The officer passed over a receipt for the pen, nodding him on. The whole incident had surely not occurred. But the odd humanity of the encounter had touched Alex, and strangely, he was aware that he hadn’t even thought much yet about the book that had forged this transient bond—never mind really knowing what it was about. Extraordinario, indeed.

He was still pondering the book and the pen when the crisp English tones of the stewardess recalled his attention. Alex reached for a blanket to combat the tiredness that was making him feel the chill, and stared at the little volume in clear plastic. It had been thrust into his hand by a very sympathetic, clear-speaking South American doctor, just as he had been driven away from the conference on his way to stay in New Jersey. “This may give you an insight into the madness of trying to find the difference between spirituality and reality. Have a good trip home: and buena suerte.” She had touched his arm warmly, and then vanished.

He had pocketed the book in its bag in his overcoat, without a proper thought for it, and closed the car door on that world for the time being. Now, as he sank into the generous seat, he turned his attention to One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The opening words wove a spell on him. A firing squad. Colonel Aureliano. His father. The memory of ice: crunch. The lines captivated his imagination. He heard the author’s voice whisper in his ear; such was the power of Gabriel García Márquez. He would never have thought to buy the book; what excellent happenstance. Now here he sat, a captive audience with only time.

The stewardess smiled at him obligingly, and offered him the menu and a drink as they reached cruising altitude. “I have your fountain pen, Dr. Stafford. How very traditional of you to use one. Hardly anyone can write properly anymore!” She laughed and showed her lovely white teeth. “I’ll return it to you as soon as we reach Heathrow and clear the plane.” She proffered champagne as a goodwill gesture. “I’m amazed, actually, that they agreed to your suggestion. It must be your air of English tranquillity.”

Alex grinned like a schoolboy, declining the champagne flute but accepting the truite amandine on the menu. He returned to the pirate, Francis Drake, who had destroyed Riohacha in the sixteenth century, unwittingly changing the lives of the people Alex was about to meet on the page. Dinner came; he ate, and read on. A colleague behind him was snoring softly.