Refugees, I think. I nod at them to thank them. But then I ask another question. ‘Tell me about your Marshal. What’s his name?’

They both turn to me with stern expressions. ‘A good man,’ one says. With that they both get up and move off.

The woman appears behind me, and leaning over my shoulder so I can smell her, whispers, ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re not very talkative.’ She places a bowl of soup in front of me and a beaker of red liquid. Not wanting to appear surprised I thank her and she goes away. I take a sip of the liquid and it is indeed wine. It is something that has never been freely available in my lifetime. Every now and then we would discover a cache of bottles, buried somewhere in ruins. Most was undrinkable. Occasionally some tasted fine. It was sweet. I probably drank one bottle a year and it was never handed out in the kitchens. A few of the bottles had labels. They had words I didn’t know, pictures I couldn’t make out. Drinking the liquid was like drinking another world.

I realise Andalus has not been given food. I find it strange but am too distracted by the food in front of me to give it much thought. I do say to him though that he should ask for food if he wants some. He makes no sign of having heard.

The soup is hot and I finish it quickly. A plate then appears in front of me. It is piled high with meat and vegetables. I say nothing and just eat and drink. The wine brings a flush to my cheeks, the food warms me. I sit on the bench and I find myself smiling and I keep saying to myself you’re home, you’re home and I am grinning to myself while around me people eat, drink, talk and laugh.

When I finish I look around me to see what others do. I have not had my name taken. I notice other people getting up. They walk straight out the door, turning to wave goodbye at the servers. I too stand up. I walk past the woman on my way out. I stop opposite her. ‘Thank you,’

I say. I pause after the word ‘you’.

She answers with a smile, ‘Elba.’

I smile and nod. ‘Thank you, Elba.’

Outside I sit on a bench with Andalus and lean forward, my head in my hands.

People walk around us, going about their business. I am still surprised there are not more people about but perhaps everyone is working in the fields. Children play in the street. No one gives the two old men on the bench in the town square a second glance.

This town square has a history. It is wide and surrounded on all sides by wooden buildings, one of which is the kitchen. We used the space to hold public gatherings. At the far end is a stage. I remember standing there one day. The square was packed. I believe every able-bodied citizen had come to listen. There were so many people that the dust kicked up by thousands of feet hung in the air above their heads. I was above the cloud of dust looking down on my people. I paused for breath and to take a sip of water. No one stirred. There was not a sound. That was when I knew I had them. I smiled inwardly. By way of conclusion I said, ‘Once our kind was powerful, once we did not struggle. We will become strong again. It will not happen tomorrow, it will not happen next year but soon, soon we will become strong enough to ensure this will never happen again. There is no question of guilt here. No question at all. The most humane thing we can do is to ensure the survival of our children. The most humane thing we can do is to ensure the survival of a civilised way of life.’

There was no applause when I finished but I did not need it and it would have been inappropriate. My victory was inevitable. I had broken a barrier and I would now see out the plan for better or worse.

The audience would have known that many of them would end up hanged. Each would have known that either himself or the person standing next to him or behind him would end up dangling from a rope like a criminal. There was silence.

Many of them hung their heads. They did not look at each other. When they started leaving it seemed as if each person left separately. There were no groups, no families anymore. Everyone was on their own. They knew it was necessary. They knew what they had done.

Sometimes I wondered if my people wanted to hear about the past, whether they wanted to hear how all the evidence pointed to our kind being far more powerful, far more numerous and technologically advanced than we are now. Or whether they were only interested in what they had to do for an easier life, what they had to do to know where their next meal was coming from and how to survive in a harsh climate. I toned down my stories of ruins, of enormous boats and vessels, of papers covered in text no one could read, in favour of details of the food roster, the routine, the rules of the Programme. They were not interested in the poetry of the past, in how it can make us desire a new future. I though always knew that both were important – facts and stories. I used to think my people were overwhelmed by guilt and did not want to look beyond the here and now. I might have underestimated them.

Andalus has fallen asleep in the sun. Spittle runs from the side of his mouth.

I must find Tora. The apartment where she stayed is close by. Nothing, it is true, is very far from here. I wake Andalus and we walk around behind the kitchens and initially head in a southerly direction. Second right, first left, half-way down and there it is, a three-storey building, much like the others around it but special to me. I find another bench for Andalus and tell him to wait. He sits down without any fuss. I am surprised he is being so compliant in the home of his former enemy but I do not have time to think about that right now.

I walk up to the building and round the side. There I climb the stairs on the outside to the third floor. There are weeds growing in the cracks. It all looks exactly as I remember. I walk down the exterior passage passing six doors before I come to hers. Number thirty-seven.

The number is still there, painted in the same way. The door is yellow.

The afternoon sun makes it seem as if it glows. I raise my hand and knock twice. My heart is beating hard. My mouth is dry. I feel like a child.

I hear nothing and knock again. This time though, I hear footsteps and a voice, a slightly breathless voice which says, ‘Sorry, coming, I was washing…’ and the door opens and the voice is not hers and I already know it is not Tora. But I am surprised to see the woman from the kitchen, Elba, standing before me, her hair still wet. She must have left straight after me. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says. She does not seem as surprised as I am.

‘Hello,’ I say, ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb. I did not know you lived here. I was looking for someone.’

She looks expectantly at me but I hesitate. ‘And?’ she says, ‘Have you found her?’ I do not follow her meaning.

‘She used to live here,’ I say. ‘She worked in the kitchens, like you.

Do you know her?’

She tilts her head. ‘I don’t believe so. How long ago did she live here?’

‘It was possibly as many as ten years, maybe fewer. I don’t know.’ I pause, ‘I went away for a while.’

‘That is strange,’ she says. ‘I have been here for eleven years and the flat was unoccupied before that. I’m not sure for how long.’

I realise she must have got her dates wrong. It is sometimes difficult to separate the years in this place. Sometimes it seems like a year has passed when in fact it is only a season. But I know I am not mistaken.

I ask her again. ‘Her name is Tora. Did you know her perhaps?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Have you been working at the kitchens since you’ve lived here? If so your paths would have crossed.’

‘Perhaps we did know each other and I have forgotten. People forget the strangest things.’

I smile at her. ‘She is difficult to forget.’

She nods her head but makes no other reply.