“I envy you, señor. What I would give to see Abyla for the first time!”

2

“Señor, señor! It’s unbelievable what has happened.” She directed her baton to a spot five feet away. “Yes, sit on that wall. Now listen.

Highly Esteemed Evgenia Nikolaevna!

Our Consul in Oslo has furnished me with your address. I have no way of knowing if it is correct. Nor do I know if you are alive. I am writing in the light of recent events to declare it the unanimous pleasure of your family’s village that the estate and lake of Balnasharki should be returned to the rightful owners. It is my humble hope this letter finds you in good health and that you have been blessed with the longevity traditionally associated with the Polotsevs.

Vladimir Paskin

Mayor of Balnasharki.

The letter was written in Russian and had taken seven weeks to reach Abyla. Genia Ortiz translated it to Wavery. He had been eating breakfast in the shade of the handkerchief tree when she summoned him. Now he sat on the low wall, listening to her across the gulley. There was some stumbling because one or two words were unfamiliar, but as she read her wrinkles disappeared and her cheeks glowed.

“Well, what do you think?”

“A lot may have changed,” warned Wavery.

“Oh, señor, you can’t believe what a wonderful house. Wait. I must show you the photographs.”

“Señora Ortiz, I’m so sorry. I have an appointment. Perhaps I could look at them another time?” said Wavery, hearing the shifting templates of his own displacement.

Wavery was thinking about Genia Ortiz and her house in the Ukraine when, on the way to the swimming pool, he bumped into Silkleigh. The diver was wearing an oilskin and over one shoulder he carried an oxygen cylinder, strapped to which were a pair of goggles and two green flippers.

“Ambasadoro! What goes grunt, grunt, grunt from one cocktail party to the next?” He waited for Wavery’s reaction. When none came he scratched an armpit and uttered a simian whoop. “An ape with a diplomat’s passport,” he said. “Chap in Main Street told me. One of my diaphragms was getting a bit sucky so I thought I’d za-za over to Gib. You’ve got to laugh. I mean you’ve got to laugh.”

“I suppose so,” said Wavery.

Silkleigh fell in beside him. “Don’t worry yourself. What does it matter anyway? All men spring from monkeys. Jesus. You’re probably the one human being in the Foreign Office. I judge people by the odour they leave behind and let me tell you, kara mia, you leave a very good odour.”

They walked up Millan Astray. “I’m not actually going this way, but never mind,” said Silkleigh. “It’s nice to have a chat. I feel we understand each other, ambasadoro. And while I’m here, is there anything you want to ask me? Are you settling in? How is your neighbour, the Russian bat-head? I mean nightmare or what. She should be in Paris or Rome or wherever it is White Russians hole up. Not in Abyla.”