In the morning she said, “Something terrible happened last night, didn’t it?”

“I know.”

“And it’s worse than that.”

He heard the fatality in her voice.

“I can’t – I can’t remind you of him. Don’t tell me that.”

“No, Tom, no, no . . . But I can’t help it, there’s something there. Can’t you see, it’s the same territory?”

“Every time I come near, you will scream?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t understand.”

All she understood was that something inexpressible had been exhumed by her love for him. And pulling up her love to see what was growing, she had found this atrocious thing clinging to the roots, devouring them.

“It’s no one’s fault, Tom.” But her eyes were empty.

There had been tighter security than usual in the port. He showed his diplomatic card. They walked onto the ferry. She clung to his arm and he returned the grip. He supported her up the gangway, coming to terms with the certain knowledge of why she must leave, why she must leave now.

She said, “We could have made a life together, couldn’t we?”

He nodded. “Our garden in Sintra.”

“Yes, yes, our garden in Sintra and everything, Tom. Everything else.”

“Darling, I want –”

“Yes, darling, and I’ll always want it too.” The fog-horn blasted twice.

He pulled her to him. His hands sought her face and he held it, searching her eyes. “Catharine, I –”

He wanted to say, I’ll help you, my darling. I’ll do anything to help you. But no words came. He was part of the beast that had to be slain.

She saw his face and she said, “Last night I sought a companion to go up those stairs. An impossible wish. I’ve got to go up alone, haven’t I? As I did all those years ago. Which is as it should be.” She fetched a meagre smile, but her words were irrevocable.

The horn blasted again.

He said, “We won’t see each other again.”

“I don’t think so. I love you, Tom. You do know that. I won’t leave you feeling I haven’t said anything?”

He could not speak and she lay her head against his, just as she had in Lisbon at the time of their first kiss. She moved away to let him walk down the gangway. He waved twice. She waved back, a quick rub of the hand. Then she turned, and then he knew that this time she would never come back.

Chapter Fifteen

IT WAS OVER. “Come,” said Marie Amaral as they walked together along the Marina Española. She took Wavery’s arm. “You must come and celebrate.”

“If you don’t mind, Marie.”

“Nonsense,” she said, and she led him under the awning into her son’s café. “Tonight, you celebrate with us.”

Several weeks had passed since Wavery’s last visit to the café. He was surprised how sparkling clean it was. Mohamed’s preparations to receive the eternally awaited owner had commenced a month before, but only gathered momentum during the week. He had wiped the dirt from the mirrors, polished the glass over Lieutenant Zamora’s portrait, removed a spider from the nostrils of the Andean bull over the bar, waxed the stage where the General had three times won the Miss Dainty Ankles competition, beaten the red and gold curtain on which Ulysses drank to forget Calypso, replaced the dead light bulbs and taken a call from the owner at Lima airport. He assured Periclito everything was fine, that the whole town was indeed impatient to see him distinguish himself at the “sensacional corrida de toros”, that seats were passing hands at black market prices, that Señora Criado was very well, and the tunnel – how was the tunnel? Probably not very well, Mohamed had said, ducking his head but unable to see under the awning.