M. Another flight. He will have to cross a zillion time zones, his body will ache in places he didn’t even remember existed, he will have to overcom... jetlag... Flying Washington to Singapore took more than twenty-four hours. Two stops, one in the USA and another somewhere in the Far East, depending on the lowest fare found by Greta, our middle-aged secretary, always in the quest of getting five quarters from a dollar. He avoided the queue. At the very last minute got on board, politely greeted. The small market was open all week, one of the places where those living in the Craftsman’s Quarter could get fresh food. The monotonous “tock, tock” of our canes gave the walk something soothing, and before I knew it, I already smelled Carpenter’s Walk, that aroma of sawdust, wood and horse manure. We were close to Midsummer’s Eve and Storm Harbour was steaming under the unrelenting sun. There was the occasional breeze off the ocean, but by the time it reached into the Quarter, it was heavy. More

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