“In the Avenida del Peru. You wouldn’t know it, it is a little Italian hotel.”
“Are you staying long?”
“We aren’t certain.”
“Is Mr Rhys on a newspaper?”
“No, he’s a poet.”
“Does he make a living by poetry?”
“No, he doesn’t try to.”
It was the sort of secret service investigation one is submitted to, in the capital of shady people, particularly shady foreigners.
Mrs Norris was lingering by a flowering arch of little white flowers.
Already a firefly was sparking. It was already night.