“Of course, I regard you as special: you have a proper diet like me. But if you don’t feel up to it . . . I mean, you are only nine, perhaps if we wait . . .”

“A mystery,” she said, watching from the corner of her eye as he climbed from the bath and wound himself into an outsized flat linen towel—towels purchased at auction from the hoard of a maharajah, bought from Harrods in the Thirties when chauffeurs were sent to fill their travelling trunks with them, and never used, was the tale he had told her.

“Have you ever wondered where breath comes from? Or where it goes to, for that matter?”

Zen had a foot out of the water. She was studying her toenails, one of which was varnished. “Well, it’s just there, isn’t it?” Zen was now staring intently at the painted toenail. “Do you think this is a good shade for me? It’s Chinese Red.”

“I suppose so, if you see yourself as a wanton dragon-lady type.”

“What does ‘wanton’ mean?”

“Oh, it means a girl who is unrestrained, who wants everything. There are girls like that—they go shopping all the time.

“How boring.”

“Exactly.”

Zen swivelled around to the end of the tub that Zeno had vacated, and pulled the plug. “So what’s the mystery then?”

“The secret of life is hidden in the breath, because when the breath leaves the body, the body, for all its marvellous ingenuity, goes back to being dust.”

“Eaten by worms.”

“Eaten by worms if it is buried. Let’s rinse your hair.” He unwound the coiled handshower, and let the water run through her hair. When she wasn’t paying attention, he changed the gauge and finished her off with cold.

“Ugh, you’re horrible—you always do that.” She leaped out of the bath and scrambled for a towel.

“Good for your circulation—gets the blood to your head, so you’ll understand what we’re talking about.” Zeno had one towel wrapped around his midriff, another draped over his shoulders, and was flexing his hands.

“Want me to zone your tootsies?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She finished drying herself, put on her bathrobe and, spreading a dry towel along the bath mat, lay face down on it. Zeno kneeled down and took her left foot in his hands.

“In the East, the Brahmins teach their children rhythmic breathing when they’re nine.”

“What’s the Brahmins?”

“The ones who don’t eat meat.”

“Like us?”

“Like us.”

“Why do they do that?”

“Well, they understand that the most important thing in life is health, and, as health is absolutely dependent on breath, they figure nine is a good age to teach them awareness of it. Like eating food that’s good for you.”

“Because you are what you eat?”

“Well, your body is what you eat, so, bad food, bad body. But bad breathing can make for bad everything. And as they don’t teach it in schools, we thought we’d teach you at home.”

“Will it make me run better?”