The wind breathed over the canvas, arousing the waves, flaking the paint.

“Catharine, Catharine.”

He heard her calling him and Wavery, holding his shoes, shouted back. “Catharine!”

His voice was amplified by the cliff behind. His shout reached the birds crouching on their ledge. Alarmed, the ibis rose. They flew from their nests in short, bat-like flaps, their bodies against the wind. Then, free-falling in an arcing swoop they passed straight over Wavery’s head. They had nowhere to go. They had flown to the edge of the world and now they headed out over the water, low and hunched and chasing their shadows with fast, squeaking wings.

The waves tumbled to catch them. One wave, larger than the rest, tossed itself at the birds. The ibis climbed abruptly to avoid it, quickening their beat, but the wave had divided them. They lost height and clambered back into the air. Two flew onwards, skimming the Straits towards the cruise ship, calling “kay, kay, kay.” Four veered west, into the guttering sunset.

Wavery saw the flash of their wings in the dark like fleeting ghosts. Quickly, he undressed. He had been swimming for the past ten years, twenty lengths a morning. He must have more than measured the distance of the Straits. He was a fit, healthy man.

He was naked when he stood up. He felt the wind on his stomach.

The gulls called him.

Inside the Café Ulises they had finished their toasts to Periclito. They were drinking to Genia Ortiz on the eve of her return to the Motherland. Now that both son and baton had been restored she decided she was after all enjoying herself. She was happy to see Tromso, who had not changed at all, not to judge from the exasperation on Asunción’s face. But what about Balnasharki? Would her family home resonate with emptiness?

So she sat, cold and a little tired and a little fretful about the journey.

Marie Amaral had not noticed the cold until now. She was squeezed between Zamora and her son. For the first time she had been able to enjoy a moment of calm with Periclito.

“Just look how fat you are.”

He laughed, nuzzling his nose against her ear, and she knew what he was thinking. This afternoon in the ring he had met his reflection at last.

“How’s your love life, mon chéri?”

“The bed is too small a theatre, Maman,” he said, blowing on his scalded hands. “My love life? It’s pathetic.”

She could not help her impatience. “Periclito, that’s true of everybody. What happened to the woman with the sick husband?”

“I had to leave her, Maman. She had six Siamese cats. It wasn’t something a gentleman could bear.”

“Periclito, there’s someone I want you to meet.” She looked about. But she could not see the Consul General.

“Later, Maman, later,” said Periclito, slipping from his chair. First he must see to the pudding.

Across the table Silkleigh was telling Rosita, “I’ve been thinking.” He pushed the hair from her ears. “A great book is a great evil . . . ” Her eyes nibbled at him. Her serene face said, I’m happy. It’s so lovely to be happy. She said, “You’re full of swamp gas, Silkleigh.” He tickled her stomach. She seized his hand. She fanned out the fingers. Tonight, thought Marie Amaral, she would become gold under their touch.