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the door by which Colin had left. After a few moments she switched off the hoover. She bent to pick up some cleaning cloths and a spray polish, starting in onthe mahogany woodwork that defined the edge of the stage. Whatever had just happened, it didn’t seem to faze her much.
    I was trying to think how I might slip out without her noticing. I didn’t want her to know that I’d just seen that small exhibition of marital bliss. But then she started singing again. At first she sang softly, then after a few bars she let her voice ring out, just as she had the previous morning. Whoever was in her heart when she sang these songs, I couldn’t imagine it had much to do with Colin. She was using her singing as an antidote to her woes. It was self-medication.
    From behind me I heard the swinging doors open and then I saw Luca Valletti padding down the carpeted aisle. Luca didn’t see me, either. He had his makeup bag in one hand and his other arm was flung wide. His face was illuminated with delight.
    “My darling girl!” he shouted. “What is this songbird I hear?”
    Terri stopped in mid-flight. As she turned to him in surprise, her palm fluttered to her face in that already familiar gesture.
    Luca moved toward her in a skip. “Beautiful, my darling! Beautiful! Why you not on the stage with me? It’s a crime! We should make music! We should make the duet? It’s like the Cinderella to see you here when you should be up there! Under the lights! It’s a songbird you are! A beautiful songbird.”
    Luca stood with his hand outstretched to her, smiling, his head tilted back and to the side, delighted.
    The emergency exit door cracked open. Colin came in. He seemed to be in no hurry and yet something in his stepalarmed me. It had calm intention but his face was impassive. As he crossed in front of the stage he was like a postman walking up to someone’s front door with a letter.
    He attacked the unprepared Luca and with his left hand around the Italian tenor’s windpipe, pushed the singer up against the wall, sweeping him off the ground. He held his right fist bunched and drawn back, ready to strike. “Don’t you no never never never speak to my wife like that! No fuckin’ never! You don’t never you fuckin’ wop, you what? If I ever you fuckin’ wop! If I ever!”
    I made out the words but it was more like hearing a dog barking rapidly. I got to my feet—not to intervene, because I was too afraid of Colin, but to let him know that there were other people around witnessing this assault. The racket drew others from backstage. Among them was Tony, his face half plastered with orange stage makeup. “Put him down, you dozy bugger!” Tony roared.
    Colin didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was in a zone of his own making. Tiny bubbles of saliva beaded his lips and yet his eyes were cold.
    “Colin,” said Terri quietly, but firmly. “Colin.”
    Pinky Pardew appeared on the scene holding a carton of No. 6 cigarettes. “What the fuck is going on?”
    “Colin,” Terri said again.
    Finally Colin released his grip on Luca’s windpipe. The Italian slid to the floor, gasping, holding his throat.
    Pinky was red in the face. “Enough. You don’t come near this theater again. Nowhere near. Set foot in here again, I’ll have you off the resort and you can pick up your cards. I’m not having it.”
    “He was having a pop at my wife!” Colin stated mildly. He pointed at Pinky. “What would you do if he had a pop at your wife?” Colin looked around. He pointed at me. “What would you do if some wop had a run at your wife?”
    “Go on, clear off,” Pinky shouted at him. “Terri, you get on with your work. We’ve got a fucking show to run around here.”
    Colin bared his teeth, put his head down, and left.
    Meanwhile Tony had helped Luca to his feet. Two of the dancers were fussing around him, dusting him off. “It’s finish,” the Italian was saying. “It’s finish here.”
    “Come on, old son,” Tony said.