But how cold it was suddenly. Marie Amaral slipped the cardigan from the back of Teodoro’s chair over her shoulders. Zamora was saying something and she came into the shelter of his voice. No one understood as he did this tongue of rock, despite its lack of space, its lack of tenderness. This magic teapot into which everything was stirred and out of which everything poured anew.

Zamora turned to her. Periclito’s stew had caused him to forget all about Clotilda. “Isn’t this cassoulet delicious, Marie?” he said. It had to be better even than the mackerel sauce of Carteia! “Isn’t this absolutely delicious!” He looked her directly in the eye. There was chicory on his breath.

Marie Amaral heard the violent flap of the awning outside. She bent her head to look. She saw a surly sky, waves bucking and birds heading west. She murmured, no longer thinking of the British Consul General, “It’s the black wind, Teodoro.”

Out of nowhere, as if uncurling from deep within the earth, the levante had returned.

The black wind nosed the streets, a lost animal clattering the lids of the garbage bins in the Calle Zamora, puffing at the palms in Plaza de Los Reyes and denuding each tree as if it were an ageing chrysanthemum in one of Marie Amaral’s buckets. Unimpeded, it galloped along the Marina Española, scuffing its hooves on the sea.

Down on the beach, the waves broke about Wavery’s knees, stroking him into the sea. He dipped his fingers in the surf. The water was warm. It gloved his fingers in a bluish-gold glow. He stepped forward and the waves caressed his stomach. He pushed out, swimming in a restrained breast-stroke. His breathing was regular. The glow settled on his chest. He kicked out. With every movement, the phosphorescence grew brighter, until it would have been bright enough to read by. Soon his arms were turtle-shelled with colour. An aureole shone about his face.

“Catharine!” called the gulls. He heard their urgent cry. He was swimming towards her. She was only fourteen miles away.

A wave removed his glasses.

Author’s Note

All the characters and events in this novel are fictitious. I am nevertheless grateful to Eric Shaw and John Fa in Gibraltar, particularly for their insights into the barbary macaque, to the management of Euro-Tunnel, the Trustees of Hawthornden Castle, to Natasha Spender and to my editor Christopher MacLehose.

Despite its position as the “the navel of the world”, there is scant literature on the southern Pillar of Hercules, but I would like to pay tribute to The Track by Arturo Barea (Faber, 1943); Morocco that Was by Walter Harris (Eland, 1983); The Other Russia: the Experience of Exile edited by Michael Glenny and Norman Stone (Faber, 1990) and Ceuta: Historia, Presente y Futuro by José García Cosió (Godino, 1977).

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