Wavery drank again. The alcohol encouraged him to think of Catharine and he felt panic. The certainty of life without her was intolerable, as unendurable as life in the diplomatic service. There was nothing left he wished to serve.

Wavery looked up and in the mirrors he saw Lieutenant Zamora. The soldier advanced towards him and retreated. Everywhere Wavery looked he was there. And again there. Hand inside his jacket. Feet on the carpet. The Hero of Africa. The Death-Betrothed. Receding, advancing. His head under a lopsided halo. Severed from his body. Painted by Sandra the Rapist. Painted by Emilio’s mother. Painted by Penny.

“I have to go,” he said. But no one was listening.

“Maman,” said Periclito. “I must get rid of these mirrors,”

“Where is Clotilda?” Zamora was asking anxiously. Through the crowd he had seen Silkleigh. The diver couldn’t possibly be his daughter’s lover, not the way he was holding Rosita. But if it wasn’t Silkleigh, who was it? He called out, “Has anybody seen Clotilda?”

In the residence Halima was waiting for Wavery.

She opened the oven and drew out a tray, basting the duck according to Penny’s instructions on the white card. She also scattered onto it a few drops of orange flower water. Her maazahr was known to cure everything from anger to hysteria. Before she went home she always took care to leave a bowl in his bedroom. So far it had not been able to soothe her master’s face.

The water hissed into steam.

Where was he?

Unobserved, Wavery left the Café Ulises. Outside, the sky over Abyla had reddened with the Lieutenant’s blood and the sea become green with his laurels. Wavery crossed the Marina Española. The breeze had burrowed away somewhere and all that harnessed him to earth was the sound of the surf crashing on Playa Benitez.

Inside the kiosk the telephone began ringing. Without thinking, Wavery opened the door. The interior had been recently painted, although there was some fresher grafitti. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

It was a strange voice, from a long way away. A woman’s voice. Asking for Periclito in Spanish.

“One minute, I’ll get him – Hello?” But the line went dead. He waited to see if she would ring again. He had waited like this for two weeks, waiting for a call he knew would not come. He had forbidden himself to leave the residence. On the few occasions anyone telephoned, he made it clear that he needed the line to be cleared. At the same time he felt a contradictory emotion. If ever Catharine did telephone, he wished passionately to deny her his presence. His only power was his absence. He had become absent even to himself. Depression had overtaken him so completely that on meeting his reflections in the Café Ulises just now, he had been shocked to discover he was a material thing.

The one person eager to speak with him had been Queesal. “I am sorry it’s been called off,” said the man who could not cry. “To be honest, Tom, I think it’s for the best. It gives us time to prepare things properly.” But in view of recent events, it had been decided to recall Wavery to London. The decision had been taken at the highest level. “They’re promoting you,” said Queesal, who had never sounded so reasonable. “I’m afraid it means you’ll have to forfeit your knighthood, but the PUS is talking about a CMG.” Wavery would in due course receive the official notification, but it was Queesal’s pleasure to inform him he had been appointed a Sensitivity Officer.