For she had overheard a flutter of talk between Lou and Tray. That time, they said, Cami had been stopped on the bypass, because he did not have a helmet on. And there had been a scene at the side of the road, and suddenly, over the walkie-talkie had come some garbled message, and the police officers had backed away, telling

Camillo how sorry they were. Leading him like a king to the trike. Wishing him a nice journey.

Of course, Camillo was a film director. What else?

But Camillo was not anything of the kind, and any way, such men were fair game. No, it must be because Camillo was Scarabae.

Rachaela passed the policeman, who followed her only appreciatively with his eyes.

She bought complex cakes in the shop, for Sasha, Miranda and Eric, Michael and Cheta.

With a sensation of defeat, that was only the veneer for some other, deeper, darker, more arresting, more peculiar emotion, like waiting, she went back up among the villas and neat streets that led toward the common. Home.

CHAPTER 11

WHEN THE YELLOW DOOR OPENED, A black woman stood there, fat, and fragrant like apple blossom. She smiled at once and behind her black eyes were blue seas. Her black eyes were bright and lit, and there were depths to them, soul-windows. Unlike the paint-black eyes of the girl outside.

"Mrs. Watt?"

Delilah Trinidad eased her bulk a little, from one flat shoe to the other.

"No, pet. Mrs. Watt? I never hear of Mrs. Watt."

Down by the curb, James, Delilah's son, was cleaning his Datsun, his slim body moving to the tempo of his pride.

Delilah looked at him, and wondered if he had heard of a Mrs. Watt.

"This is the house," said the white girl with long black hair.

"No, pet," said Delilah, "if she ever here, she gone." But Delilah was troubled.

"I've come a long way," said the girl. "Into London."

Out of the cool blue hallway behind the yellow door, another girl appeared. She was the shade of dark chocolate, and where Delilah was fat, she was slender, like a young tree. She had the beauty of a model, an icon of high African art. Unlike Delilah, too, she had an English voice, but not the voice of the street. This was RADA.

"What is it, Mom?"

"Dis young girl, she looking for a Mrs. Watt. She better come in, have a cup of coffee. She come all the way to London, Pearl."

Pearl slipped her arm around her mother's cushion shoulders. She did not know it, but by doing so, she had filled up the doorway now, like a fence, the big woman and the slender woman as one.

"I'm sorry," said Pearl. "You seem to be lost. Have you tried next door? They may know."