“Thank you very much,” said the conductor’s widow.

Señora Criado asked, “What did you sing, Periclito?”

Periclito faced his sister. “Rosita! I sang one of your songs!” There was more applause, if less enthusiastic than before. He hugged her to him. “One of your fados, Rosita. Imagine! The bull was bewitched. Bewitched!”

“They should name a dish after you.”

“A cassoulet,” said Señora Criado.

A cassoulet! Periclito threw up his arms. He had almost forgotten. He propelled himself from the counter in the direction of the kitchen.

Wavery accepted a glass from Mohamed’s tray.

Through the herd he saw Rosita, her head leaning back on a familiar shirt. Wavery looked again and caught Silkleigh’s eye.

“Ambasadoro!”

On the diver’s chest Virgil was still the frog boy.

“Tonight was to have been his party,” Silkleigh told Rosita sadly. “In his new house.”

“How are you, Silkleigh?” asked Wavery. He had not spoken to him in a fortnight.

Silkleigh released his grip on Rosita. He slipped from his stool. With great formality he shook Wavery’s hand. “I am in what people with limited vocabularies would call a propitiatory mood.”

“Have you been away?”

“I thought it best to absent me awhile. My people wanted a report. You know the score, old soul. First-hand, no nonsense, eyeball to eyeball.”

Mohamed approached bearing a tray. Wavery took another drink. He asked, “What happened to Panteco?”

Silkleigh, placing a thumb and a finger on either side of his nose, converted a smile into a scowl. “Chippy bugger’s been sent to Rabat.” He darted his eyes at Rosita, speaking to a worried Zamora. She was telling him, “But I saw her just now – with Asunción.”

“To look for Cochabamba, old soul,” whispered Silkleigh, and he tugged at his eye.

As soon as she heard the name, Rosita’s eyes became mutinous. She tried to move away, but Silkleigh threw an arm about her neck.

“Nada in the larder. Honestly. All mink and no knickers. Not like my kleine . . . ” Silkleigh bent his mouth to her ear.

“Don’t use that word.” Her eyes dilated in anger. “It’s too special.”

“That’s why I used it,” said Silkleigh. With his lips he brushed her cheeks with a touch as light as spray. “Darling Rosita. Si kantas plej bele. What you feel about someone when they’re not with you is the correct –”

“How’s the book?” asked Wavery.

“Yes,” said Rosita, withdrawing. “How is the book, Silkleigh?”

Silkleigh glanced up. “Actually,” he said, smoothing down his T-shirt, “I’m glad you asked.” He looked around, but he could not avoid himself. “The thing is, when I thought more about it, the title, I’m not saying it was bad, not at all, but . . . well, it simply wasn’t right.”

“Silkleigh!” Periclito appeared before them. He held two dishes in each hand. “Eat some cassoulet.”

Out of the glare of the coloured lights, Zamora occupied Ghanem’s chair beneath the television set. Two tables had been joined together and he sat at the head.