They heard Rosita’s hoarse, aching voice. She had thrown back her head. Her hand gripped the air as if it were a rope.

“Frightful, isn’t it? Poor Rosita. Her talent is for dancing, but she thinks she’s a singer. Just because you’re ugly doesn’t mean you have a beautiful voice.”

Silkleigh exhaled and his eyes lingered on Dolores walking confidently through the peacock shadows. She leaned against the bar and asked Mohamed for a packet of Winston rubio.

“Do you know Dolores?” Silkleigh asked Wavery. “She never says a single word of interest, but she’s an absolute darling. Hello, dear.” He struck a match and offered it. Dolores looked into her bag, ignoring him. “Why do you go with Panteco?” he said, looking at the flame creep towards his fingers.

She shrugged. “Why not?”

She produced a lighter from her bag and Silkleigh blew out his flame, smarting.

“I love you,” he said, blowing on his fingers.

She said, “Go pick your nose, Silkleigh.” She returned to the Captain’s table, shaking her long hair, her cigarette glowing.

“Longing for it,” said Silkleigh joylessly. He elevated his glass. “To the love that lies in women’s eyes. And lies and lies and lies.”

When Wavery ignored the toast he said: “Don’t say much, do you, old son? Still, I suppose you’re taking it in.”

And suddenly the fado was over and Rosita was applauding the guitarist. Someone in the crowd called “Bonito! Bonito!”.

“Must be a Portuguese,” said Silkleigh, one hand clapping the counter. He faced the bar and toasted the singer’s reflection. She bowed a final time and was lost in the curtain.

“What brings you to Abyla, Thomas?”

Wavery told him.

“Is that so?” Silkleigh nodded to himself. “Hear that, Toribio? A diplomat. That’s a chap who says nice doggie while looking for a stone. I knew a diplomat once. Teheran. I never met such an excessively shy halfwit. He spent all his time having dinner with the Bulgarians and knew nothing, nothing, nothing about what people were really feeling. Didn’t have a clue the Shah was unpopular.”

“A lot of us are like that,” Wavery conceded. He asked Mohamed for the bill. He was leaving. He could afford to be more civil than he felt. Joseph Silkleigh had been alive when he talked about the sea.

“So what have you done wrong?” The voice bored on. “We’re all here for funny old reasons. What’s yours? You’ve been giving money to the Russians? Cohabiting with a goat? No one gets promoted to Abyla. It’s just a rock at the edge of the world. Abyla has one Englishman. Me,” and a finger tugged at his right eye.

“My posting has more to do with the tunnel.”

“If that floperoo is ever completed,” said Silkleigh. Not with Menendez hating his right leg to know what his left leg was doing. From his face tonight – Silkleigh nodded at the television which could be heard again – both legs had gone walky-walky.

Mohamed presented Wavery with a bill and Wavery paid.