Marie Amaral bundled her children and belongings to the one hotel she knew. She spent a fortnight in the Saint-Sulpice, in a small room overlooking the kitchens, hating it. In Oran under the French when she walked down the street she had met others’ eyes. She was made to feel as if she existed. Now, after Independence, no one looked at her, not even the hotel waiters. She didn’t exist except in the names that were called after her. So she avoided looking at people. If she looked at them it was dangerous. But after a fortnight she did want someone to look at her, to confirm she was alive.

One day she sat in the hotel garden, feeding Periclito. The garden had become an untidy slope of long grass and mud. There were no slats in the benches and she balanced on the frame. She wanted to hear the blackbirds again, but the blackbirds had disappeared. She wanted to weep. She bit her lip. She said, “Don’t, Marie Amaral. If you see yourself as a victim, you will excuse yourself anything.” She put a hand inside her blouse and when she produced an orange Rosita thought she was plucking out her breast. She peeled the orange and began sharing it with the children.

Then from somewhere, as if a bird had stayed behind after all and was hearing her thoughts, there came a hesitant whistle. A blackbird! Excited, she looked about. A blackbird! A blackbird! But where? Behind her, Rosita retrieved her paper dart and hurtled towards her.

“There’s someone in the grass.”

A man stood up. He removed four fingers from his mouth and she recognised David’s friend, Hacine the poet. He spoke, but there was something wrong with his mouth. His mouth was an ugly split in his face. With difficulty she caught the words. He said, “They caught me drinking.” They had caught him in the garden, behind that tree, drinking from his Rosé Marsala. He touched what might have been a smile. They had cut off his lips, but he could still whistle, still imitate the birds. The soldiers may have eaten them, but they could not prevent him crouching in the long grass. In the evenings he whistled for courting couples. “They don’t know! They never guess!” Excitement danced on tiptoe over his eyes. He didn’t see the slatless benches, nor the stumps where the trees had been taken for firewood. He saw branches trembling with lovesong in the days of the French occupation.

A tongue peeped at his mouth. He wet his cracked, hideous lips. “Listen.”

“Marie! Madame Amaral!”

There was shouting in the square. A man was running from Calle Camoes, where the orange trees were hung with lanterns. He was running towards her. Marie Amaral put down Genia Ortiz’ dress and rose from her bucket and was ambushed by the sight of Dr Teodoro Zamora de Avellaneda Mancheño y Centurión.

Marie Amaral did not remember people in abstract, just as she could not remember yellow in abstract. She remembered them in images, in precise, improbable moments. She would never forget the moment on this evening in July when she saw Senator Zamora running towards her.