“Why does he think that?”

“Panteco,” she said simply.

“And what happened with Panteco?”

“The usual. At the beginning I exaggerated his good bits. At the end his bad bits. He’s not so bad, but he wasn’t for me.” She tidied away her smile. She inspected her red nails. “All my life I’ve been attractive to bastards. A man gives you the come on, you come on and then he goes. Men want to possess you in order to kill you. They see something lively and they want it, and when they’ve got it, they can’t bear it being lively. But because I’m loca completamente I think Silkleigh is not like that.”

“Really?”

Oh, he wanted to be. Silkleigh wanted to be like her brother, Periclito. He wanted every women he saw. Not that they were at all discouraged by his intolerable banter. What discouraged them, what sent them scattering likes ewes from a jackal, was the overwhelming dimension of his self-delusion.

“You mean his books?”

Rosita made a sound, somewhere between a snort and a wail. “He wants to be a writer. He couldn’t write ‘Shit’ in the dirt on the side of his boat. It’s his crazy refuge! He has no interest in human nature. He never has been in love. So how can he feel a love story, which is what novels are about?”

“I thought he was writing an autobiography,” said Wavery, “with special emphasis on what we’re doing to the sea.”

“That’s what he says! And last week on the ferry he tells me he has a great title, Sunglasses on a Rainy Day. But it would have to be a detective story. I said, ‘Silkleigh, you’re writing your life story. What is it with this detective crap?’ And he says, ‘Well, if the title is right, perhaps I’ll write fiction.’ You see! You can’t trust him. He changes with the current, with every wind. He doesn’t understand real people can’t be actors. But most of all, señor, he doesn’t understand it’s not enough to live to write the story of your life. This talk, talk, talk about titles. It’s all an excuse. Letters to My Ego. That’s the book he should write. Oh, I don’t want to think about him. He’s so obnoxious.”

“There’s no one else?” Wavery asked.

“No. They never look back. Ever. Who, I ask you, is the one idiotic person who has looked back?” Her thumb jerked towards her own chest. “I’m sorry, señor. But if I have something in my heart, I tell it. There’s no difference between my mouth and here. The English make everything a great secret. When they talk they are all lying. I suppose it’s the same if they speak to each other.”

“Yes,” said Wavery. “I dare say you’re probably right.”

“Some days I think Silkleigh is no different from a matador. Each new girl is a mirror to fiddle with, until she reflects his face. Then he throws her away like tissue. He looks for another shiny pair of eyes.”