As soon as the moon rises, the old scavenger ties a white tarpaulin across the concrete platform between our two side porches. It shields him from the view of passersby and from the rain. I pretend that the space is the interior of a gypsy wagon parked beside a brook in Captain Haddock's Marlinspike. The smoke from a lit mosquito coil finds its way through my bedroom window, and the trusty dog, Camille, barks at strangers in her sleep. All the setting needs are six, bottled candles in one of my bronze braziers that could pass for a bonfire to keep man and dog warm, cinders rising in the air like orange fireflies and gaudy sequins blazing in the firelight. Perhaps a deck of Spanish cards as well, and a guitar, and a tambourine, all under the purple-yam sky. 

Every man has his castle bedroom, and the old scavenger's is behind that white tarpaulin.