The island was inhabited already, of course, as most islands are, and we later learned we were the first outsiders in six years, and that the previous intruders were Portuguese men who spoke cruelly and callously, and who wandered the shores armed. We were no such explorers. As we passed under the bowed arch of leaves, the wind entered the tunnel. George and I crept silently, waiting and watching for a cue, any cue, to invite us outside of the deep green cavernous space. The sunlight above was so obscured with foliage that any interest in time of day would have be settled in the mind as an impossible determination. Instead of focusing on time, which seemed to drone on incessantly in the wet heat, I plucked at the many hairs on my left arm. George sat on the damp sand and stared and stared toward the wind. Suddenly, the ring of a bell signaled our invitation. George got up and started on abruptly. He walked like a child, or like a monkey. His little arms expressed faint white brushstrokes that jagged out in regular angular measures. Watching his face, I began stepping toward the light, the wind. I first saw three men on the beach, one of them quite a bit farther away from the others. The two men wore tight kilts of boar hide, and their faces were painted a pale and nauseating blue, one that somehow reminded me of a kitschy decorative pillow, or something ceramic. And they seemed pleased to see us. Both men beckoned George and me closer.
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