In these last days of November, my neighbours say, it’s rained more than in the past three years put together. From now until maybe February, San Andrés will be hit by the cold fronts that cloak the northern hemisphere and the temperature will be much more comfortable even during the day. It’s a relief to sleep without a fan. That’s what I think, but the poor neighbourhoods by the airport are flooded waist-high.

‘Well, now that we’re here I’m going to take advantage,’ Jaime says, reaching for his cup on the coffee table. ‘I needed to have a good long talk with you anyway. I want to interview you for an academic article – when are you free?’ he asks.

I’m quiet for a moment, then smile archly and wink. ‘There’s no time like the present, right?’

Reluctantly, it seems, Jaime gets up barefoot and goes to his backpack, takes out a notebook, a pen and a recorder. He returns to his seat at my right and flips through the pages as I turn down the music.

‘No,’ he says suddenly. He shakes his head and pushes the notebook away. ‘I’m not going to do it the usual way.’

‘Ah, you’re going to change your methodology?’ I taunt.

‘Yeah, I’m going to change my methodology. I just want to hear about what it was like to come back, your relationship to island identity, to the Raizal world…’

‘Ha!’ I interrupt. ‘Those aren’t easy questions to answer, man…’

There comes a crash of thunder so powerful that the entire glass door rattles over the music, above us, above everything. Then I hear the crackle of the voltage regulators as the light cuts out. We’re left completely in the dark.

‘But I agree that I may have to,’ I say.

There’s always a sense of intimacy in a blackout, when it’s night-time and raining. Between the shadows and the rain’s furious lash against the roof, an atmosphere coheres that encourages you to speak frankly. Almost no one is outside, all other noises are absorbed by the force of falling water, and it’s slightly disappointing whenever the artificial light comes on again. I get up in search of candles.

Hundreds of times I forgot or didn’t bother to buy a torch at the supermarket. Rummaging around the kitchen cabinets, I find some thin candles that will burn out in no time. I light several and set them onto some little porcelain tea saucers that no one has ever used; Jaime helps me bring them into the living room. The sliding door trembles again, harder now. At this point, the corners of the house are groaning, too, and I’m genuinely grateful that the cachaco showed up today. And that he washed the dishes.

The music plays on, quieter now. We sit down again in the half-light.