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Antinucci places the case on the floor, upright, perfectly parallel to the chair; he crosses his legs, takes a mint from his pocket and slowly removes the wrapper, pops the sweet into his mouth and folds the wrapper four times.

“You’re a patsy,” says Antinucci, and he pronounces the word slowly as if savouring the way it sounds.

Without looking away, he puts the folded wrapper in a plastic bag, which he puts in his pocket; he takes out a pack of cigarettes and an expensive lighter; he lights a cigarette, takes a couple of drags and blows the smoke in Diego’s direction. The laws that forbid smoking in public spaces haven’t reached Guantánamo Bay or the jails of Istanbul. And they 12haven’t reached the prisons of Uruguay either. Silence settles between them, thrumming like an old engine. Diego would like to speak but the words trip each other up and refuse to come out of his throat. He looks at the policeman standing at the door, picking his teeth, spitting out splinters of wood or shreds of food or both.