Two men stood at the bar. Convivial chatter rose and fell behind them, peppering them with women’s voices that bubbled and shrieked. The door to Cafetería de la Luz was propped open, jammed in position by a hand-sized wedge of wood. The ancient timber chock was bruised and beaten. Every edge and corner of it had been rounded off by the daily battering that was its only reward for a life of lowly service. Chirping cicadas hid amongst the tired remains of summer leaves out on the boulevard, each still calling forlornly for a mate. Their rasping tones, the ever-present sound of the Mediterranean night, stole uninvited into La Luz. Lewis drew on a cigar and the tip of the leaf-brown stick glowed orange. The smoke curled away, escaping to join the noisy insects under the warm blanket of another southern night.