Pushkin's Afric grandpère come to Casceaux, to this meager islet and its few stout, ant-addled houseframes, to its weeds scrappily alive with myrmecophilous larval blues. To this island, "where I suffered, where I loved, where I buried my heart." Blue waters steeling over to chop and froth as the ships approach with a storm in company. Memory playing tricks.