"It was done out of love," said Raul, moving close to the front windows where he could see the forecourt.
With a jolt, Fernando remembered his love for Caterina, remembered the child reading to him, feeding him, remembered his old, old longings for affection. His fear of death came again; he floundered, hoping he might touch something kind before the end.
"Yes ... yes, I'm sure ... it was love," he admitted.
"What did you say?" Raul asked.
"It was love ... not ostentation. But I would have put something else on her grave ... not a statue of a girl."
"What would that have been?" asked Gabriel, curious at this about-face.
"An animal, a frog, a bird ... I think I would have put a bird there."
"I thought of putting her sundial there, her noonday cannon," said Raul.
"Get me a cigarette," said Fernando, to Gabriel.
"I'll light one for you," said Gabriel.