I came to the town of Le Mallard in search of my old linguistics professor who had taught at the college I’d graduated from some years ago. In truth, I was less interested in renewing acquaintances with him than in retaking possession of a book I had left in his care the previous summer, an antique journal of macabre and inscrutable entries penned by an elder ancestor of mine; a French aristocrat who had been rewarded for his loyalty and skill in battle with a ducal fief consisting of a coastal plantation famous in its time for its prolific citrus orchards.

Duke a l’Orange had lived to see his fief become a most valuable enterprise, thanks in no small part to the native labour pool of workers he employed, a people known for their unusual grey skin tone, large hands, and tree climbing ability. The historic name of this tribe was lost to antiquity by dint of the labourers’ own illiteracy and lack of an oral tradition. My ancestor came to regularly refer to this workforce as, “those grey-faced orange-picking cunts.”