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'Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday. You get up and pad to the window. Part the curtains. Pitch dark behind the frost on the window pane. You don’t need to see through. You know it snowed overnight. Not a sound. All is blanketed. Hushed. You tiptoe to the landing past the mirror with your shadow in it. Past your uncle Gustave’s bedroom. Rrrr-snorrR. Rrrr-snorrR. The coast is clear, as they say. You fix your gaze to the ray of light at the bottom of the flight of stairs. You go down, careful to skip the step that creaks—fourth from the bottom. A smell of coffee seeps from under the door. Muffled noises. A fart. You hold your breath. Put your eye to the key hole.' (Introduction)
Notes
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Epigraph: …the hidden past affects the present even as it emerges through present discoveries as a new, unsuspected force—Wilson Harris
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This work is in ten numbered parts.
