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of seabirds fighting for offal.
    Black looked up towards D’Alt Vila to see if he could identify his room. He found the El Corsario and then, below it, he thought he could make out the Massa house, and high up in it the window of his own room. Maria Massa, his landlady , would be there, misshapen by work and poverty, industrious, honest, proud. She would be swabbing the floor, the terra-cotta tiles glistening with moisture, the rooms smelling of old age and stale cooking. She would be singing sad little Spanish folk songs about work and love and childbirth and death.
    He went down a companion ladder and joined the stream of passengers making for the gangway. Once ashore, he set off along the quay carrying the suitcase and raincoat. It was not far to D’Alt Vila and he felt good. The sun was warm and the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread from the cafés made him hungry. He passed the Plaza Marino Riquer, the Bar Balear, Les Caracoles and went into Can Garroves. The tables were full so he stood at the counter and ordered coffee and ensaimadas. While he waited a couple left a table in the window, and he went over and put his suitcase and raincoat on it. When he returned with the coffee and ensaimadas a woman was sitting at the table. Her back was to him but he knew it was Manuela.
    For a moment he thought of going back to the counter, but she turned and saw him and it was too late. He said, ‘Hallo,’ and sat down.
    Her ‘Hi,’ was subdued and the way she looked at him he knew she was thinking of his earlier abruptness.
    He stirred the coffee vigorously. ‘Smells good.’
    ‘I guess so.’
    ‘Aren’t you having anything?’ he said.
    ‘The waiter has not come.’
    He took a mouth of ensaimada. ‘He’s busy. What d’you want?’
    ‘Just coffee,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I can wait.’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll’ get it.’
    When he came back she thanked him and for a moment they sat in silence. Then he said, ‘Waiting for Kyriakou?’
    She nodded. ‘You don’t like him?’ It was more a statement than a question. He took another mouthful of ensaimada and when he’d dealt with that, and the crumbs, he said, ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
    A small procession came down the road from the town led by a priest with a crucifix. He was followed by acolytes carrying candles. Behind them about twenty men straggled in an untidy line. The procession passed the Can Garroves and turned right, going on in the direction of the ferry steamer. To Black there was a picturesque solemnity about the cortège, a pious, infinitely patient futility.
    ‘Wonder what all that’s in aid of?’ he said.
    ‘It’s a kind of funeral. They go to the ship. You will see.’
    The procession halted when it reached the ferry and its members stood in a semi-circle behind the priest.
    Manuela pointed. ‘You see. Now they will wait for the coffin from the ship. It must be an Ibizencan coming home to be buried. It is not unusual if they die on the mainland. They are superstitious.’
    Black munched away at the ensaimada, stopping now and then to wash it down with coffee.
    The train of thought which the funeral cortège had started was interrupted by a yellow Land-Rover which drew up in front of the café. The driver wore a blue and white striped sailor’s vest, blue bell-bottoms and a beret with a red pom-pom. His arms were tattooed. Next to him sat a tall thin man with white hair and dark glasses. Even from the fifty feet which separated them, Black could see the scarred face and taut unsmiling features. The driver came into the café and bought a packet of cigarettes. He went out, said something to the tall man, then climbed into the Land-Rover and they drove off.
    Black looked at Manuela. ‘Know who that is?’
    ‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘Van Biljon.’
    ‘Don’t often see him around.’
    She nodded. ‘A strange man. They say he feels rejected socially because of his face. I think he is very