The next afternoon I join residents of the condominium who are stretched out beneath the sun's heavily jewelled hand, or dipping in the cool light of the blue pool.

A woman sitting nearby holds my attention. She has dark sunken eyes beneath short black hair, and speaks a throaty French that reminds me of Edith Piaf. Although she's Canadian, not French, and probably can't wobble a note, there's the same gravity that I suspect made the singer so attractive to men.

  You dance inside my chest,
  where no one sees you,
  but sometimes I do,
  and that sight becomes this art.