The drinks would turn into dinner and Robert would often begin reciting poetry. In a low whisper of a voice, he would recite Keats, Shelley, Byron and sometimes Shakespeare. He loved The Odyssey, and had memorized long passages of it in translation. He had become the simple philosopher king, adored by his ragtag followers of expatriates, retirees, beatniks and natives. Despite his cultivated aura of otherworldliness, he fit comfortably into their island world. On St. John, the father of the atomic bomb had somehow found just the right refuge from his inner demons.
