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“SO, YOUR GP and I belong to the same club, would you believe that?”
We were waiting for coffees to arrive. There was only one other occupied table in the café, an older man in a tracksuit fidgeting with his cellphone and a pad of paper, as if one accounted for the other. The interior was dim, with only the waning April sun to provide light. Interference was provided by a couple of wall-mounted TVs broadcasting in Portuguese.
I waited for him to finish his point, but Wallace was staring out onto the street, seemingly content. “When you say club, what does that . . . ? What is that? You work out at the same gym or something?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s not one of those places where you get accepted because you can afford the membership fee. It’s not even about connections. It’s
