He folded the letter away, experiencing an uncomplicated tenderness towards his wife and the gallery-owner – a widower she must have first met twenty years ago.

There was nothing from Catharine. Presumably her husband, suspicious of the desperation in Wavery’s voice, had not passed on the message for her to call him.

Wavery wrote out his day’s schedule:

1. Put Ebbing in touch with P’s solicitors
2. New passport
3. 11.00 antimony works, Calle Real, re trade links: Lavandier
4. Arrange meeting with D. Porcil, banker i/c tunnel finance
5. Letter British Council, suggestions re writer’s visit
6. Letter Midland bank
7. 6.30 drinks Senator Zamora

The one thing he could not write down was “Letter to Catharine”. To whom he wanted to write letter after letter after letter.

2

It was a week after Wavery’s lunch with Catharine Riding at El Salto del Fraile.

He had not spoken to her since. He was sitting in his office, writing a crisp memorandum about a consignment of veterinary equipment, when she telephoned.

“I’ve been in Arequipa.”

“Yes. Yes, you told me.”

“I’ve been thinking of you all week. I wanted to thank you.”

“I know. It was –”

“All week I’ve worried I’ve said nothing.”

“You can’t. What can you say?”

“We had so much . . . We got on so well.”

“We did.”

“Did you get my present?”

“Yes.” Her present stood before him on the desk, a plastic rose adorned by a pair of white-framed sunglasses.

“It made us laugh, though, didn’t it? That’s why it’s important. I want you to laugh when you think of me.”

“Of course, I’ll always laugh.”

“Just a minute.” She called to someone. “I’m here, on the balcony. What’s the matter?”

He heard the drawing of a shutter and a man’s voice.

She said, “It’s Helen.” She was speaking to her sister.

Her hand covered the mouthpiece and there was a mumble of conversation. Through her fingers Wavery heard: “Off you go, darling. I’ll see you in a minute.” She spoke again. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You were doing something, I can tell.”

“I was scratching my nose.”

“When are you going back to England?”

“In about two weeks”.

“For how long?”

“Until my appointment comes through.”

“Time for Christmas shopping,” she said.

“I suppose so.”

“It would be lovely to talk to you again.”

“When do you leave?”

“Thursday.”

There was a pause. In the corridor he could hear the Ambassador speaking to Queesal.

She said, “Suggest somewhere.”

At seven the next morning, Penny sat under a jacaranda tree at the furthest end of a sloping lawn. She was painting the mountain behind their house. She, did not look up from her easel when Wavery lowered himself into the pool and began his daily stint. The air was calm, the water reflecting faithfully the sky, the mountain, a bird flying south. He pushed out in a slow, methodical breast-stroke, obliterating the images. The water poured into his ears, muffling the scream of children from the playground beyond the hedge. On the lawn Paracas loitered over a purple leaf. Wavery swam towards the mountain, organising his responses to Catharine Riding.