Seville Letter:Somewhere in Seville, not far from towering palm trees grown tired under the tourist gaze, there is a man who whispers writes, John Fleming
While others sit in 35-degree heat at the Puerta de Jerez in Spain's southern metropolis to squint at a newspaper, muse or have a smoke, he is standing at a counter having lunch. He rasps each time he takes a pause from eating periwinkles from their tiny shells.
Now he shows an image on his mobile phone to a tolerant barman and there it starts up again: the beady sound of a rattle emanating from deep inside him when he cracks up laughing.
As he mouths his meaning and relies on beer-enhanced facial histrionics, it becomes clear he has no voice box.
Legend has it that the beggars of Seville invented cigarettes back in 1614, foraging for scraps of tobacco in a city that was then a major producer of cigars.
Rolling the sweepings and grit pillaged from the floors of the smoke factories between thin sheets of paper, they sparked up and seem never to have stopped since. Some 41.5 per cent of Spanish males smoke, compared to Ireland's 31.4 per cent.
Sitting by the perimeter of the great Moor-constructed Alcazar citadel originally built to house poet king al-Mu'tadid's harem of 800 women, a gypsy from a holiday postcard sits. He strums his guitar with emphasis, lost in a moment of great Spanish melancholy: today it's all sad flamenco and slain bullfighters. He draws deeply on his cigarette then croaks out something like a tune, only more throaty.
Christopher Columbus is credited with bringing tobacco back from his big sea trip to the Americas in 1492. His land-locked remains lie a few short steps from Puerta de Jerez, inside Seville's cavernous cathedral, whose construction began 90 years earlier on the site of a mosque.
Held aloft by four coffin-bearers, the tomb of the dead voyager of discovery is a major tourist attraction. Originally interred in Havana, the body was shipped back following Cuba's independence in 1902.
And that's a neat example of history rhyming, for five minutes' walk away is the Andalucian city's former cigar factory, once the workplace of 4,000 women and well-known as the setting of Bizet's Carmen.
Operatic melody however is about the furthest thing from the vocal tones of most of the people in Seville. Bashed-down voices with all the high-end, timbre and colour ripped out cut rustily through the air.
Guttural diatribes issue from half-corona-waving old guys on park benches as they swap serrated sounds with fellow smokers. But there is nothing of the connoisseur in their tobacco activity - their habit is just a habit.
Smoking goes on in bars: even behind the counters and in the kitchens, staff kill crafty fags in moments of opportunity.
A street-cleaner woman sweeps around the base of a tree by the bus station, picking out the shrivelled carcasses of discarded cigarettes.
Like hoarse actors onstage, the waiters in a riverside restaurant in the earthy quarter of Triana bark orders for grilled prawns, squid in oil and plates of paella.
Barmen take chalk sticks they keep propped behind their ears and write running bill totals directly on to the zinc counter. They all compete for the overworked kitchen and snatch food portions from in front of each other's eyes. They've been standing on their feet all day, carrying plates back and forth, back and forth.
But any second now they'll be able to grab another well-earned cigarette.
Back by the walls of the Alcazar, the sun is searing the barbers, butchers, tourists and tobacconists of Seville.
The gypsy guitarist is still cranking out a beautiful sad ballad about loss, yearning and so on. He inhales smoke and exhales song. Now he is slapping the instrument with his hand, building a rapid rhythm.
He keeps beat with his foot, and crushes a cockroach that has scuttled under it carelessly - the insect's body for all the world a stubbed-out butt.