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Which I was. “I only recognised the name because I knew someone called Drilea at university. Neculai Drilea. Romanian, I gather. Might be a common name in Romania.”The DC said “I see” in a tone both sceptical and ominous. For a while she didn’t speak but communicated silently with her colleague. I recognised a device to unsettle the witness. In due course she accepted a photograph from the note-taker, then she turned to face me again.“Please look at this photograph, Douglas. Do you recognise the people in it?”I’d been right about the camera flash. There I was, face to face with Sura Drilea, gripping her arm while she tried to get away.“The people are me and the woman I now know to be Sura Drilea.”“Doesn’t the encounter look surprisingly intimate for two people who don’t know each other?”I explained: she’d seen a flash of light, possibly a camera, and wanted to run away before she’d explained what she was warning me about. It seemed she didn’t want anyone to take her photograph, which. The citrus trees sweated pungent perfumes, and even roses were at home in these rugged mountains -- making the air tastier than wine. The train was going slowly, as if it wanted to linger in the soft canyon. It was stopping in small stations -- moving again at its calm pace, after a long whistle. Nobody else was riding except the young man, and the curvaceous woman. It seemed that the world was dozing. The shapely woman, from time to time, was closing her eyes, and opening them suddenly -- a food basket slipping on her knees, about to fall. She was catching it with a quick movement -- looking outside a few minutes -- then dozing again. Beads of sweat were shining on her forehead, and she was breathing with difficulty. The young man had bent his head, sleeping the deep sleep of exhausted souls. Suddenly, after the train dragged out of a deserted station, the woman seemed to wake up. Opening her basket, she pulled out a piece of bread, boiled eggs, a bottle of wine, a hunk of swiss.
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