When my uncle came to bed, he always opened the door of the bedroom carefully, shuffled in and put the light on. I would wake with a start and he would say in surprise, “What, aren’t you asleep yet? Boys need lots of sleep if they’re to grow up healthy.” Then he would take his neatly folded pyjamas from the foot of the bed, draping first the trousers and then the jacket over his left arm, and shuffle out of the room again. It was ten minutes or so before he reappeared, now in his pyjamas, with the jacket buttoned right up to his Adam’s apple. “What, are you still not asleep, my boy?” He smoothed out the clothes he had just taken off and hung them over the chair by his bed. Next, he ran his fingertips over his veined temples and pressed his eyelids with his forefingers. Then he climbed into bed and lay flat on his back in the very middle. Not long after I heard his heavy breathing, punctuated by horrid rasping sounds. As a child I firmly believed that all good Christians slept straight as a die in the middle of the bed and that all of them snored.
Six weeks later I was on a ship taking me home. I felt rather seasick during the twelve-hour journey, though this had never happened on my previous crossings. Dizzy and slightly nauseous, I sat on the stiff canvas seat of a deck chair. Then I heard the sound of wings. A large, grubby-white bird fluttered along and perched on the deck rail. Its belly and feet were covered in oil. It had a long beak with a pocket attached and looked as old as the world. Only its eyes glittered as it gazed at me with curiosity. As I in turn studied the bird closely, it suddenly dawned on me what I had learned from the thin prisoner in the Castillo: he had shown me without words how to look at birds and plants differently, to see details that most people miss. And despite the unpleasant taste of vomit in my mouth I was overcome by a faint sense of elation and gratitude. I drew up my knees and arched my back against the canvas, then stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked it like a little child until I fell asleep.
SEVEN
On this island, when a white man outlives his white wife there is often a black woman waiting for him. When he has become a widower, lonely and less of a man, there is always the black woman who receives him with open arms and cares for him lovingly during his declining years.
As I sit on my terrace, half-drunk and brooding on my solitude, the night is my black woman. In the embrace of her strong cinnamon arms I feel at once dominant and protected. Her ancient face has a rough beauty as inextinguishable as the wild north coast, with its rocky monuments carved out by sea and wind. Her eyes, wise but tired from her long vigil, gaze endlessly at a mysterious image, a compound of emptiness, mystery and long distances, that I will never fathom. How often, night after night, I have basked in her silken black embrace. The scent of her black woman’s body merges dream and reality, blurs the outlines of earthly things into insignificant shadows, and blots out the false world and its threats. I press my back against her huge breasts and when the warmth of her flesh transmits itself to my skin I can erase all scarring memories at a stroke. Then I caress her knees and full of gratitude call her the guardian of my drunken nights. And I ask her, although I know she will never reply: have I ever been happy?
The ethereal moon has slid away among the clouds. I take another swig of whisky and listen to the rustling of the creatures that live in the blackness of the night. The great death’s head moth on the side of the flowerpot must have shifted imperceptibly, because it is now in a different position. It has sat there for hours, neither moving nor showing any interest in my presence. Even when I have occasionally got up, to replenish my supply of liquor or relieve myself of the beer I have imbibed, it has not moved but has sat glued to the concrete pot, its wings fully extended, its head, with a tiny glistening jewel set in it, pointing downwards. In popular superstition it is a harbinger of death and, like death, its scientific name, Erebus odora, is both poetic and ominous. It’s strange that people should associate the insect with death, whereas the butterfly is the symbol of immortality. It’s called the black death’s head moth, but now the light is falling on it and you can see that it is not black but dark brown. I did not see it move, but its head is now pointing upwards. Is it preparing to take off? Perhaps that would be best. I do find it slightly unnerving having to sit for several hours less than two yards away from a death’s head.
My bitch Fonda, who has also kept me company for hours, lying loyally at my feet, stretches and raises her head for a few minutes, her eyes focused on a single point in the sky. Then she rotates several times on the spot, as always when she is about to sleep; she does not lie down, however, but begins to rub her body against my knees. I can’t decide whether she is being playful or has been alarmed by something. I stroke her and notice that the skin on her head and neck is taut. At that moment something brushes past, making me start momentarily. At first I assume it is the death’s head flying off, but the moth is still sitting on the flowerpot as serene and motionless as ever. The thing passes again and now I see that it is a second death’s head moth. That is very odd, since one never sees two of these insects together. They always deliver their notifications of death alone. The moth on the flowerpot releases its hold and tumbles downwards, but just before hitting the ground it flutters upwards and joins its companion. The two of them fly back and forth. I follow them intently and suddenly discover that there are four moths hovering around. Am I so drunk that I’m seeing double? I finish my whisky and now see six — no, eight — moths in the air. The swarm keeps growing and I can no longer count them, but there must be at least twenty death’s heads in flight. I’m not particularly superstitious, but this spectacle is taking things a little too far.
If you suspect a disaster or a miracle is imminent, you must prepare. This situation calls for a stiff drink. I go indoors and for the first time the dog comes with me, pressing her body against my legs and almost making me stumble, since I’m seldom very steady on my feet by this hour. I decide to take a brand-new bottle of whisky outside. This goes against all my drinking principles. I have always stuck to the system of getting up and going inside to pour a new drink, which is a good way of regulating my intake. But this is a special night and the usual rules don’t apply. As tender as a mother cradling her infant, I carry the whisky bottle out to the terrace. I forget the beer; this is no time for soft drinks. Sometimes you have to be drunk to understand what’s going on around you. There are things in life, and beyond life, that you can make contact with only when you’ve lost all sense of heaven and earth.
Back on the terrace, I cannot believe my eyes. A gently undulating sea of hundreds of death’s head moths is washing incessantly and almost silently over the garden. Only when the swarm flies into the wind is there a faint rushing sound like running water. I sit down, feeling rather uneasy. Do moths attack people? What if those stupid insects take it into their heads to descend on me all at once? I put my hand on Fonda’s neck; her body is as hard as stone. She is sitting up, straight-backed and motionless, apart from jerking her head slightly to the left and right as the moths fly past, like someone following a table tennis match. I rub her neck and back more vigorously, but it’s like stroking a marble statue. Perhaps it would be best to switch off the light at the front of my house; the swarm might fly off then. Moths are obviously telepathic, for when they surge past me, they do not turn when they reach the end of the fence — as they had done hundreds of times before — but continue straight on. They do not return. The garden is now empty and deathly quiet. The dog lies down at my feet and closes its eyes. I take a stiff drink and wonder who will have the task of placing the ten-cent piece for Charon under the tongues of the corpses of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of islanders who will die tonight?