‘Oye, maestro, do you ever think that some student of yours might be firing away like a lunatic out there?’ I try to be pleasant about it. He tips his head. I see the First Baptist School, the only one on the island that teaches in Creole. We gradually slow down; I get off and hold out the ten-thousand-peso bill I’m already clutching in my hand. I glance at him discreetly. He’s well dressed: pale jeans, light brown leather shoes, a checked shirt, well ironed. He looks pretty young to be living off his pension. He unzips his money belt, and as he digs into a roll of bills for my change, he gives me a low-lidded glance, eyebrows raised, showing all his sun-singed wrinkles.

‘I’m going to think about that question of yours, señorita,’ he says seriously. ‘Could be something that comes back to haunt me.’

‘Knowledge is power,’ I’m moved to add, though I don’t know how to keep from sounding sanctimonious. ‘You’re giving a lot of power to someone who, you know…’ I smile, and the guy nods as if he agrees, looks me right in the eye with his jaw jutting up a bit. He knows what I mean, of course – but he still invites me to learn on his firing range, free of charge. He tells me to take down his number and I save it as ‘maestro’. So I wouldn’t say he knows what I meant at all.

I can’t see the moon from here, through the foliage of the tamarind and breadfruit trees, even though this is the highest point on the island, sixteen metres above sea level. The night is cool and lots of people are filing into the church, which is front-lit with purple light. I turn and make my way through the two-block-long line of parked cars. The star of the evening is a Jamaican singer, a rapper who overcame drug addiction and converted to the gospel. He appears in close-up on the poster with thick cornrows, a black jacket and a dazzling smile. It’s the first time I’ve been inside the First Baptist Church.

It won’t start on time, of course. I don’t see Juleen or anyone else I know, just some very tall, elegant men, women in long cloth skirts, others in tunics and turbans. I sit in a pew towards the middle of the hall and make use of my solitude to think about this place. My grandmother sometimes mentioned it in her stories, and it was a landmark on our Sunday walks. It always sounded almost like a tourist attraction, frequented only by travellers, or by believers – but not by us, the pañas, the people from the North End.