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may think he is in partridge country. But during the war this was partisan country. Partisans broke the law by their very existence. So, his fear of breaking the law is not a persuasive argument. His eyes lower. He picks up a twig and tosses it into the fire. He is like a man pretending that the rain isn’t falling on him, only on others. So then I tell him. I have to tell him—and I am sorry it has come to this. I tell him unless he empties his pockets there will be no rabbit or almond trout recipe. The photographs will be erased from his camera, and all the others he’s taken of Leo’s famous kitchen and of Leo beaming under his white chef’s hat, and I will personally throw his notebook with the partridge recipe into the flames. Now it is raining—in the figurative sense. At last he can feel it. Now he wants to get out of it. His face screws up. I see him then just for a fleeting second how he might have looked in the school playground. All the pain is on his inside. Slowly he gets up. His eyes remain half closed. It’s as if he does not want to be witness to his own actions. He is like a child. I spit at the ground by his feet. I am disgusted by him.
    Luckily he is the only one to have brought his wallet. He pulls out two hundred euros and hands the money to Leo. Leo remains on the spot, his hand out…until another stab of pain behind the closed eyes causes the food writer to retrieve another fifty, which he thought Leo must not have seen. Leo takes that, then he walks around the fire to the African woman and holds out the money. She can’t believe that it is for her. Leo has to encourage her. She looks across to Paolo. Maybe she thinks he will shoot her. He nods and so she takes the fifty off the top. Leo laughs and keeps his hand there. She looks at each of our faces. I nod. So does Paolo. The food writer is staring at the ground. She holds out her hand and Leo transfers the collection to her.
    In the morning we leave the shepherd’s hut nice and early. Leo and the American start off down the hill. I tell them I will catch up. I stay put and watch Paolo and the African woman climb up to and eventually disappear over the white ridge. It is a beautiful morning. Blue skies. Still. No good for partridge. But there is a lightness in my heart. I set off after Leo and the American.
    Back in the village I drop the American off at his rental. Then Leo at his house. Then I drive to Paolo’s lovely big home outside of town. His wife is younger, from Granada. I explain everything to her. She seems puzzled, unsure. I give her some reassurances.
    Next morning I pick her up and we drive up the mountain road. We climb to the shepherd’s hut and wait. Around noon we see Paolo come over the ridge. His young wife starts up the scree. I stay back. The figure on the ridge stops. Then he leaps—amazing to see—a man leaping off the side of a mountain. He bounds the rest of the way down the scree. By the time I catch up, Paolo, unshaven and sweaty, has his big arms around his pretty young wife. He is kissing her, panting over her. Then to my surprise I notice he is crying. Paolo ‘the strong man in defence’. I turn around and walk back to the car.

eight
    The inspector
    On this Sunday afternoon, in a park whose hills and winding paths are built on top of war rubble and the dead, new mothers gaze across lawns dotted with young lovers. There is new sap in the air. The sweet powdery smell is almond blossom. The light is green and filtered. At such moments the world trembles at the thought of itself.
    In this park the layers of the world coming into being and departing are more obvious. In the copper mulch of last season’s leaves the pigeons grub away. They do not care about anything other than what they may find. A job applicant occupies a bench: he leans forward on his spread knees—look at the way he hangs his head. There is a little too much hope and virtue combed into