We passed the Place du 16 novembre and the Place de la liberté and then suffered the full cultural shock of two wizened water-carriers in chenille tasselled hats who blocked the path of the taxi and tried to sell us some water. We had got to the Romantic Old Town. So had our quarry, who could be seen disappearing in the distance across a paved area the size of four football pitches filled with buses and tourists. ‘The Assembly of the Dead,’ said Mo Morgan. ‘There they are, walking in file with their guidebooks. Come on.’ He peeled off notes for the driver and got out, spinning some coins in the air, which the water-carriers caught in their cups. Ahead, the old woman got off her bicycle, handed it to a child who seemed to be waiting, and disappeared behind hedges of tourists. We followed. It was extremely hot. We were cursed in French, German and Japanese and occasionally in French. We ran into, and out of, a raft of professional beggars. We attracted the attention of the proprietors of a row of ramshackle kiosks selling Cartier watches, Adidas sneakers and Lacoste sports gear.
