The Alubia turns out to be a reasonably civilized place. Dark and atmospheric with a narrow bar down one side and a band playing to an audience of largely middle-aged men and their women, who are dressed to kill in leopard skin and heavy lip liner. Three old men in black suits and fedoras stand absolutely motionless and unsmiling as they sing. We find a table near the back. A waiter brings an ice bucket full of beer bottles and places it on a stand next to us. The three old men troop off and are replaced by a group of mariachis resplendent in burgundy and gold outfits. First out is a Mayan-looking guitarist, with cheekbones sharpened into scythes and a long sloping forehead, followed by four Mexicans who sing a medley of songs from exuberant to soulful, conceding the microphone to each other in order of seniority and all equally adept at singling out the women who seem to crave their attention the most and crooning just for them. The Mayan doesn’t sing but instead makes eyes at a pretty girl with a long plait and a chipped front tooth, who stands at the bar shyly fingering the frilled sleeve of her red blouse. At the table next to ours, a woman strains towards the youngest mariachi, a sultry baritone. A single tear coasts down her cheek then rolls onto her neck. Her husband puts his arm round her shoulders and squeezes her mournfully.

‘What are they singing?’ I whisper.

‘I am still a man ... I am a free man . . .’ Duval translates, ‘I still have the stars above me.’ He looks down at me and his eyes are laughing and I laugh back at him, feeling heady from beer and happiness and overcome with a fierce longing to lay my head on his shoulder, to slow the world down to a crawl and stay forever here in this muggy, smoke-filled room with its murmur of Spanish, the smell of cigarillos, with the tears and passions of the women and the splendid pumping of mariachi trumpets.

A hand appears on Duval’s shoulder. Reuben, grinning, bumptious. Much of his nervous energy seems to have dissipated but that might be because he’s taken a huge hit in the eye. Beneath his swollen lid an eyeball peeps out, bloodshot and weeping. Nevertheless he seems in excellent spirits and waves away all enquiries as to what happened with a contemptuous flick of the wrist. ‘This? Oh this is nothing, not important.’ He edges onto the spare seat and looks hungrily at the melting bucket of beers. Duval hands him one along with a cigarette which Reuben fumbles into his mouth, veering into tourist patter as though he’s completely forgotten why we’re here.