By John Vinocur
The kid has a sharp eye. Look, mom, he says, pointing, there's a crazy-man on that roof.
What he sees, about an hour past nightfall, is a guy on the second-floor roof-terrace of a small white building, holding what in the just-short-of-blackness probably resembles a small silvery box attached to a fishing rod.
He is facing the sea, about 30 yards distant, and moving the rod as if he were angling for something. His box has a slightly greenish glow. In the trace of light that's left, he could seem to be fiddling with one of those remote controls that power model racecars.
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