“Ah,” I ran my hand along my legs and crystals of salt glittered and fell; we were both dusted with light. “You have your work,” I added ... with some malice though I was now under control ... my crisis resolved after one sleepless night. I could now look at her without longing, without pain; regret was another matter but regret was only a distant relative to anguish. “I have that, too,” she said. “The work uses everything while this ... is a narcotic. I float without a thought or a desire like ... like an anemone.” “You don’t know what an anemone is, do you?” She laughed like a child. “How do you know I don’t?” “You said it like somebody reading a Latin inscription.” “What is it?” I laughed, too. “I don’t know. Perhaps something like a jellyfish. It has a lovely sound: sea anemone.” We were interrupted by a motorboat pulling into the dock. “It’s the mail,” said Iris. “We’d better go back to the house now.” While we collected towels, the guard on the dock helped the boatman carry two large boxes of groceries and mail to the house. Between a pair of palm trees, a yard from the door of the house, the bomb went off in a flash of light and gray smoke. A stinging spray of sand blinded Iris and me. The blast knocked me off balance and I fell backward onto the beach. For several minutes, my eyes filled with tears and burning from the coral sand, I was quite blind. When I was finally able to see again, Iris was already at the house trying to force open the door. One of the palm trees looked as if it had been struck by lightning, all its fronds gone and its base smoldering. The windows of the house were broken and I recall wondering, foolishly, how the air-conditioning could possibly work if the house was not sealed. The door was splintered and most of its paint had been burned off: it was also jammed for Iris could not open it. Meanwhile, from a side door, the occupants of the house had begun to appear, pale and shaken. I limped toward the house, rubbing my eyes, aware that my left knee had been hurt. I was careful not to look at either the boatman or the guard. Their remains inextricably strewn among tin cans and letters in the bushes. Paul was the first to speak: a torrent of rage which jolted us all out of fear and shock. Iris, after one look at the dead men, fled into the house. I stood stupidly beside the door, rolling my eyes to dislodge the sand and listening to Paul. Then the other guards came with blankets and gathered up the pieces of the two men. I turned away, aware for the first time that Cave was standing slightly apart, nearest the house. He was very pale. He spoke only once, half to himself for Paul was still ranting: “Let it begin,” said Cave softly. “Now, now.” EIGHT 1