Strange birdsong woke me each morning at Marco's house - I would lie upon the white sheets, beguiled still by my dreams, cooled by the whirling fans - I would try to imagine the shapes and colours of the birds who haunted the bright jungle -
We would all meet for breakfast in a beautiful high ceilinged room - outside, in the courtyard, a sinewy ancient would be raking the fine sand -
Gustav would enter with Veronique, his wife, Marc's sister - a few moments later, Francoise would join us, smiling her secret smile - I would gulp down a banana lassi - Anne and Sophie would be exchanging piquant gossip -
The gentle Tanga would emerge from his kitchen - potent coffee would be poured into large cups - a peppery omelette would grace my plate -
Marco, with his jet black waterfall of hair, would sit down with us, laughing, advising, telling us profound stories - he'd been an artist, actor, jewellery designer and antique furniture dealer - he loved reading - his wooden house was full of books in many languages, open to the youth and to the old -
Marco would put down The Times of India - I'd seen a headline about the Kochi sand mafia -
I could stay here forever, I thought - I'd grow a white feathery beard - I'd sit by that fine table, rescued from a crumbling mansion in Goa, reading The World of Yesterday, treasuring every word -
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