You have to wait until night falls, and then walk silently along the walls, climb up one of the hills and sit quietly on the old stones, and you will hear it. It is almost a whisper, like the breeze, but you hear it all the same: the voice of history. Malacca is like that: full of dead. And the dead whisper. They whisper in Chinese, in Portuguese, in Dutch, in Malay, in English, some even in Italian, others in languages no one speaks anymore. But it hardly matters: the stories told by the dead of Malacca no longer interest anyone.

Malacca, on the west coast of Malaysia, is a city freighted with the past, soaked in blood and sown with bones. It is an extraordinary city where half the world's races have met, fought, loved and reproduced; where different religions have come together, tolerated each other and integrated; where the interest of great empires have struggled for primacy; and where today modernity and progress are pitilessly suffocating all diversity, all conflict, in torrents of cement, to create that bland uniformity in which the majority seem to feel at home.