IT IS INDEED true, Elizabeth Costello is a model guest. Bent over the coffee table in the corner of the living-room that she has annexed as her own, she spends the weekend absorbed in a hefty typescript, which she seems to be annotating. He does not offer her meals, and she does not ask. Now and again, without a word, she disappears from the flat. What she does with herself he can only guess: perhaps wander the streets of North Adelaide, perhaps sit in a cafe and nibble a croissant and watch the traffic.

During one of her absences he hunts for the typescript, merely to see what it is, but cannot find it.

'Am I to infer,' he says to her on the Sunday evening, 'that you have come knocking on my door in order to study me so that you can use me in a book?'

She smiles. 'Would that it were so simple, Mr Rayment.'

'Why is it not simple? It sounds simple enough to me. Are you writing a book and putting me in it? Is that what you are doing? If so, what sort of book is it, and don't you think you need my consent first?'

She sighs. 'If I were going to put you in a book, as you phrase it, I would simply do so. I would change your name and one or two of the circumstances of your life, to get around the law of libel, and that would be that. I would certainly not need to take up residence with you. No, you came to me, as I told you: the man with the bad leg.'

He is getting tired of being told he came to this woman. 'Wouldn't you find it easier to use someone who came to you more willingly?' he remarks as dryly as he can. 'Give up on me. I am not an amenable subject, as you will discover before long. Walk away. I won't detain you. You will find it a relief to be rid of me. And vice versa.'

'And your unsuitable passion? Where would I find another such?'

'My passion, as you call it, is none of your business, Mrs Costello.'

She gives a wintry smile, shakes her head. 'It is not for you to tell me my business,' she replies softly.

His hand tightens on his crutch. If it were a proper, old-fashioned crutch of ash or jarrah, with some weight to it, instead of aluminium, he would bring it down on the old hag's skull, again and again, as often as might be necessary, till she lay dead at his feet and her blood soaked the carpet, let them do with him afterwards what they will.

The telephone rings. 'Mr Rayment? This is Marijana. How are you? Sorry I missed my days. I was crook. I come tomorrow, OK?'

So that is to be the fiction between them: she was crook. 'Yes, of course it is OK, Marijana. I hope you are feeling better. I will see you as usual tomorrow.'

'Marijana will be back on the job tomorrow,' he informs his guest as matter-of-factly as he can. Time for you to bugger off: he hopes she gets the message.

'That's all right. I'll keep out of her way.' And when he glares at her angrily: 'Are you worried she will think I am one of your lady friends from the old days?' She gives him a smile that is nothing less than merry. 'Don't take everything so seriously, Paul.'

Why Marijana has decided to come back emerges as soon as she steps through the front door. Before even taking off her coat – it is raining, a warm steamy rain that carries a tang of eucalyptus – she slaps down on the table a glossy brochure. On the cover, mock-Gothic buildings against acres of greensward; in a panel, a well-scrubbed boy in shirtsleeves and tie at a computer keyboard, with an equally well-scrubbed chum peering over his shoulder. Wellington College : Five Decades of Excellence. He has never heard of Wellington College.

'Drago say he will go here,' says Marijana. 'Look like good school, don't you think?'

He pages through the brochure. 'Sister institution to Wellington College in Pembrokeshire,' he reads aloud. 'Preparing young men for the challenges of a new century… Careers in business, science and technology, the armed forces. Where is this place? How did you find out about it?'

'In Canberra. In Canberra he find new friends. His friends in Adelaide no good, just pull him down.' She pronounces Adelaide in the Italian way, rhyming with spider. From Dubrovnik, just a stone's throw from Venice.

'And where did you hear about Wellington College?'

'Drago know all about it. Is food school for Defence Force Academy.'

'Feeder school.'

'Feeder school. They get, you know, preference.'

He returns to the brochure. Application form. Schedule of fees. He knew that boarding school fees were high; nevertheless, in black and white the figures give him a jolt.

'How many years would he be there?'

'If he start January, two years. In two years he can get year twelve, then he can get bursary. Is just fee for two years he need.'

'And Drago is enthusiastic about the school? He has agreed to go?'

'Very enthusiastic. He want to go.'

'It's normal, you know, for the parents to take a look at a school first before committing themselves. Make a tour of the premises, speak to the headmaster, get a feel of the place. Are you sure you and your husband and Drago don't want to pay a visit to Wellington College first?'

Marijana takes off the raincoat – it is made of some clear plastic material, purely functional – and drapes it over a chair. Her skin is warm, ruddy. No trace of the tension of their last encounter. ' Wellington College,' she says. 'You think Wellington College wants that Mr and Mrs Jokic from Munno Para come visit, see if maybe Wellington College is OK for their boy?'

Her tone is good-natured enough. If anyone is embarrassed, it is he.

'In Croatia, you know, Mr Rayment, my husband was famous man, sort of. You don't believe me? In all newspapers photographs of him. Miroslav Jokic and mechanical duck. On television' – with two fingers she makes walking motions in the air – 'pictures of mechanical duck. Only man who can make mechanical duck walk, make noise like how you say kwaak, eat' – she pats her bosom – 'other things too. Old, old duck. Come from Sweden. Come to Dubrovnik 1680, from Sweden. Nobody know how to fix it. Then Miroslav Jokic fix it perfect. One week, two week he is famous man in Croatia. But here' – she casts her eyes up to the heavens – 'who cares? In Australia nobody hear of mechanical duck. Don't know what is it. Miroslav Jokic, nobody hear of him. Just auto worker. Is nothing, auto worker.'

'I am not sure I agree,' he says. 'An auto worker is not nothing. Nobody is nothing. Anyhow, whether you visit them or not, whether you are from Munno Para or Timbuctoo, my guess is that Wellington College will be only too glad to take your money. Go ahead and apply. I'll pay. I'll give you a cheque right now for the application fee.'

So there it is. As easy as that. He is committed. He has become a godfather. A godfather: one who leads a child to God. Does he have it in him to lead Drago to God?

'Is good,' says Marijana. 'I tell Drago. You make him very happy.' A pause. 'And you? Leg is OK? No pain? You do your exercises?'

'The leg is OK, no pain,' he says. What he does not say is: But why did you walk off the job, Marijana? Why did you abandon me? Hardly professional conduct, was it? I bet you would not want Mrs Putz to hear of it.

He is still full of aggrievement, he wants some sign of contrition from Marijana. At the same time he is drunk with the pleasure of having her back, excited too by the money he is about to give away. Giving always bucks him up, he knows that about himself. Spurs him to give more. Like gambling. The thrill all in the losing. Loss upon loss. The reckless, heedless falling.

In her usual busy fashion Marijana has already set to work. Beginning in the bedroom, she is stripping the bed and fitting clean sheets. But she can feel his eyes on her, he is sure of that, can feel the warmth coming from him, caressing her thighs, her breasts. Eros always ran strong for him in the mornings. If by some miracle he could embrace Marijana right now, in this mood, taking the tide while it is high, he would overcome all that rectitude of hers, he is prepared to bet. But impossible, of course. Imprudent. Worse than imprudent, crazy. He should not even think of it.