Soul Fire

that.
    The jam of people clears, and I see Lewis and Sahara ahead of me, looking at the living statues. There’s a silver robot, a cowboy and a man sitting on a toilet.
    Lewis reads from his phone, ‘Toilet humour is an abiding theme in local culture. At Christmas one of the key figures at the nativity is a caganer , the so-called “shitting
shepherd”, who crouches behind the crib. He symbolises the cycle of returning goodness to the earth.’
    Sahara pulls a face. Even though she was the one who was desperate to hear about local customs.
    The statues get cleverer. A guy in the blue-and-red Barcelona football strip keeps a ball permanently in the air: heading, kicking, bouncing. Wrinkles divide his face into neat eighths. Maybe
he’s been standing in that same spot, heading that same ball for decades.
    ‘We should catch up with the others,’ Sahara says.
    Lewis is the only one tall enough to see over people’s heads. ‘They’re over there,’ he says, pointing to the left-hand side. Then he links arms with me too, and we move
slowly but purposefully past the last of the statues, towards a large stone building. As we get closer, I see Ade and Cara, deep in conversation.
    ‘Hey, you two. Are you trying to lose us or what?’ Lewis calls out to them.
    Ade and Cara spin round: he looks guilty, she looks pleased with herself. Sahara snarls at them both. Maybe I ought to tell Sahara that I’ve never known Cara fail to get a man she wanted.
Keeping one, that’s the bit she finds trickier.
    ‘Thank goodness we’ve found you all again,’ Cara says flatly. ‘We must have been separated for at least, ooh, four minutes.’
    ‘We thought we could get a coffee here,’ Ade points at one of the busiest places, ‘and watch the world go by for a bit. Then maybe do a bit of souvenir shopping.’
    Sahara nods so enthusiastically that I worry she’ll get whiplash.
    ‘I ought to head off to the conference. Put in an appearance at least,’ Lewis says.
    I look at the other three. Perhaps I should stay with them. Keep an eye on them. But even Sahara wouldn’t take Cara on in broad daylight, would she?
    ‘I’ll walk back with Lewis,’ I say. ‘That cava’s gone to my head so I could do with a lie down before dinner.’
    Though I might take a detour via the café serving the best chocolate brownies in Barcelona . . .

36
    Lewis doesn’t talk on the way back to his hotel. We reach the corner where my hostel is, and there’s an awkward moment when we say goodbye and don’t know
whether to hug. The Spanish people around us seem so physical and kissy.
    We settle on a clumsy half-embrace, then I go inside. There are maps at reception, so I take one and look up the address of the café Javier suggested. On paper, it’s easier to see
that the streets round here are designed along grid lines, like New York.
    After a couple of minutes, I go back outside and check Lewis is out of sight. It’s strange to be alone, in a completely foreign place, and to be able to go anywhere I like. But it’s
not scary. The Beach has made me less afraid. I imagine Meggie watching me approvingly. You’re growing up, Florrie . . .
    The route takes me back past the market, then along a narrow road lined with high buildings painted in terracotta and mustard colours. I turn a corner into Carrer de Balboa but realise I’m
at the wrong end. It’s quieter here. I pass a group of kids kicking a football around and I stare at their faces, looking for Javier’s sisters, but they’re all boys. One stares
back at me, then pokes out his tongue. It makes me jump, then makes me laugh.
    The blocks are so tall that even though it’s still bright sunshine on the beach, only the narrowest sliver of light hits the road ahead of me. The plants on the balconies stretch out their
leaves for a meagre ration of sun.
    I’m hungry again. Obviously I want to help Javier, but the thought of a chocolate brownie is a little bit tempting too. As I approach the end of the street, there’s a
burgundy-painted sandwich board outside a café.
    Brownies, pasteles, cocteles, bocadillos.
    The rest of the words are mysterious, but ‘brownies’ doesn’t need translation. My mouth’s watering.
    I gaze through the window. There are rough brick walls and cosy sofas and a chiller cabinet full of cakes. It’s almost empty and there’s a red leather chair facing the street
that’s got my name on it.
    Yet I’m hesitating.
    There’s only one waiter. He has