She began to laugh as he outlined the scenario, using different voices.

“You’re right,” she said. “I should go. Even if it’s just to see what it’s like to work at another level again. I owe it to myself.”

“Good. Give Jane a call and tell her you’re down and give me a call back, okay?”

They stayed on the phone for over an hour when she called him back.

“What’re you doing later, by the way?” he asked before hanging up.

“Stay home and read. It’s Saturday. Jane’s sending over a press kit, so I’ll be in.”

“Good. I’ll bring you breakfast.”

He arrived an hour later with juice and croissants. The messenger arrived as soon as he sat down.

“Oh shit …”

Diego looked up. Sylvia was shaking.

“What?”

She was sifting through the package on her way back from the door. “Oh shit.” Her voice was trembling.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I can’t take this assignment, Diego. I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Come on, you’re a professional.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Well tell me.”

She gave him Fire’s photograph. “I had an affair with this guy over the summer.”

November 10, 19—

Dear Fire,

I need a break from this fucking place. Feel like I losing my mind. I hope you get these lines in time. I’m coming to Jamaica on the twenty-fourth at 3:30. I don’t have the flight number. Fuck, how much flight coming from New York at that time? See you then, soon. Mama have a good birthday?

—Ian

chapter ten

Ian paused at the top of the ramp and loosened the neck of his shirt. The sky was a steaming iron, and the hills that back-dropped the terminal buildings were wrinkles in a piece of cloth. Kingston hot nuh rass.

As he walked across the tarmac to the gate, and shuffled through the long airless corridor past wilting palms, he reminded himself that this was his country, the place where he was born. But, God, he felt so alien here. How long had it been? Ten years maybe? Fifteen? Did it matter?

He tied his shirt around his head. Sweat ran down his withering frame, stained the waist of his khaki shorts as he tried to adjust to the heat. There was the sense of an air force barracks about the place. As if they designed the place for people who didn’t associate flying with comfort. Fuck, if they asked he would volunteer to beautify the place. At least some healthy plants, man. Wasn’t this supposed to be paradise? A yucca plant was dying in a planter, slowly turning to ash like a piece of coal. This is what this place can do to you, he thought. Sap your strength and dry you out. That’s why the best of us had to run away. Even Bob. They don’t appreciate artists here. A voice from behind said, “Move.” Without looking, he told it to fuck off.

If I returned, he said to himself, it would be to die. But then, the very act of living here would kill me. He thought about this even more after he went to the bathroom and there was no paper. He had to wipe his ass with his boxers. And when he tried to flush it, the toilet began to grunt and spit and bubble up toward him. Why would a government have people living with such indignity? he thought. Why?