You can visit the spot on St. Helena where Bonaparte isn't buried. You can visit the caretaker, too, holed up in his office with hot fresh coffee and some newer issues of Le Monde, on a cool wet night, if the phone hasn't rung and he hasn't gone to take pictures of a woman in her apartment, which happens on the island more than might seem possible. First thing when he gets there he sees the woman's revolting little dog, fat as a fish in a bowl, then the woman, Mrs. Thayer, fresh from the shower and shaking his hand. Hesitant pleasantries are exchanged. She unwraps her steaming hair, sits a little stiffly on the couch, and then, at his suggestion, on a kitchen chair brought over to the balcony, the glass door slid back, the evening air rushing over her goose-bumpy skin. He looks around for some sign of disorder, a potted tree she forgot to water. It's all he can think of in the moment, but the island, as you might imagine, having never been there, is green enough a tree indoors would seem a mere gesture of realism, something superfluous. So he takes the necessary photographs and goes. A tad disappointed, he walks his bike in the direction of Fat Dragon Chinese and his favorite table (no rush to get home and guard an emperor's empty grave) and at the big revolving door an old friend greets him whose name escapes him when he needs it most, and he remembers the dog, and that the island was a jail, its watchtowers built to precision under cover of night.