Mornings Safara weeds the endless rows of pea-

like shrubs. Evenings she stews the plants in vats.

One week later. "Grégoire!" "Safara, if you

persist in calling me by my prénom, Bruno will

have Juste whip you." "Not hard. Bruno has plans

for my next birthday. Que faites-vous?" "I'm

staining manchineel trees with a red band-a

reminder like a string around the finger. Yester-

day they found a dead child. So Bruno has plans

for your fourteenth birthday?" "Grégoire, je

suis méchante. It will be my thirteenth

birthday." "Vous êtes sûre?" "Oui. Grégoire,

I do not want to sleep with Bruno." "Safara, I'm

working; go gather your indigo plants." "I know

you are a good man, Grégoire." She skips off.

A fortnight later under a full moon on a cliff

over-looking the sea, Grégoire is crying.

Safara approaches: "Vous êtes triste?" "What are

you doing here?" he demands. "I am thinking of

swimming to Africa. And you?" "I am thinking

of swimming to France, but I am persona non

grata. Maybe one day, the King will pardon me."

"Did you kill someone?" "Non, non. I lost my

map of the African interior." Veins of gold

clearly marked. Un bon explorateur ne doit pas

perdre sa carte." "The King is angry?" "His

mother wanted to hang me, but my mother

begged on her knees for my life. My exile was

an Easter gift to her. I miss France very much."

"And I Africa."