Omega

But she did keep herself busy. He knew she helped out at a local surgery, as well as doling out Red Cross parcels at refugee centres. She was also charged with exercising Legister’s pair of wolfhounds. Her evenings were spent watching Hollywood movies, many of which were now banned from public viewing following the deterioration in relations between the Alliance and the USA. They would meet up whenever their schedules and the vagaries of the telephone system permitted; she invariably phoned him from a call box to arrange the rendezvous. Of course it was furtive—that was part of the thrill. But anyone keeping an eye on them would have no evidence that they were doing anything more than innocently enjoying one another’s company.

Until now. It was the first time she had come to his apartment. He wasn’t sure quite what to do next. His shyness was quite in contrast to my own nature, which was more outgoing. The blinds were drawn on the windows so no one could peek in. I would have risked a kiss.

Marisa took off her fur coat. Without it she looked diminished, her slim body sleeved in a knee-length black dress. She wore sturdy furlined leather boots, hand-made by the look of them. Legister had never denied her material luxuries.

She rummaged in the deep inner pocket of her coat and produced a package wrapped in silver foil.

“A present,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.

She filled the kettle and put it on one of the gas rings before opening the package and holding it under his nose.

It was, as he’d suspected, fresh-ground coffee. He inhaled its pungent aroma gratefully.

“Costa Rican,” she told him. “I stole it from Carl’s special supply.”

He found a box of England’s Glory and lit the ring under the kettle.

“I bought you Belgian chocolates,” he announced. “They’re probably splattered all over Regent Street.”

“It was a kind thought. I am touchéd.”

He laughed, certain that this was a pun rather than another mispronunciation.

There had been good coffee aplenty available in Brazil, but he’d wanted to get her something overtly luxurious. And consumable. But such gestures didn’t come naturally to him, with the result that he’d flown halfway around the world and come back with chocolates she could have acquired herself through her husband. He’d picked them up during a stopover at Conakry Airport, selecting a big scarlet box with a gold ribbon. A little too ostentatious, really; as if he were buying a gift for a lover.

She opened the fridge and grimaced at its emptiness.

“I’ve been away,” he said unnecessarily. “There’s only powdered milk.”

She darted back into the living room, returning with a silver hip flask.

“Whisky?” Owain said. “Cream.”

“You certainly are well prepared.”

“A little celebration to welcome you back. Since you do not care for alcohol, I thought this would suffice. I missed you, Owain.”

She pronounced his name 0-wayne, which despite himself he found charming and intimate, her private name for him.

Yet he remained reticent. I had a strong feeling that it was something more than a simple matter of shyness or discretion. Clearly Marisa was attracted to him and was free in expressing her feelings by look and touch. But the very idea of greater intimacy attracted and dismayed Owain in equal measure, for reasons that remained inaccessible to me.

The kettle had started to sing. Marisa rinsed two army-issue mugs while humming a tune he didn’t recognise. Owain found some sugar and carried mugs and spoons through into the living room. Marisa joined him on the sofa, putting the cafetière down on the coffee table. He’d never used it since he’d occupied his quarters here the previous spring.

“You must tell me about your trip,” she said. “Not the military work. What places did you see?”

“Not much to tell. Most of it involved meetings in stuffy rooms.”

“Rio. Is it really beautiful there?”

There were times when her youth showed through. Or perhaps it was just a wilful determination to discuss matters that didn’t involve the war.

“I didn’t get out much,” he said, declining to tell her about the riots and epidemics, the squalor of the favelas. Neutrality bred its own discontents.

“You didn’t even visit the beach, dip your toes into the ocean?”

“Forgot my swimsuit.”

She screwed up her nose. “You should have found time, Owain. Life is short.”

In fact he’d spent most of the tour in the company of a Portuguese multilinguist called Carmela, a swarthy beauty who’d been sent along as his subordinate. She’d travelled practically everywhere with him, sitting in as a secretary-cum-translator on all his discussions. They’d been billeted next door to one another and he’d had the impression she would have made herself available if he’d desired. But he’d never risked compromising himself.

“What is it?” Marisa said. “You are smiling.”

“Nothing.”

But he felt virtuous, like a faithful husband.