Sitting in a deserted cinema, lit by a dull greenish light from above while the sound system played faint tango music, we stared delightedly at the folds of the curtain–mossy green, imperfect–the glowing exit sign, the rows of curved empty seats. There was no film that afternoon. We left eventually for a restaurant which had been recommended to us. Pink napery, white wrought-iron partitions: a hairdresser’s in 1968. The lamp swung above the table, moving the shadows of the wineglasses regularly but uncomfortably on the tablecloth, like the complex umbrae & penumbrae of planets. Amid all that the shadows of our hands touched, flickered then lay flat as if exhausted. 1.30 in the morning, the waiter dragged a chair around. By then only the casino across the square remained open, drawing people in, fixing them there like insects under a jam jar, where they buzzed about energetically without much sign of getting anywhere. A wind came up off the sea, blew sand across the neat cobbles, died away.