There was no voice from the kitchen asking why the water bill hadn’t been paid on time.

I stayed out on the balcony until the sun sank low enough to turn the plaster walls along the street a deep, dusty pink.

At seven o’clock I went into the kitchen at the back of the apartment.

Its walls were covered in hand-painted blue-and-white tiles, and the gas stove caught with one strike of a wooden match.

I opened the little refrigerator under the counter and took out a fresh piece of cod, two ripe tomatoes, a lemon and a small bunch of parsley.

I laid the wooden cutting board on the counter and cut the tomatoes into neat, thick slices, listening to the clean rhythm of the knife on the wood.