“My mother was from Asturias, but always cooked her stews Madrid-style. A matter of taste, you know? But the downside is that along with the salted pigs’ trotters, piece of chicken, bacon, sausage, black pudding, potatoes, greens and chickpeas, it should also contain green beans and a cow’s knee-bone, which were the only things I couldn’t get. Even so, it tastes good, you must agree?” she asked rhetorically, pleased by the sincere astonishment on the faces of her son and the Count, who flung themselves at the meal, agreeing from the first spoonful: yes, it tasted good, despite lacking the refinements lamented by Josefina.

“Bloody great,” said one.

“Hey, leave some for the others,” warned the other.

“You cunt, that chorizo was mine,” protested the former.

“I’m fit to burst,” confessed the latter.

After such an extraordinary lunch, eyes shut, arms weighing a ton and clamouring physically for bed, Skinny was nonetheless set on sitting in front of the television and enjoying his dessert: a double hitter of baseball. The Havana team was at last playing decently, and the scent of victory riveted him to every game his team played, even when it was only broadcast on the radio. He followed the progress of the championship with a loyalty that could only be displayed by an unredeemed optimist like himself, despite the fact they’d not won a thing since that distant year of 1976 when even baseball players seemed more romantic, genuine and happy.

“I’m fucking off,” said the Count, after a yawn that shook his whole body. “And don’t build your hopes up too high, savage: this lot fouls up and loses the big games – remember last year.”

“It’s like I always said, you beast, I love you like this: so enthusiastic and spirited…” and he wagged his index finger at him. “You’re a scabby bastard. But this year we are going to win.”