The first was the heat. It had crept up on us in the early days of April, starting with the dry silent winds from East Africa that blew in across the sea, then moved stealthily upwards over the country until they reached the city and came to rest like a tight shroud. The moon and stars burned, the grass in the city's gardens gradually turned brown and the flowers were all but devoured. A plague of red caterpillars hatched out in their thousands. Some people said their eggs had been blown in with the winds and that they would spread disease. The city's pestilence-control teams tried to contain the outbreak by spraying but the creatures did not die. Instead all the flowers shrivelled and the trees grew thin and faded. The river's water level dropped. Earth turned to dust, woodwork splintered and the sky remained a hot, pearly blue. There was no break to the heat, no let-up, no relief, and finally no renewal. The second thing that marked that summer out was the strike. The refuse men were in dispute with local government.
