‘I am waiting for someone, and it may be you,’ I reply, but before I finish speaking he lunges forward and clears the Coke bottle and the glass off my table with the barrel of his rifle. The glass and bottle break as they hit the floor; the noise they make fills the hall. Thunder roars outside, the rain falls harder. He points the gun at me and moves back. Those Christians, did their hands shake like mine are shaking now, did their foreheads glisten with sweat and their hearts threaten to fail as the lions bounded towards them in the Colosseum? Did the gladiators’ voices quaver as they chanted their death-disdaining salute to the emperor: ‘Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute thee!’?

My movement is too fast for the soldier because he isn’t expecting it. In one motion I shove the table at him; the edge catches him in the stomach, knocking the gun out of his hands. He falls down on the floor amidst the broken glasses. I make a desperate rush for the door, but before I reach it I hear a warning bark: ‘Stop or I shoot!’

It is the other soldier.

But when I turn it is not a soldier standing there. It is an angel. It opens its enormous wings and closes them again in a clapping motion. The air from the wings lifts me up and carries me out through the door. I land with a splash on the wet street. I am bleeding from the chest. I feel life draining out of me – through the haze I make out a huge bird shape flying out of the bar and ascending with the sound of a thousand wings. Then it is gone.

Bola

Bola woke up sweating and shivering. His voice, croaky and hoarse, woke me up.

‘Lomba, Lomba.’

It was not yet seven. His bed was tousled, the sheets hung down to the floor, the pillow was also on the floor; it was as if a company of obstreperous kids had played in the bed. His eyes were bleary, edged with rheum. I kicked my legs out of the sheets and went to him.

‘What?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

He looked agitated. His lips were parched. I touched his forehead. It was hot and slick with sweat.

‘You’ve a temperature. Fever.’

‘I had a terrible dream and I couldn’t sleep.’

‘What about?’

‘Dead bodies. Fire…’ He clutched the sheet, trying hard to stop himself shaking. His eyes darted to the open window, where the soft morning light streamed in, cutting itself into wide, vertical sheets on the steel bars. I gave him time to calm down. Bola always was excitable, and last night there had been too much excitement. That was his complaint – the excitement had persisted into his sleep, like a residual current, making his dreams hyperactive and phantom-filled.