The black-waistcoated waiter looks at me with the air of authority peculiar to his profession. ”Come back at eight o’clock,” he advises. I had sought out the Cafe de France as an early priority on arriving in Marrakesh. I had read that the unremarkable darkish pink building was a regular haunt of Juan Goytisolo, the Spanish writer and long-time resident of the city. Goytisolo, I had hoped, might vouchsafe a few keys to better understanding the staggeringly diverse human carnival that unfolds every day in the vast sunbaked square which the cafe overlooks.

From the Koutoubia Mosque to the Saadian tombs, Marrakesh is blessed with a fine array of historical buildings and monuments, as you would expect of a 1,000-year-old city with a turbulent past. But, for me, Djemaa el Fna, this seething square with a jagged shape like a piece of broken glass, is its true glory.