A servant is leading a blindfolded man in a long

officer's jacket up the path. As the wagon passes,

the servant removes the kerchief. The soldier,

oblivious to the semi-nude women, stares at

Safara. Defiantly her eyes lock into his. He sways

as if drunk. Some of the floras on the rocks are

black, some white. Dark circles and triangles

swim into view as he rubs his eyes. The wagon

rumbles toward the house.

A few minutes later, the man descends to the

house-the entourage of women laughing and

talking behind him. He stops to look at Safara

standing with her feet locked in a square metal

brace. "Juste, qu'est-ce que c'est?" he demands.

"Monsieur, last night she jumped ship in the

storm. This morning she ran away again." "What

are those scrapes on her feet?" "Cut by the rocks,

Sir." The propriétaire laughs. "Tell Sidoine to

wash the girl's feet with rum. Any gangrene will

be her responsibility. What is your name?" asks

the patron. Safara answers in Wolof, a stream of

phrases, each one a caress on the point of a knife.

A woman yells, "Bruno, à table." Safara

repeats, "Bruno." He says, "You cannot call me

Bruno. You must call me Monsieur Le Louvois."