Grégoire dreams of Safara. In her hair:

anthuriums, roses de porcelaines, alpinias,

heliconias-reds, pinks, oranges-tongues,

veins-thick petals in her hair.

Whimpering, Safara wakes with blood on

her hands. Grégoire rushes downstairs

"Taissez-vous!" he warns. "Bring me a

clean cloth," she demands. "I am menstrua-

ting." Grégoire blushes, disappears,

returns.

"Why are you crying, Safara?" "I am

lonely. Je suis toute seule." "I am here."

He holds her close and pats her back.

Grégoire, I know you love me." "There,

there." He rocks her until she falls

asleep, then he dozes off. A loud knock

wakes Grégoire. Quickly he covers

Safara with the burlap bag. "Yes?" "I

heard noises," a sailor says. Grégoire

opens the door, says, "Just checking my

cargo." Squinting, the mate says,

"D'accord." "D'accord."

The next night the sailor breaks into

Safara's room. "Qui est-ce?" she demands.

He grabs the sack. "Votre ami est riche,

n'est-ce pas?" Empty-no shells, no gold.

In a fury, dagger drawn, he lunges toward

her. She dodges him. His blade plunges into

her wooden pallet. She throws the sack at

his face, pulls the knife from her bed.

He throws himself at her; she gores his

stomach. The blade extrudes through his

back. Safara cries, "Grégoire, Grégoire."

Not until morning can she rouse him.

That evening Grégoire dumps the body

overboard.