The Last City

112 At outskirts near St. François, noted fishing village, we swiftly cruise past two fenced-off composites of geometric blocks and towers, each spaced out across a roadside acre or two. Variety and size of the stone cubes, spheres, high tablets and rhombus shapes may seem to mimic carousel booths, Dodg’em or roller coaster cars of gypsy transient carnival troupes . . . We’re zooming so fast, only blurred passing glance. Or is it an upscale children’s aquatic park, so out of kilter with indigent local populace? . . . Our barrage of questions prompts driver Noel to brake and pull off onto road shoulder at a third such display of assorted pinnacles and low-lying oblongs enclosed by padlocked gates and barbed-wire fencing. This final zone’s the most elaborate: The Last City Noel dubs them, all three affluent graveyards , posh cemeteries of the Hindu clans. Exclusive to the East Indian clientele of corpses buried in decorative caskets. The tombs, some as bulky as living THE LAST CITY Grande-Terre, Guadeloupe LAURENCE LIEBERMAN 113 quarters, insure that the Hindu forbears will enjoy an Eternity that lasts longer, Noel sighs. After the next bend in the road, we stop to view a tall mosque-like florid shelter set back thirty meters from the public highway, embellished with gables and flying buttresses. We peer into oaken chapel, half-concealed, paneled with glossy imported woods, and approach the front gates. Chained & boarded shut. Uninviting. Semi-private. Restricted entry, says Noel . . . A chief Hindu Temple. You step close, snap a few photos from odd angles. Swerve away at shouts within, irked wails . . . I’m lulled into stupor by sweetish thick fumes of incense billowing out. Moments later, as we hop into our van’s back seat, I glimpse furious glaring Indian scowl. Perhaps just startled awake from his siesta (midday catnap?): gorgeous curly black hair windtossed , searing blue-black eyes afire, tawny near-rust black-brown cheeks and jaw. Upreared on bare toes, stallionlike , to chastise us for our Sacrilege and Defilement, his wife groggily pursuing him. She, too, still sleep-clouded. Our muffler-choked tailpipe puffing its smoke’s murky reply to perennial jasmines: incense streamers of holy fragrance whirring in the trade winds. ...