I’m up on the Etoile when the rain first comes in.
It had been a nice day, the sun was burning my skin through the clothing, the chimneys were smoking far away in the cane fields. I sat gazing at the expanse of dark-blue sea, choppy out beyond the reefs.
The rain comes sweeping over the sea, coming from Port Louis, a great grey curtain in a semicircle that is coming straight towards me at top speed. It’s so sudden I don’t think of looking for shelter. I just stand there on the rocky outcrop - heart racing. I love seeing the rain driving in.
At first there is no wind. All sounds are suspended, as if the mountains are holding back the breath of air. That’s what’s making my heart pound too, the silence that drains the sky, that makes everything stand still.
[The Prospector, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
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