It was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. A gift from Langham? Hurriedly, I turned my back on Bouzid to open it, afraid that my face would give me away.

Inside was a book, not a new one. It was well worn, the cover bent and scratched, the gilding half rubbed from an English title.

The Gentleman’s Guide.

I frowned. Why should Langham have this, why was it so well-thumbed and studied, when he was already a gentleman? I opened the cover, searching for a name or a stamp, something that might hint at the book’s past. Instead I saw fresh ink, where someone – Langham – had written:

If you’re going to play the game, you have to learn the rules.

I snapped the book shut.

I turned back to find Bouzid studying me hard. ‘Bueno,’ I said, dropping the book into the pocket of my jacket, as if it was of no consequence. ‘I am ready when you are.’

If I had thought the streets around the Café Central were confusing, they were nothing compared to the ones Bouzid steered me down. This was the casbah, he told me, as we turned left and right and back upon ourselves until I gave up trying to keep track of our direction.

I am not too proud to say that without Bouzid, I would have been hopelessly lost. It was all I could do to keep my mouth closed. I had thought our market in Córdoba was plentiful enough, but here it seemed as if the whole countryside was laid out at the edge of the pavement. Women shaded by huge straw hats sat behind piles of tomatoes, the stones around them already littered with flesh and seeds. Aubergines groaned purple, onions hung with soil still clinging to beards. Barrows of melons, heavy as heads, engulfed us in their honey-vegetable sweetness as we passed.

Bouzid kept glancing at me. I think he was enjoying my astonishment. We came up for air in a large open space, only to plunge into yet another covered market. It was loud beneath the tin roof, packed with voices. Women in robes and headscarves were inspecting, rejecting, haggling with the sellers, who pleaded as if they were in court. There were mountains of eggs, white cheeses spread on palm leaves. The smell grew stronger until I realized we were approaching a meat market: fish and fowl, old and bloodied and new. The dirt floor grew clogged beneath our feet; a skinned sheep’s head leered down at me from a hook as if it were about to leap on to my shoulder and whisper a tale into my ear.

I’d never seen so much flesh before. Cracked skulls revealing brains, dishes heaped with lungs, tongues, guts and hearts: the ingredients of life, ready to be remade into something new.