It became almost a game to me: how to keep them drunk enough to sing and empty their wallets, but not so drunk they would grow violent or collapse. I diluted wine with lemon soda, to make them drink slower, longer. A canny merchant from Jerez taught me how to make a Rebujito – sherry and soda and a sprig of mint, cool enough for any hot head. In one of Elena’s discarded fashion magazines I even found a recipe for a cocktail, called a Marianito, which I longed to try. But it belonged to another world, to inconceivable places like New York or Paris. It could never exist at the inn. Nevertheless, I kept the torn-out page next to my bed so I could daydream the impossible: that one day I might sit in a bar, in a city far away and order myself a drink, as easily as breathing.

I thought of my dream that evening, as customers hollered for wine, more wine, more raciones, more sherry and I ran to and from the kitchen, trying my best to give them what they wanted, to control them before they went crashing into the night. I was so busy, I almost forgot about the strange, bloody day and the rabo de toro seething on the stove. Until he arrived.

The moment I heard his voice the hairs on my neck rose despite a layer of sweat. My guts turned cold and kinked themselves once, twice as the Señor and his friends sauntered into the inn.

I stopped in the kitchen doorway, waiting for them to pass, to fill their eyes with the sight of the girls in their tight dresses and crowns of flowers and lace. But the Señor didn’t look at them. He looked straight towards me, and smiled.

It was then I understood: he had not ordered the rabo because he wanted it, but because I would have to make it. I would have to pour time and sweat into the pan. I would have to serve him at the table with my own hands. I had thought that cooking was a sort of freedom, a way to gain an ounce of control over the people who dominated my world. But I was wrong. I was not Ifrahim, able to drift and charm and cook my way across a continent. I was a woman, and the Señor only had to flex his will to remind me – to remind the world – what that meant. I would never be free.