He folded his napkin again. “Noel Coward wrote a play there.” But he was not concentrating. Even logic told him this lunch was coming to an end. When it did, it was inconceivable he could handle the ending.

She bent to get her bag from the floor. Wavery avoided looking at her breasts, her ankles. She sat back and stretched her legs. One leg touched his knee, not moving away. He was unable to fold the napkin anymore. She saw his gaze stray to a mole on the side of her cheek. He was looking, without listening, watching her face, the dart of light on her cheeks, her nose, when she stopped talking. She met his eyes directly.

“What is it, Thomas?”

“I really have to go.”

In the bedroom there was a loud buzzing. Wavery switched off the television set. The soap opera was over and already the screen had acquired a fresh layer of dust. He went into the bathroom to clean his teeth. He blinked as he brushed, exercising his eyes. They had grown more short-sighted since Lima. They registered people as indistinct blurs. In the days before he needed to wear glasses, a man in Jordan had told him he had lovely eyes. “I would swap my hotel for your eyes,” he said. It hadn’t been a particularly nice hotel.

Wavery spat out the toothpaste, rinsing the basin with the cold tap. He closed the windows onto the terrace, lay down on the bed and inspected a finger. A nail needed clipping. Penny kept her clippers in the bedside table. Out of habit, he opened the drawer: a pencil, two reed drink mats and a booklet which Asunción must have left there, entitled Guidance to Diplomatic Servicemen and other Officers and Wives Posted to Diplomatic Service Missions Overseas: Some Do’s and Don’ts. He read, “Going abroad should be fun,” and turned the page. “A single officer may find the evenings very long. Try not to be a moaner. If there is a down period, don’t just sit and brood about it. See if there any language courses you can attend, or social clubs you can join. Are singing and amateur dramatics catered for? What about the orienteers?”

He returned the booklet to the drawer.

Outside, a voice stumbled into the night. It carried a grey wisp of song which made Wavery sit up. The song was one his favourite fados. He began putting on his clothes again.

5

Night fell as suddenly as the ink that spilled onto Captain Panteco’s report on Abdul Hadi, a smuggler of duty-free tobacco. The ink flooded over the report towards the table edge and Panteco leapt to his feet and cried, “Fuck it!”

The ink dripped onto the red linoleum. Panteco reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, but he saw that it was Rosita’s.

Rosita had once lived with Captain Panteco, but one day two years ago had ended their affair without explanation and returned to her brother’s flat above the Café Ulises. When she told him she was singing tonight in memory of Emilio, and would he come and hear her sing, he said “Of course, querida.”