'They also use it in cigarettes,' Conrad said.
'You mean prisoners' cigarettes?'
'I mean all cigarettes.'
'That's nonsense.'
'Is it?'
'Of course it is.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Nobody would stand for it,' she said.
'They stand for cancer.'
'That's quite different, Conrad. How do you know they put saltpetre in cigarettes?'
'Have you never wondered,' he said, 'what makes a cigarette go on burning when you lay it in the ashtray? Tobacco doesn't burn of its own accord. Any pipe smoker will tell you that.'
'They use special chemicals,' she said.
'Exactly; they use saltpetre.'
'Does saltpetre burn?'
'Sure it burns. It used to be one of the prime ingredients of old-fashioned gunpowder. Fuses, too. It makes very good fuses. That cigarette of yours is a first-rate slow burning fuse, is it not?'
Anna looked at her cigarette. Though she hadn't drawn on it for a couple of minutes, it was still smouldering away and the smoke was curling upward from the tip in a slim blue-grey spiral.
'So this has menthol in it and saltpetre?' she said.
'Absolutely.'
'And they're both anti-aphrodisiacs?'
'Yes. You're getting a double dose.'
'It's ridiculous, Conrad. It's too little to make any difference.'
He smiled but didn't answer this.
'There's not enough there to inhibit a cockroach,' she said.
'That's what you think, Anna. How many do you smoke a day?'
'About thirty.'
'Well,' he said, 'I guess it's none of my business.' He paused, and then he added, 'But you and I would be a lot better off today if it was.'
'Was what?'
'My business.'
'Conrad, what do you mean?'
'I'm simply saying that if you, once upon a time, hadn't suddenly decided to drop me, none of this misery would have happened to either of us. We'd still be happily married to each other.'