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French-Colombian.”
    â€œLike Ingrid Betancourt, that hostage woman?” I ask, attempting to demonstrate at least one grain of knowledge about Colombia.
    â€œHuh!” Ricardo grunts. “Don’t get me started on her! The bitch. Let them kill her!”
    I bite my lip. “Oh,” I say, frowning. It’s not the humanistic approach one expects from a professional lifesaver. “She’s still a hostage though … I mean, surely whether you like her or not, you have tofeel sorry for her?”
    â€œThere are thousands of hostages, and yet they still talk about her – only her. There are
thousands
of better people to worry about – good people, not corrupt politicians …” he sighs, visibly interrupting his rant. “Sorry, it just drives me insane, the whole world talking about one woman, the whole world ignore the rest of Colombia’s problems. But anyway, yes. Not quite French. The accent never goes away huh?”
    I frown. “It’s not quite the accent, more the intonation. I wouldn’t criticise anyone’s accent!” I laugh. “Not with mine! I’ve been here years, and I still open my mouth to say,
“Un demi s’il vous plait,”
and everyone knows I’m English.
    Ricardo laughs. “That will be because it’s
Une demie,
because it’s a beer – feminine. You English never get the masculine and feminine right.”
    I nod and laugh. “You’re right,” I say. “I don’t think we have the necessary circuits to remember whether beer is a boy or a girl. At least, I don’t.”
    â€œNor does Jane Birkin,” he says. “Her whole life in France and she still says,
un
chanson. You know, she’s a singer. She could remember that this one word is feminine – the word for
song
, right?” He touches my elbow and turns to face down the hill again. “They come!” he says.
    â€œThey’re coming!” I correct, unable to resist pointing out that every language has its challenges.
    Five cars slither and screech around the bend right before our eyes. The last one splatters us with mud. I blink and rub my eyes.
    It strikes me that the policeman, or whoever is supposed to decide these things, is letting us stand too close – much too close. Still blinking through my watery vision, I take a step back. Ricardo stays where he is and shoots me a smile and a nod, which somehow manages to communicate,
“You’re fine, don’t worry; but I understand why you are moving away.”
    Only five cars go by and with the exception of the fifth one – the mud-hurling Karmann Ghia – they don’t strike me as very impressive. The first two were Simcas – the same car my aunty had! The third was a Hillman Imp and the fourth a Ford Escort. Do such cars count as vintage? Am I that old now that the most banal cars of my childhood are now classics?
    The other spectators seem impressed though, and they clap and cheer as the cars go by. When it becomes apparent that the pause is going to be prolonged, Ricardo steps back and frowns at me. “You OK?” he asks.
    I shake my head. “I’ve got some dirt or something in my eye,” I say. Tears are streaming now and the pain in my left eye is quite shocking.
    Ricardo grabs my elbows and turns me towards the sun. He tips my head back and peers into my eye. Despite the pain and the tears, I’m hyper-aware of his face mere inches from mine, of his lips within striking distance, his stubbly chin a lick away. He even somehow places a thigh behind me and presses it against my arse as he steadies me. It’s weird that the presence feels so sexual. “Je le vois,” he says. –
“I see it.”
    He pulls a clean tissue from his pocket, twists the end, and expertly swipes the grit from my eye. “Voila!” he says, proudly showing me the black speck on the tissue.
    I rub the tears away and