I figured it was Nard, but it’s Jamie. The cachaco stops, offers the standard handshake to the kids under the tree. He smiles and glances over at us. He’s wearing light jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt and his owly glasses. He greets Juleen and me with a kiss on the cheek and Sami with the same ritual, adding ‘Quiubo, parce.’ We listen for a moment to the demands of two tall young men in khaki pants and turtlenecks: ‘We want a desalination plant, like in the North End,’ they’re saying. The governor stands blank-faced. A pale young man with a sharply receding hairline whispers into his ear; the governor turns around and I get a good look at him. He has recognisably Arab features, with deep-set eyes and gleaming hair, and a belly that makes me fear for his stability; he looks like he could fall flat on his face at any moment. He’s a governor for the business sector. Last week, they announced a drop in liquor taxes – news received with the ecstasy of salvation itself. As if everyone weren’t drunk enough already around here.

‘How’ve you been, what have you been up to?’ Jamie asks quietly. ‘And what do you think of your governor?’ he jokes, but I’m offended by the liberty he’s taken.

‘My governor? I didn’t vote for him.’

‘I did and I’m so embarrassed,’ Juleen interjects.

‘Me too. Mi mad man, laaard!’ Sami yelps, lifting a hand above his shaved head. He looks like a basketball player about to make his shot. ‘We’ll see what the Turk’s got up his sleeve.’

‘Both of you? Are you serious?’ Jamie asks, opening his eyes wider.

‘It was the Raizal vote that got him elected – his wife’s Raizal,’ Sami says. I didn’t think the Raizals were an electoral force, but it seems they really can make a difference.

‘And it seems like they’ve already split up,’ Juleen remarks, smirking. I giggle. Typical.

‘So what happens now?’ I glance around. ‘And where’s Nard?’

‘Nothing, honey, we’re staying put. There’s Nard’s motorcycle, but he always comes and goes,’ Juleen says.

‘Well, your friends are getting ready to cook the rundown, as far as I can tell,’ I say. I glance at Jaime and gesture to the enormous cooking pot.

‘My friends, sure.’ He looks back at me coyly. He’s not a bad-looking guy, Jaime, with that huge tattoo peeking out of his left sleeve.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get that picop out,’ she says, referring to the enormous speakers that appear in the streets, the outdoor revelry that ensues. ‘It’s Friday!’ Juleen’s voice rises as her mood brightens. ‘How’re you doing, checked your levels?’

I’d forgotten. I take out the monitor and Jaime watches curiously. Sami too.