Above his head he could see the flaming sword indicating his irrevocable exit from that lost paradise that had once been his, but was no longer and would never be again. If that corner wasn’t his, what did he own the title deeds to? A lacerating sensation that he was alien, foreign, different, hit him so strongly that the Count had to restrain himself and cling to his last ounce of pride to stop himself running away. And only then, when he realized it was too hot to be running around street corners, did he grasp the real reason they hadn’t wanted to count him in: how come I didn’t get it, those bastards were playing for money. ..

“What’s the matter, wild man?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m tired.”

“It’s hot, don’t you reckon?”

“Fucking hot.”

“Your face looks really shit awful.”

“I can imagine,” the Count agreed, as he coughed and spat out of the window in the direction of the yard. Skinny Carlos watched him from his wheelchair and shrugged his shoulders. He knew when his friend behaved that way it was best to ignore him. He’d always said the Count was a long-suffering bastard, a sucker for nostalgia, a total hypochondriac and the most difficult person to console in the world, and today he didn’t feel he had time or stamina to relieve the fierce onslaught of melancholy his friend was suffering.

“Should I put some music on?” he asked.

“You feel like it?”

“Only asking. Just to pass the time, you know?”

The Count went over to the long row of cassettes on the top of the shelves. His eyes ran over titles and singers, and this time was hardly surprised by Skinny’s eclectic taste in music.

“What do you fancy? The Beatles? Chicago? Formula V? Los Pasos? Credence?”

“Hey, Credence,” they agreed again: they liked to hear Tom Foggerty’s tight voice and the elemental guitars of Credence Clearwater Revival.