THE FRAME OF A WINDOW, BLUE PAINT BLISTERING in the Mediterranean sun. I am arrested, dazzled by color, the cascading scarlet of a pot of hibiscus, the glaring whitewash of a wall. It is as if the colors, first separately, then collectively, strike a series of notes that sets up a resonating chord in me. I am impelled to paint it. I am forced to convey the impact of the red against the blue, the white against the red. Perhaps this compulsion is a flaw. When I paint, I think only of what is before me.

Turn and turn again. I peer into the kaleidoscope of memory and see the patterns shift and fall, first in a star formation, then in an oblong as the points broaden out and touch. The truth has many sides to it, many changing shapes and forms. I was distraught as my work became increasingly marginalized in comparison with yours, but I also reveled in my obscurity.

You smooth the rectangle of paper flat on the table and take a good pinch of tobacco from the tin. You arrange the fibers in a column, then roll one of the sides of the paper inward to keep the tobacco in place. You lick the remaining edge, furl it round the center, and press it into shape. Finally you lift the cigarette to your mouth and light it from one of the candles. You sit back and take a deep draft.

Quentin, with whom you have been arguing about the General Strike, snorts.

“So this is your answer, is it? Indulging yourself on a terrace a thousand miles from the coalface!” He holds up the jug of red wine. His tone is teasing, jocular. You push your empty glass toward him, grinning.

“Of course we all saw how it would end. The TUC selling the miners short, then being diddled in their turn.”

Leonard groans.

“It was the usual human story. The side with the most right on it becoming political capital for the prejudices and aspirations of all the others—and getting crushed in the process.”

There is silence as Leonard’s seriousness introduces an unwelcome tone in what has been an exceptionally merry evening. You snigger.

“Do you remember Baldwin? His absurd speech on the radio. He bellowed away as if he were standing on Speakers’ Corner. Listening with Pinker on my knee, I couldn’t stop thinking how pompous he sounded. This is the Prime Minister, I kept telling myself, so why don’t I feel more respect?”

Leonard, smiling now, reaches for your hand. You kiss him.

“How we argued about it! You were all disillusionment and action, while I . . .”

“Saved everything up and used it in some sketch!”

“What’s the good of pessimism?” You wink at Quentin. “Especially in a place like this.”