As for the contract solemnly concluded between Marijana and himself, that seems to have gone up in smoke. Day after day she stays away without a word of explanation. Her son, on the other hand, is blessed with frequent telephone calls. Of Drago's end of their conversations, which are in Croatian, he hears only a monosyllable here and there.

Then one afternoon, when he least expects it, Marijana drops in. Drago is not back from school; he is taking a nap.

'Mr Rayment, I wake you? Sorry – I knock and no one come. You want I make you tea?'

'No, thank you.' He is piqued at being caught asleep.

'How is your leg?'

'My leg? My leg is fine.'

A stupid question and a stupid answer. How can his leg be fine? There is no leg. The leg in question was long ago hacked off and incinerated. How is the absence of your leg?: that is what she ought to be asking. The absence of my leg is not fine, if you want the truth. The absence of my leg has left a hole in my life, as anyone with eyes in her head ought to be able to see.

Marijana has brought Ljuba with her. For the sake of the child he tries to hide his irritation.

Marijana picks her way through the mess on the floor and perches at the foot of his bed. 'You have nice life, nice and peaceful,' she says. 'Then pfu! car hit you. Then pfu! Jokic family hit you. Not so nice any more, eh? Sorry. No tea? You sure? How you and Drago get on?'

'Nothing to complain of. We get on well enough. It does me good, I am sure, to be with young people. Livens me up.'

'You and him make friend, eh? Good. Blanka say thank you.'

'It was nothing.'

'Blanka come one day to say thank you in person. But not today. She is still, you know, father's girl.' Which he takes to mean: There are still two camps among the Jokics, the father's camp and the mother's camp. And all on account of you, Paul Rayment. Because of the tempest you have unleashed. Because of the inchoate passion for your cleaning lady that you were so foolish as to declare.

'So! You have new visitor!'

For a moment he cannot work out what she means. Then he recognises what she is holding up for inspection: the nylon stocking that Mrs Costello used to blindfold him, the stocking that for some reason he knotted around the base of the bedside lamp and forgot.

Marijana brings the stocking delicately within range of her nose. 'Lemon flower!' she says. 'Very nice! Your lady friend like lemon, eh? In Croatia, you know, we throw lemon flowers on woman and man when they get married in church. Old custom. Not rice, lemon flowers. So they have lots of children.'

Marijana's humour. Nothing subtle about it. He ought to adjust, if he aspires to one day be her mystical bridegroom and be showered with lemon petals.

'It is not what it seems,' he says. 'I am not going to explain. Just accept what I tell you. It is not what you think.'

Marijana holds the stocking at arm's length and ostentatiously lets it drop to the floor. 'You want to know what I think? I think nothing. Nothing.'

A silence falls. It is all right, he tells himself, we know each other well enough by now, Marijana and I, to have our little contretemps.

'OK,' says Marijana. 'Now I check your leg and give you wash and then we do exercise like usual. We fall behind our exercise, eh? Maybe you don't do exercise so good when you alone like. You sure you don't want prosthese?'

'I don't want a prosthesis, now or ever. The subject is closed. Please don't talk about it.'

Marijana leaves the room. Ljuba continues to stare at him with the great black-eyed stare that he finds more and more eerie. 'Hi, Ljuba,' he says. 'Ljubica.' The endearment sounds foreign in his mouth, presumptuous. The child makes no reply.

Marijana returns with the big washing-bowl. 'Private time for Mr Rayment,' she says. 'Go make picture for Mama.' She shepherds the child out, closes the door. She has taken off her sandals; her feet, he notices for the first time, are broad and flat; her toenails are painted a surprising dark red, almost purple, the colour of an angry bruise.

'You need help?' she says.

He shakes his head, slips his trousers off. 'Lie down,' she says. She spreads a discreet towel over his middle, lifts the stump onto her lap, deftly unwinds the bandage, gives the naked thing an approving pat. 'No prosthese, eh? You think your leg grow again, Mr Rayment? Only baby think like that – you cut it off, it grow again.'

'Marijana, please stop. We have had this conversation before. I don't want to talk – '

'OK, OK, no more talk on prosthese. You stay at home, your lady friends come visit, better that way.' She runs her thumb along the scar. 'Cheaper. No pain? No itch?'

He shakes his head.

'Good,' she says; and begins to soap the stump.

His bad humour is evaporating like the morning mist. Anything, he thinks to himself: I would give anything for… He thinks the thought with such fervour that it is impossible it does not communicate itself to Marijana. But Marijana's face is impassive. Adored, he thinks to himself. I adore this woman! Despite all! And also: She has me in the palm of her hand!

She finishes washing the stump, pats it dry, begins the first massage. After the first massage, the stretch exercises. After the stretch exercises, the second and concluding massage.

Let this go on for ever!

She must be used to it, all nurses must be used to it: men under their care growing physically excited. That must be why she is always so quick, so businesslike, why she declines to meet his eye. Presumably that is how they are taught to deal with male excitement. It will sometimes happen that… It is important to understand that… Such motions are involuntary and are an embarrassment as much to the patient as to the nurse… It is best to… Lively moments in an otherwise boring lecture.

Before the Fall, said Augustine, all motions of the body were under the direction of the soul, which partakes of God's essence. Therefore if today we find ourselves at the mercy of whimsical motions of bodily parts, that is a consequence of a fallen nature, fallen away from God. But was the blessed Augustine right? Are the motions of his own bodily parts merely whimsical? It all feels one to him, one movement: the swelling of the soul, the swelling of the heart, the swelling of desire. He cannot imagine loving God more than he loves Marijana at this moment.

Marijana is not dressed in her blue uniform, which means that she does not regard today as a working day, or at least did not regard it as such when she left home. Instead she is wearing an olive-green dress with a black sash and a brief slit up the left side that reveals a knee and a flash of thigh. Her bare brown arms, her smooth brown legs: Anything! he thinks again. I would give anything! And somehow this anything! and his approval of the olive-green outfit, which he finds irresistibly fetching, are no different from his love of God, who, if he does not exist, at least fills what would otherwise be a vast, all-devouring hole.

'Now on left side.' She rearranges the towel to keep him decent. 'So: press against me.'

She presses the stump backward; he is supposed to press forward countervailingly. Briefly they hold the position, the two of them: she gripping the curtailed thigh with both hands, leaning her weight against him, he gripping the edge of the bed and resisting. How far! he thinks. How near and yet how far! Breast to breast they might as well be, pushing their fallen selves into each other. If Wayne were to hear about this, what would he say! But for Wayne Blight he would never have met Marijana Jokic; but for Wayne Blight he would not have known this pressure, this love, this urgency. Felix, felix. Felix lapsus. Everything is for the best, after all.