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Chapters (14)
  1. Salt Crystals
  2. I. THE DAMNED CIRCUMSTANCE
  3. II. NOTEBOOK OF A RETURN
  4. III. DIVISIONS
  5. IV. LICKLE GOUGH
  6. V. BOWIE GULLY
  7. VI. THE PAPERS OF TIME
  8. VII. NORTH END
  9. VIII. SALT CRYSTALS
  10. IX. IGUANAS ON THE ROOF
  11. X. THE SOUTHWESTERN CARIBBEAN
  12. XI. CREOLES AND RAIN
  13. XII. OTTO
  14. TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

i have some information about your grandfather mostly: accounts of his shop in the gough and his jewish competitor, rubinstein, who coined the currency. also about the signing of the intendancy law, which your grandfather and others participated in.

i would welcome a visit from you at my home on 21 november at 10 a.m., if you’re still on the island and don’t have plans that day.

until then, here is something that will interest you.

‘Don’t call me Miss’ makes me chuckle. There’s a file attached; I click to download. I imagine Hazel as I remember my grandmother, and I think I even give her the same voice in my mind, with Josephine’s hard Anglo r’s. I open the document. Staring out at me are the blue eyes, large ears, white moustache and broad smile of my great-great-grandfather. He’s wearing a black suit, a tie and a white-collared shirt, with the slender chain of a pocket watch dangling from his jacket lapel; on one arm, a long iguana’s tail hangs all the way down to the floor. A nervous crack crack crack, a greeting from the roof, makes me gasp; rrrssh, rrssh, and the skin on my neck goes cold. There’s a gust of air and I jump, my hair standing on end; the light goes out and the voltage regulators rustle. The photo stays illuminated, the Jamaican’s crackling gaze. The hum of the engine from the outside world.

X. THE SOUTHWESTERN CARIBBEAN

X. THE SOUTHWESTERN CARIBBEAN

Thirty metres out to sea, I can see the spine of the seahorse. There’s not a soul in sight. If it weren’t for the column of black smoke, I’d be able to picture myself swimming in the waters of a deserted island, a happy island. The smoke is so dense, my surroundings so radiant, that these two contradictory things make for a distressing prelude, a sign of the times.

Three days ago, a tremendous fire started in the landfill. It’s still blazing, but the authorities claim it’s under control. A horrific black pillar rose up, smearing the cloudless sky for almost my entire bike ride along the ring road. The northeast wind is blowing hard, which complicates my trip back; I haven’t biked much in recent weeks, haven’t wanted to go out more than necessary. There’s something peering out of people’s eyes that I can’t stand. The house, though, is an oasis, and it’s mine; I love its ghosts.