A small, Spanish, sleepy village at the foot of the Sierra Nevada. Quentar has not yet reached a thousand inhabitants, much more than you would think when strolling through the steep, winding paths of the village center on a Tuesday afternoon. The only cashier at Coviran, the only shop in Quentar serving as a bakery, butcher, supermarket, and bookstore, squeaks the shutter down. It won’t open again until 5 p.m. She walks, with a limp in one leg, to her small house further down the street. Her dwelling, like all the other houses in Quentar, is dark, very small, and well-insulated against the heat waves that can afflict this region in the summer.

The midday news. A conversation between two elderly women. The clatter of dishes on very thin porcelain plates. These are the sounds that give a glimpse of what happens behind those thick walls. Knowing exactly what happens behind them, I will never know. So, I can do no more than listen. Listen behind the many, billowing cloths. Cloths that serve as doors. The doors of Quentar.

Quentar, Spain, November 2022