It was nearly ten before the next table opened. This one was against the rail overlooking the street. Monsieur al-Nasser sat in the chair facing the bar, but Étienne remembers that his gaze was fixed permanently on the traffic flowing along the coast road. Denise apprised them of the evening’s menu and took their drink orders. Madame ordered a bottle of wine. Côtes du Rhône, says Denise. Bordeaux, according to Étienne. Of the wine’s color, however, there is no dispute. It was red, and much of it would soon be splashed across Madame’s white tropical pantsuit.

The catalyst for the incident arrived at Le Poivre at 10:15. He was small of stature and unimpressive of build. Étienne made him at five-eight, a hundred fifty pounds at the most. He wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts that hadn’t been washed in some time, an oversized gray T-shirt with a tear in the left sleeve, a pair of sandals with Velcro straps, and a golf cap that had seen better days. Strangely, no one can summon a compelling portrait of his face. Étienne remembers a pair of outdated eyeglasses. Odette recalls an untrimmed mustache that really didn’t suit his features. Denise only remembers the walk. His legs had a slight outward bend to them, she will tell you. Like a man who can run very fast or is good at football.

He had no name that night but later would come to be known simply as “Claude.” He had come to Saint-Jean by motorbike from the direction of Gustavia and had spent the better part of the evening drinking Heineken at the bar a few doors down. When he arrived at ten-fifteen looking for a table, his breath stank of cigarettes and hops, and his body didn’t smell much better. When Odette explained that there were no tables—“And that I wouldn’t seat him if we had one”—he mumbled something unintelligible and asked for the key to the toilet. To which Odette replied that the toilet was for paying customers only. He then looked at Étienne and said, “Heineken.” Étienne put a bottle on the bar, shrugged at Odette, and handed him the key.

How long he remained inside is also a matter of some dispute. Estimates range from two minutes to five, and wild theories have been spun as to exactly what he was doing in there. The poor couple seated at the table rejected by Monsieur and Madame al-Nasser later described his piss as one for the ages and said it was followed by much flushing and running of water into the basin. When finally he emerged he was pulling at the fly of his khaki shorts and smiling like a man relieved of a great burden. He started back toward the bar, with his gaze targeted squarely upon the waiting Heineken. And then the trouble began.