To begin with the voyage seemed a form of evasive action, a form of flight. The sea glared on with a million eyes, a million witnesses to our getaway. Apart from wanting the law or whatever to catch up with him (which it didn’t), I had taken little notice, and no interest, in John’s furtive and elaborate preparations for travel – the series of interviews with the Reverend Kreditor, for example. I didn’t really wake up until we made the short boat trip to Ellis Island. Of course, months earlier, I had dully taken on the likelihood of major upheaval, on account of what was happening to John’s skin. At first it assumed a sallow glow; then, during the cold spring, it went all the way from hot-dog mustard to peanut butter. Jesus, I thought. Jaundice. Then I twigged: it was a sun tan. I put two and two together. People often get this way before taking stylish vacations in exotic locales. The idea of John getting sick, the idea of John coming down with something: that’s a good one. His vigour, nowadays, contains something savage and tasteless. It is pink-tongued. It is feral – undoctored. The whites of his eyes sting like fresh frost. John’s torso now closely resembles one of his more miraculous erections. At any moment and with no warning he’ll throw himself on the floor and do like a hundred push-ups. ‘Ninety-nine,’ you’ll hear him grunting, ever the literalist. ‘Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.’ Even during mealtimes, at the Captain’s table, he’s forever girding his muscles and sinew. Under the table his feet jig on their soles. John’s body shudders like the ship itself. This war will start at an appointed time, like a ball game. He is thirty-one.