So the attempts at harm are never public, always some careless, sudden private moment. There’s publicity abounding, though, rumors of the problem, tall tales of it, a mess of gossip.

Catherine’s aura is yellow. That’s what this spiritualist, a medium, told us once—this woman who advertised herself as “the grand, international African-American Medium”—and Catherine wouldn’t rest until we went. Yellow’s supposed to be a good aura, she said. And me? She wouldn’t tell me what my aura was, like it frightened her or something. Instead she started telling me about problems I could see already about myself. For instance, I’ve got eczema on my back and shoulders. She told me about it. Who needs to be told unless she could also cure it? But she wouldn’t. Just said it was here. And also I’m an aspirin addict, though I try to limit myself to three of the little buggers a day. Tell me something that can be remedied, I said. But she just laughed, and asked Catherine to hold out her palm so she could see her love line.

Tell us how to keep Catherine from her murderous ambushes.

Here on Ibiza, Ernest has made a temporary solution. He spends only his days with us and at night returns to a hotel on the other side of the island, leaving Catherine and me in the fisherman’s house. Don’t ask me if they make love in the daytime; that’s not my territory. I will say I’ve never heard lovemaking going on. There are some naughty rumors out about the three of us, though, and I’m defensive about that.

One thing I can say about Ibiza is that it’s been a whole month and Catherine has not attempted murder. And on the beach, you sit and feel like you’ve become the sun.

I like the beaches, but Catherine likes what she calls the “donkey paths,” the little narrow streets and tightly packed white-washed buildings. “We first discovered Ibiza on a travel film,” Catherine told me. “Can you believe it? Just these marvelous views from the plane, one of those aero-photographers—Ern did an article on one once. I can always tell if I’ll like a place if it’s got a nice view from the plane. If it makes you think, Wow, let’s land there and have a look around! It reminded me of Athens but it reminded Ern of Morocco. I mean, what can beat Athens and Morocco together? Of course Ernest didn’t believe it would be as good as the film, but I did. You just can’t have an airplane view like that and it not be.”

She leans toward me and wiggles her nose (she can do that): “Enough beaches for you, Baby?”

“Yes.”

“ ‘Course I likes the donkey paths myself. Let’s go exploring.”

‘Course it’s easy to guess what Ernest likes best about Ibiza: the rest, or is that respite?

(breathing space)

“Are you sleeping with him?” Catherine asked me once, like she’d started herself to believe the rumors, or invent her own.