He fitted the key into it and turned, opening the invisible door into a new kind of darkness, still and dense with a dank, mildewy odour. He started groping his way up the stairs, hanging on to the handrail and feeling with his foot for each step. In the darkness the house seemed larger than he remembered, like the family home in Venice in his childhood memories. As he made his way up the steep flight of steps to the top floor, he heard a male voice droning on, just below the threshold of comprehension. Zen cautiously traversed the open spaces of the landing, located the door by touch, knocked. The voice inside did not falter. He knocked again, more loudly.

‘Yes?’ a woman called.

‘It’s me.’

After a moment, the door opened to reveal a tall slim figure silhouetted against a panel of candle-gleam.

‘Hello, sweetheart!’

They fell into each other’s arms.

‘How did you get in? I didn’t hear the buzzer.’

‘It’s not working. But luckily someone had left the door open.’

He didn’t want her to know that he had keys to the house and the flat.

‘… from the gallery inside the dome. According to the Vatican Press Office, the tragedy occurred shortly after 5.15 this evening, while Holy Mass was being celebrated in the…’

Tania covered Zen’s face with light, rapid, bird-like kisses, then drew him inside. The living room looked and smelt like a chapel. Fat marbly candles flooded the lower regions of the room with their unctuous luminosity and churchy aroma while the pent-roof ceiling retreated into a virtual obscurity loftier than its real height.

‘… where he had been a virtual prisoner since a magistrate in Milan issued a warrant for his arrest in connection with…’

Tania broke free of his embrace long enough to switch off her small battery-operated radio. Zen sniffed deeply.