'Neither. Just private.'

'Got a smoke?'

'There's a packet in the glove box.'

She stabbed the lock on the lid with a finger and let it fall open in front of her.

'Old Gold. I don't like Old Gold.'

'You don't like my car. You don't like my cigarettes. What do you like?'

'It doesn't matter.'

I took a sideways glance at her. Her mouth always seemed to be on the edge of a snarl, an impression that was enhanced by the strong white teeth that filled it. Hard as I tried I couldn't imagine anyone touching her without losing a finger. She sighed and, clasping her hands tightly, pushed them between her knees.

'So what's your story, Senor Hausner?'

'I don't have one.'

She shrugged. 'It's seven hundred miles to Santiago.'

'Try reading a book.' I knew she had one.

'Maybe I will.' She opened her handbag and took out a pair of glasses and a book and started to read.

After a while I managed to sneak a look at the title. She was reading How the Steel Was Tempered by Nikolai Ostrovsky. I tried not to smile but it was no good.

'Something funny?'

I nodded at the book on her lap. 'I wouldn't have thought so.'

'It's about someone who participated in the Russian Revolution.'

'That's what I thought.'

'So, what do you believe in?'

'Not much.'

'That's not going to help anyone.'

'As if that matters.'

'Doesn't it?'

'In my book the party of not much beats the party of brotherly love every time. The people and the proletariat don't need anyone's help. Certainly not yours or mine.'

'I don't believe that.'

'Oh, I'm sure. But it's funny don't you think? Both of us running away to Haiti like this. You because you believe in something and me because I believe in nothing at all.'

'First it was not much you believed in. Now it's nothing at all. Marx and Engels were correct. The bourgeoisie does produce its own gravediggers.'