner with that irrepressible mediocrity Panteco.

“He’s called Lustrino,” she told him ever so sweetly – bitch!

“Your Lustrino is so physically revolting, I find it hard even to have a drink with him. You were with him once and it didn’t work. Why again?”

“It’s better to be quarrelsome than lonesome, Silkleigh.”

“But he made you unhappy!”

“So long, Silkleigh.” Rosita had returned to the policeman’s table, and Silkleigh was left at the bar with Mohamed, who was as nervous as a dog on a boat, because that morning Silkleigh had clipped him on the ear for staring into Cochabamba’s eyes.

“So I looked at Panteco, who, bear in mind, is an aberration, and – I tell you no lie – I felt sorry for him. I thought, You poor eunuch.”

“Perhaps they were only having dinner,” said Wavery. He waved to Genia Ortiz whose face had appeared suddenly at her window.

“She could have told me,” complained Silkleigh. “Really, she needs to marry a football star who will fall down on his hands and knees and say ‘Thank you’ every time she fries an egg. Still, what am I worrying about? If the full moon loves you, does it matter if a few tiny stars decline?”

There were a number of books on the table beneath the tree. Silkleigh picked one up. “Camoes,” he read aloud. “Famous name, famous name, but never read him. Any good?” He leafed backwards through the pages. “How old was he when he wrote it? I always like to know how old they are. Gives me hope.” The book, a Spanish translation from the Portuguese, did not include biographical information. “Ever read Hemingway? Now, when I read Hemingway, my toes expand. He was a crackpot, of course. And not good at sex, which was why he wrote short sentences. But a writer needs a crack in his pot. Something for the dirt to gather in. This Camoes, did he have a crack in his pot?”

“I rather think he did,” said Wavery.

Silkleigh replaced the volume and picked up another. “A Concise History of Abyla by Teodoro Zamora. I say, lucky you. It’s immensely out of print.” Without opening it he cast the book back on the table. “Hey, kara mia, what’s this?” He had noticed a neat stack of pages. “Are you writing too?”

“Some papers I’m working on,” said Wavery. He gathered up the pages, removing them from Silkleigh’s view.

“Oh, yes?”

“About the house mainly.”

“You know,” said Silkleigh self-indulgently. “My mind is like this house. Full of empty rooms that have never been used except for storing flippers. That’s why I want to write this book. To fill them up.” A title had occurred to him as clearly as a title ever would. For this he had to thank the Queesal chappie. “I’ve been accused many times of reading too much into nothing, but your friend from the Inspectorate planted a veritable seed, old soul. I’m thinking of calling it On the Rocks.”