He tempts her with Portugal in spring – I can’t, she says, not having stayed before in a hotel with anyone but her husband. He laughs, kisses her, points out that there are four hundred bedrooms, so who will know or care? This being a question, for which she has no answer, they go, oblivious to the Carnation Revolution, bewildered to find their hotel empty, its terraces deserted, salt pool unruffled, to dine alone in a chandeliered ballroom where a trio of defeated women play selections from long-dead musicals. This soup’s good, he says; she stabs her plate, an ill-conceived stew of pork, beans and shellfish. It can’t get any worse, she thinks but all week the sun’s too hot, the beach too far; they trail from one sad bar or café to the next, weary of fado, the endless bacalhau, the sickly egg yolk docinhos whipped up, she imagines, by sour-faced nuns. We should never go back, he says on the last night. I should never have come, she thinks, sticky with guilt and sugar which she tries to rinse away in vinho verde. And later, it will not be this meal, his sleeping face and priapic body or his unfaithful mouth she will remember, but how, slipping in through shutters, the sunlight stained everything.