He was named Pompeii as a tribute to his heritage, and he couldn't have cared less about that either. To him life was a restless boredom that began with the rising sun and ended only with sleep.

When he would be a man, he would be a rich man. He would not be like the ``rich Americans'' who lived in white columned houses on the other side of the park. He would not ride the eight-thirty local to the city each morning. He would not carry a brief case. Nor would he work at all. He would square his shoulders and carry a cane before each step. He would sit inside the coffee shop and pound a gloved fist upon the table and a girl would hear him and come running, bowing with her running, calling out in her bowing, ``At your service.'' He would order her to bring coffee, and would take from his vest pocket a thin black pipe which he would stuff -- he would not remove his gloves -- and light and smoke. He could do that when he would be a man.

``Hey, Laura!'' he called to his sister on the porch above the steps. She was only ten months older than he. ``Laura, what would you say if I smoked a pipe?''

Laura did not answer him. She leaned unconcerned against the broken porch fence, brushing and drying her wet, gilded hair in the sun. One lithe leg straddled the railing and swung loosely before the creaking, torn pales. Her tanned foot, whose arch swept high and white, pointed artfully toward tapering toes -- toes like fingers, whose tips glowed white. All the while she sat there, her sinewy arms swirled before her chest.