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drums, marched from Market Square to Emancipation Park to burn my father in effigy. For safety, my sister and I were sequestered in Riise’s rum warehouse behind brick-and-stucco walls originally built by Danish colonialists to withstand pirate attacks, fires, and hurricanes. I watched the flames through an iron keyhole. I felt a vibration of drums against my forehead. As the hour grew late I became dizzy with the scent of rum, dizzy with shouts echoing against brick. My senses were dulled from having lived in cool, white-marbledWashington DC . New to the island, I felt bewildered by the pungency of wild fruit, the susurrus of waves, the heat. That night in the warehouse, I felt confused by people as well. I felt trapped, as if I might never escape.
    Later, order was restored. The crowd, reassured by my father, dispersed. My sister and I, freed from the warehouse, returned to our home across the street from Blackbeard’s Castle.
    Except my mother didn’t want this island to be our home. After the demonstration, she pleaded with my father to leave, take us back to our real home in the States. Although he’d calmly talked to the crowd in order to quiet them, now he yelled at my mother, accusing her of not supporting him, not standing by his side. My sister and I said nothing, but he raged at us as well. My sister turned from him, stalking from the room, followed by my mother, who rushed to the bathroom, crying.
    I tried to pass him to escape to my bedroom. He blocked the doorway. Please , I thought, move . He didn’t. He held me. His arms, tight around me, felt more like a throttle than a hug, gripping me, in a way that wasn’t love.
    He released me when he heard my mother returning. I rushed to my room and opened the shutters overlooking the verandah. Across the valley rose Synagogue Hill, the synagogue itself invisible from here. Sky and sea merged at night, as though you could walk right off the island toward the horizon. If only you knew how.
    Now, as I stand beside Vicki on the hotel terrace, with the island below us, my gaze follows the route the demonstrators marched that night from Market Square to Emancipation Park. I wonder if the tramp marched with them.
    “Have you ever seen that man?” I describe him and his triangle.
    “Sure,” she says, “the loco-crazy man.”
    I turn to look at her. Here on the terrace, in the rippled light reflected from the swimming pool, her face seems paler, the bruisebelow her eye darker. “But he never bothers anyone, does he?”
    Vicki shrugs. “We’re supposed to stay away from him. My father said.”
    Once, on a Saturday, Vicki and I went swimming at Magens Bay, instructed by her parents to be back no later than four. But we lost track of time so didn’t return until after five, drowsy with sun, our lips stained from sea grapes. As soon as we reached her house, her father slapped her. I sucked in my breath and, without thinking, said, “Wait.” I stepped back, fearing he might hit me, too, her father angry we’d stayed late on a public beach where someone might hurt us.
    The next evening I visit Sylvanita, our cook, who lives in a cabin behind our house, almost hidden among woman’s-tongue trees. She never invites me inside, so I stand on her stoop, asking her about the tramp: Do you know him? Why does he ring the triangle?
    She doesn’t answer directly. Instead she explains that, decades ago, some slaves, forced to the island from Africa, fled their masters. They hid in rain forests. Many of their descendants remain, some still wandering these forests, named, by the slaves, the Land of Look Behind. They also renamed themselves Maroons.
    She disappears for a moment, telling me to wait. From inside, I smell mango leaves, burning, to discourage mosquitoes. She returns and shows me a freedom paper, once belonging to her ancestor, carefully wrapped in unbleached muslin.
    One afternoon I see the movie Limelight , starring Charlie Chaplin, preceded by one of his “Little