Robert Wilson: A Small Death in Lisbon

It still hasn't rained. It's still dry and cold. The leaves are still scratching across the calçada. A Bandeira Vermelha is closed. I've had to find somewhere else to drink my bicas, someone else to make my toast.

Olivia still hasn't taught Carlos anything about clothes, he shambles about in that oversized thing, but he's reciprocated in his own way by telling her nothing of murder. He makes her happy in a way that she hasn't been for over a year.

Luísa Madrugada spares me the odd quarter of an hour from her publishing company and I occasionally look up from the book that she's been forcing me to write. Nothing about murder, of course, a children's story.

I've seen the untouchable lawyer too, Dr Oliveira in his Morgan, spanking down the Marginal with a blonde in the passenger seat. He didn't look bothered.

I'm getting out of this house. The landlord offered to sell me an apartment at a good price if I moved out and let him convert this old mansion. I thought it would be a difficult decision to make, but I agreed as soon as he proposed it. We looked at each other astonished.

And I bought a new car. The old one never forgave me for leaving her on the bridge that night. The new car's nothing special but the salesman, highlighting all the extras included, made it sound as if it could go into orbit and dock with Discovery. He knew everything, and I questioned him endlessly because it's in my nature, finally I asked him:

'How do they tint the windows so that they're clear in the shade and dark in the sunshine?'

'You know,' he said, without even a pause, holding up a finger. 'That's interesting. It's the only Portuguese element of this car.'

'Is that a selling point?'

'On the glass,' he said, ignoring me, 'they lay a very, very thin layer, less than a micron, a fraction of a micron of the finest Portuguese wolfram.'

I thought about that.

The obscure talent of wolfram.