With one sip, the sky drank the red wine of La Sabika. The sunset shattered into pieces like the embers of a dying fire. While her fingers danced on the keys of the oboe, her feet, in her battered old shoes, hung high above the river, away from the stone wall where she was sitting. Quenco moved his head to the rhythm of Granada and, cuddled against her, his beloved owner, he idly looked at the tourists passing by. Majestic, the Comares Tower raised its haloed head among the dark trees. From under its petticoat, the Reúma Hotel leant out, modest and chipped, a doll’s house drawn on its façade. Memories slipped down its scaly dome and a little suitcase full of dreams rang with voices from the past.
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