‘Eleven years, now. Next came Lucas… you want to see Lucas? He is very bad – a very bad, naughty boy. Every time I call, “What is Lucas doing?” Every week, something he shouldn’t be.’

‘At school?’

‘School. Home. In the street—’

‘What does he do?’

‘Always the wrong thing! Talking when the teacher says don’t talk. Running, jumping, falling down. He is very beautiful, but…’

The photograph came up and Michael looked at a boy who was staring back over his shoulder. He wore a white shirt, and the camera had caught him by surprise – his eyes were wide. The next one showed him bare-chested, posing, with a smile as sweet as his sister, and the next showed a whole family group: there were a dozen people, their arms wrapped around one another. Lucas was yelling at the camera, and the joy in his eyes seemed to tilt the world – Michael found that his mouth was open.

‘Beautiful, yes?’ said Maria.

She leant a little closer, and pointed them out one by one.

‘Max,’ she said. ‘Lucas again, shouting. My husband, his mother and father. My mother. That is Nikko, number three – we call him the monkey-boy. Miguel is four, Roxanne is number five… and the baby is Roselle. So we have three of each, and no more. Until the next power cut.’

She opened a close-up, and Michael realised her breathing had changed, as if she’d swallowed something and it had lodged in her throat.

‘Eight years old last week,’ she said quietly. ‘My special.’

‘I’ve forgotten the name.’

‘Nikko, Michael – keep up.’

‘And he’s your special? Your special child? In what way?’

‘Every way. He is a boy at school, and a monkey at home – so crazy, so wild. Climbing up and up. He has no fear.’

‘They’re gorgeous.’

‘They are. They’re all special, of course—’

‘But of them all? Nikko’s the most.’

‘Yes.’

She shrugged.

‘Always gentle. Always kind.’

The boy’s hair was so long he had to lift it up out of his eyes, and he wore a vest that would have fitted his father: it came to his knees, like a dress. What could he possibly be looking at that gave him so much pleasure? He met Michael’s eyes, and Michael had to look away, for the child’s hope and hunger for life were too intense.

‘That is his new shirt,’ said Maria. ‘For basketball.’

‘Look at his teeth.’

‘What about them?’

‘They’re perfect.’

‘Of course. But too many sweet drinks and bad food. My sister is not as strict as me, but… it’s his birthday there. After I spoke to him – look.’

She opened another, and his face was a mess of cake – but he was still smiling through the cream, holding Michael with shining eyes.

‘After I said goodnight to them all,’ said Maria. ‘That’s when I got drunk.’

‘Why?’