I congratulated myself on having finally learned my relatives’ trick of controlling facial expression even when puzzled as all hell. She had said something back in the cave when I had addressed her as if she were the entity, something that sounded as if she believed I had discovered a secret concerning her.

So I gave her a wry smile and nodded.

“Just so,” I said.

“You’re not planning on ravaging our country or anything like that, are you?” she asked.

“To my knowledge, no. And I don’t think it likely either.”

“Well, then. You can only speak from your knowledge, can’t you?”

“True,” I agreed.

“So let’s hear the story.”

“All right.”

As we walked along the strand and I spoke, to the accompaniment of the waves’ deep notes, I could not help but remember again my father’s long narrative. Was it a family trait, I wondered, to go autobiographical at a time of troubles if the right listener turned up? For I realized I was elaborating my telling beyond the bounds of necessity. And why should she be the right listener, anyhow?

When we reached the port district, I realized I was hungry, anyway, and I still had a lot of telling to do. In that it was still daylight and doubtless considerably safer than when I’d made my nighttime visit, I found my way over to Harbor Road — which was even dirtier in strong light — and, having learned that Coral was hungry, too, I took us on around to the rear of the cove, pausing for a few minutes to watch a many-roasted vessel with golden sails round the sea wall and head in. Then we followed the curving way to the western shore, and I was able to locate Seabreeze Lane without any trouble. It was still early enough, that we passed a few sober sailors. At one point a heavy, black-bearded man with an interesting scar on his right cheek began to approach us, but a smaller man caught up with him first and whispered something in his ear. They both turned away.