“Abyla,” Zamora concluded, at last, “is the navel of the world.”

He placed his glass on the carpet. Emotionally he said, “I’m happy to give you all my knowledge, señor, but I haven’t organised myself for it.”

“Perhaps you could suggest some books,” said Wavery.

“But of course. Here. Let me remind myself or I will forget.” And down he scribbled on a white pad in capital letters, “Reading. List. For. Señor. Wavery. I will write it this evening!”

For the first time since his arrival, Wavery’s spirits lifted. In Zamora’s enthusiasm he saw a path ahead in which he might escape his despair. Why should he not take advantage of his time in Abyla as Scaley had in the Gabon and Dardle in Prague – as had any number of senior diplomats, now he came to think of it? He hadn’t the energy to write a book, certainly, but he might be able to submerge himself in his host’s reading list.

“Which is why Abyla should be independent,” Zamora was saying. There was a new note in his voice. It was the note of lament which crept in whenever he considered the threat to Abyla’s heritage. After twelve thousand years of history, Abyla did not deserve the fate awaiting it, to have its identity removed at one blow by this tunnel – this mousehole, this sewer, this ditch in the ground – to be forgotten as the Tangier mole, which had taken thirty years to build, had been forgotten! He rattled his ice.

“Then do you not feel Spanish?” asked Wavery.

Yes, Zamora felt Spanish, but Abyla was his first priority. Nor must he forget Melilla, Spain’s other enclave on this coast. Abyla and Melilla were like two daughters of divorced parents. They had been brought up by one parent against the wish of the other.

“I’m sure my younger daughter would enjoy meeting you,” the idea suddenly occurred to Zamora. She was out this evening, unfortunately. The second evening in succession! He was very much afraid that the driver of the white car was none other than Joseph Silkleigh, a man he wouldn’t trust with his tomcat.

“You’ll stay for dinner?” Asunción asked.

But Zamora had grown intimidated by the smells issuing from the kitchen. He threw an arm from the chair.

“Darling . . . ”

“Actually, I can’t,” said Wavery. Halima was expecting him. Senator Zamora rose too. His leg had gone to sleep and he stood at the second attempt. “I will lunch you at my club,” he promised. Then, once the hunting season began, Wavery must come to dinner. They would eat roast duck. And Wavery would meet Clotilda.

On the doorstep Zamora kept a long hold of Wavery’s hand. He was no longer the tetchy Anglophobe. In the Englishman’s reserve he saw plenty to admire. Their armigerous neighbour Genia Ortiz had a tendency to dominate the conversation without leading it anywhere. Señor Wavery was not a man who dominated in this way. He had a sensitivity about him that reminded Senator Zamora of himself, but fifteen years younger.