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A headless staircase once stood on l'ile de Goree - in the harbor at Dakar - suspending itself over the sea. Its origins were doubtless prosaic enough, but in the mind of a Henry Lovell its bulky aspiration toward the stratosphere might easily compel fantasies of otherworldly purposes. It could be found on the seaward shore of the island, facing the spindly Dakar peninsula: a flight of fifteen and more concrete steps climbing only to a small landing hovering over the ocean. For years it was no more than a curiosity to the traveler who happened onto Goree. Then in 1962, the Lovells gave to it the legend that has since cloaked it in Gothic misapprehensions.

Although they had lived in Dakar several years and spoke good French, the Lovells were not French colons, as is sometimes claimed, but American expatriates. Information about their lives became available at the time of the event, owing particularly to Mary Lovell's gregarious frankness. Henry was engaged in research on French expansion into the West African interior and subsequent rule from the colonial capital - a study which, although unfinished, is considered (by his colleagues and mine) a somewhat substantial contribution to the understanding of the region's history. He was forty-five at this time but still a youthful figure in his customary white shirt and slacks. Only eyes shaded by his long struggle with depression - recently exacerbated by his wife's illness and perhaps other factors - gave away his age. Mary Catherine Lovell ("M.C." to her friends) had worsened and looked older, though one knew, as she did, that she had been lovely.

The couple lived a comfortable life and were financially well off. About the time the Ford Foundation grant that had brought them to Dakar ran out, they found themselves each coming into inheritances that could keep them there comfortably. They lived in a charming white bungalow rented from the Simca distributor, who was more than happy to have a quiet "European" couple as permanent tenants. The house was small but sunny and situated to capture breezes even in the dry season. Behind was a well-tended garden colored by a procession of bougainvillea, frangipani trees, the famous African flame trees, a profusion of flowers. Mary Catherine could often be found there, reading on a bench or on the outdoor furniture where they infrequently entertained friends and associates.

They had met at college. Henry was a serious graduate student and M.C. a socially-minded sophomore. Both were well-liked. Contemporaries lodged no complaint against Henry, except for the annoyance of his great unselfconscious sighs - "a cross," said one, "between a yawn and a scream." His popularity - good looks and a boyish way of running his hand through his hair and smiling - belied his depression. "It's his father," M. C. told friends, without explanation. There was little more she could say except that she was glad she was not the focus of her husband's anger. She found his father pleasant and reliable. Not so, Henry: she hinted that filial anger as much as an abiding research interest had driven Henry into expatriation.

The couple had no children. Their lack of issue bothered Lovell, who wanted to leave his name behind when he died. But M. C. had chosen to remain childless. She said she was too spoiled, and was quoted as confessing, "Oh, I was afraid pregnancy would spoil my figure." In her twenties she had done a little modeling - not for the great fashion houses, to be sure, but enough to lift her chin in later years. She knew she lacked Henry's intellectual discipline, as well as the drive to carry out a professional career; her infallible talent for looking good must be her own gift to the world. For emotional companionship she had chosen a string of pets, the last of which had recently died.

She had come to Africa reluctantly, but then discovered the pampering that expatriates could command in that immediate post-colonial era. There were a steward, a night watchman, and a gardener to cater to all of her wishes, or all but one: The servants disliked dogs and neglected to care for her pets. She adjusted to their failings and liked the servants anyway. Overall she found the luxury irresistible. She had little enough to do, but she stayed active reading American magazines, polishing her French, and getting to know the Senegalese merchants in the market. No one there thought her beautiful. She was trop maigre; the Senegalese advised her to fatten up. She didn't mind their gentle criticism. One part of her had always disliked the leers of her countrymen. Once adjusted to the shock of her 40th birthday, she became quite cheerful about her status as a slender older woman who could still wear clothes well and flaunt a mane of blond hair.

Slowly her French overtook Henry's despite his long head start, for she had mastered all the registers except perhaps that found in French intellectual discourse. He proved no match for her in speaking with the French merchants who cultivated Parisian elegance and liked l'americaine for dressing after their fashion, and he left dealings with the landlord strictly to M.C. Those negociants who withstood her charm took advantage of them - she handled decisions poorly and gave in too easily - but others, including the Simca distributor, were virtually seduced by her and did her favors. Her letters to her sister and nephews were full of adventure and good cheer, except that she grieved when one of her pets died. As for Henry, it could not be determined whether he enjoyed their privileged life together or was simply blocked by his depression from moving on. Despite growing signs that M.C.'s illness required radical intervention, for example, he clung to Dakar rather than break loose.

It is now possible to trace the events of the day in question. They took the regular launch out from the city to Goree on this September Saturday not in spite of, but because of, the likely heavy rains that fall at this time of year. During even the brief span of their crossing they had sensed the wind's rising, the growing brawl of the waves, the portents of the storm.

Upon arrival, Henry led her immediately to the old slave quarters beneath a large Spanish-style house on the mainland side of Goree. Perhaps they stayed too long inside: he fell into a deep fit of withdrawal, one of those spells when he became unfathomable. More than M.C.'s health weighed on him. The journals in our field were beginning to treat his research as a dead end, to reject his manuscripts. Scholars of the day wanted historical work on African peoples and states rather than French colonialism. In the absence of indigenous records, modern researchers were turning to the newly devised technique of oral history. Henry disparaged history that could not be documented, but once admitted, with the candor that made him likable, "I'd be a flop at interviewing chiefs and elders anyway," as he smiled and ran his hand through his hair.

In any case, one must imagine him paralyzed by the ambiance of those dank, dark cells where men were once consigned to spend their days, with no headroom even for a man of medium height, and no outlet except to the sea.

"Enough," M.C. said at last. "Let's not stay here. It's not worth thinking of."

Almost reluctantly, he led her out.They returned in the direction of the dock, to the ancient esplanade, and past its frontal balustrade to the shore, where they could glimpse the staircase and the city across the bay.The sun was shining but dark clouds had begun massing above the sea.

"It is terribly strange," she said. Oddly, she had never before visited Goree, perhaps thinking of it as squalid and depressing. M.C. was not one for contemplating African poverty. "You haven't let it get you down, have you?"

"Remember," Lovell replied, missing her question, "it has to be seen close-on, and in the rain, to be appreciated."

M.C. resisted flights of fantasy. "It's just a staircase leading to the top of a staircase," she laughed. From its appearance, it might have been the support of a bridge that once joined Goree to Dakar but had been broken into pieces.

"It's more than that," Lovell insisted. Yet he refused as he always had to explain what it was that struck him so, that - apparently - awed him. "Let's have our lunch. We'll come back later."

As usual, M.C. was not hungry, but she quickly agreed; she wanted to sit down and wanted for him the lift in spirits that meals usually brought him. He was at least borderline hypoglycemic and tended to become cross when his food was delayed.

He helped her down the slow incline below the esplanade. Beneath them, by the dock, there was a crumbling, gray-faced restaurant where they could take their meal.

"This is an eerie little town, certainly," she said, "But you - with your penchant for the mysterious, you make it sound like a playground for witches and goblins." She wished he would smile.

"Perhaps it is. It must be." He heaved a great sigh. "The houses do look haunted, don't they? And the slave quarters would be the perfect home for angry spirits."

"Your imagination is the perfect home," she said, gripping his arm.

Lovell was watching her. "You aren't sorry we came - ?"

She placed her hand on his, which held her arm, "It doesn't matter; I'm grateful just to be out walking with you." And so she managed to stay cheerful despite her malaise.

Different in mood, they were nevertheless a compatible couple. Apparently neither had ever had a liaison elsewhere. They had often spoken happily of the esthetics of sex, but neither was driven, and Henry now endured celibacy without complaint. M.C. confessed as much in a letter to her sister, as a subtle means of informing the family of her deteriorating health. If true, her confession speaks eloquently to Lovell's paralysis and his tendency to bottle up pain that needed addressing.

They entered the restaurant and seated themselves among a handful of holiday-makers. Through a small window on a level with their chins they could see the clouds preparing a watery ambush. The busy French proprietress handed them menus. She responded to M.C.'s smile with perfectly polite words in a perfectly business-like manner.

"Please take what you would most like," Henry told her. "It won't be haute cuisine but pretend, and indulge yourself."

"I'd like you to choose for me," she said. "You know me well enough."

"Then let's share chateaubriant." Lovell's words were unexpectedly tender. She knew it would be too much food, but perhaps he would like a large share of the steak.

They spoke briefly of friends, in particular of a couple who were separating. The rains came with their food and cut visibility to the end of the pier close by.The launch docked again later and rocked heavily against the pilings, for the ocean seemed as thunderous as the storm.

"It's going to be perfect for our tour," she said, smiling. He tried to smile too, but his effort pained her. His depression didn't seem to be bipolar; she had rarely glimpsed anything resembling a manic episode. But his gloom, which he managed to hide from most others, troubled their marriage as little else did. In spite of her decline, it seemed that Henry suffered more.

He showed little interest in his food. "M.C., I hope," he said, "I hope,'' and his voice seemed caught, "I hope you don't mind going through with this - ?"

She frowned, "It's beginning to seem a little macabre. We should be doing very gay things, you know. When I feel better, why don't we take another trip to Nice?"

He stared at her. "That would be great, but - "

"But Goree will have to do."

He chose not to understand her. "It's why we came."

"Yes," she said, "it's why we came." She looked outside, thinking, what a different mood rain brings. Henry of course was just as cheery in the rain as in the sun, if "cheery" was ever a word that could apply to him.

"Shall we go, then?"

"Now? You haven't eaten enough."

"Nor have you. Don't let me rush you."

"As usual, I don't have much appetite. But you're the one who's always hungry."

He shook his head. "Not this time. Are you ready?"

After finishing her wine she nodded, and he settled the bill with the proprietress, who hoped they would come back, even as she made it clear she knew they were foreigners. They draped themselves in plastic raincoats and hats - M.C., who chilled easily, first pulled a sweater over her thin white blouse - and walked into the downpour. It was a relentless rain characteristic of the Coast, as distinct from the rains of moderate climes: not so much a welcome visitor as a gritty relative who comes to stay. If she was less than enthusiastic, M.C. managed to hug Lovell's arm to her breast as they set off. At 42, her features were notably fine except for the sallow cast of her eyes and skin. Five months before, she had experienced the first signs of debilitation, a certain lethargy and a creeping, irksome listlessness. When she began losing weight they made a visit to the States; later they went to Germany, and finally to France, but they found medical institutions in the Western world deficient at that day in their understanding of rare tropical diseases. One specialist offered a diagnosis of fibromyalgia, but retracted it because M.C. laughed several times as they spoke, and almost seemed to be enjoying herself. At first the two of them pretended that no news was good news, but time had taught them better: She grew slowly weaker.

Already the rain had turned the earth to mire. They stayed with the narrow street that wandered toward and through the houses, unconsciously hurrying as though in search of shelter. Lovell grew quiet, distracted. She could sense the tension in his biceps, where her fingers were resting. She would be glad when the day had ended.

As they once more entered the little island town, a striking Senegalese girl abruptly rounded a corner and ran toward them, startling Lovell. She wore no raincoat but tried vainly to make a small umbrella protect her, her body writhing with her stride. Lovell slowed his pace and stared after her.

"Quite a beauty." M.C. smiled. "Wouldn't you say?"

Lovell looked at his wife as if surprised. "Oh - yes I suppose so."

"I thought you observed very carefully."

He shook his head, hurrying on. "I didn't expect to find any one else up here today."

Although it was not easy for her, she kept pace with him. She wanted to whisper to him but had to talk loudly in order to be heard above the splatter of rain on the cobblestones. "Henry, I was so pleased that you found me an attractive bride." Why, she surely wondered, was she begging for a compliment in a domain in which she had always felt self-confident?

"You've always been a beautiful woman."

"Don't be sentimental. The Senegalese think I'm all bones, which is getting close to the truth. I just hope that when we come to the end you'll remember me the way I was then - ?"

"Let's not talk about it."

She winced, thinking he was right. "Sure. We should talk about our farewell visit to Nice."

Lovell had paused now, beside the small cathedral, which gleamed a glossy yellow. "Could we go in?" he said.

She didn't mind: She was breathless, and thought it would be pleasant to escape the rain. Besides, she rather believed in God, who had always been so good to her. But then, why was He letting her body break down when she was still young?

Inside they found a lofty but vacant nave leading to a dominant but not imposing altar. The church was dark and the rain created a din above their heads. "How dreary," she commented. She had water in her shoes. "Sorry, God," she thought, "but You're making things tough."

"Churches are, in the rain," Henry responded. "Would you care to sit in a pew for a moment?"

"Thank you. I would."

"M.C, I'm going to pray - if I can."

She was startled, and touched, as he knelt in the aisle facing the altar. Lovell was not a religious man but intently irreligious: Lowering himself to his knees for god or man was unlike him and almost unbecoming. She watched apprehensively, and said a little prayer for him.

"Come on, God, assure me," he said. She waited but that was the entirety of his prayer, although he remained kneeling briefly. When he rose she embraced him.

"There's something more certain," he sighed, holding her loosely. "God in heaven," he whispered.

"Now you're dwelling on it," she said. "Why make us both unhappy?" She held him tighter until he moved gently away.

"You don't understand yet." Lovell led her slowly to the doorway, where they viewed through the scattered droplets off the lintel the wave of droplets ahead. Her head lay against his chest; she hung limply in his arms, exhausted.

"It's time," he said. "I don't understand it but I feel it has to be. Come, Dear."

She stiffened. "No," she said, "Let's go back."

Lovell seemed transfigured. "It's just a few steps."

"No, it's sinister."

"You must." He pulled her into the rain. "You'll be glad I brought you."

"I've changed my mind," she said, holding back. "Please, it's so wet and I'm tired."

His hushed voice was barely audible above the rain. "You once said it didn't matter how tired you were, that you were going to resist it as long as you possibly could."

That was when she expected to go back to Nice, she thought, and when he had promised not to obsess on her illness. But she made no answer; unwillingly, she was led on, "Please," she said.

"We must go on. There - there it is." He pulled her strongly, "Hurry . We'll just be a moment. Look at it! Have you ever seen anything so -"

She kept up as best she could, not looking at the steps, keeping her eyes down and away from the pelting rain. Her heart was lurching. Oblivious to the storm, Lovell was moving forward irresistibly.

The ocean smashed into the rocks beside them as he drew her, head still lowered, up the glistening concrete steps. At the top he put his arm around her. "Look, Darling," he shouted above the wind: "What do you see?"

She looked into an impenetrable mist; she saw nothing; the city might have been a thousand miles away. "There's nothing to see," and she urged him to take her home.

"There's everything!" He held her tight. "It will come; not blindingly, but - "

What was he suggesting? She put her hand over her mouth.

"I was here at the museum the day Moreau admitted he had no diagnosis, remember?" Lovell's words sounded distant in the wind, "Do you know, M.C. what I saw in the fog that day? I saw a beautiful hand beckoning to me."

"Take me back, Henry." Doubtless she began to weep, but the wind and the ocean muffled all sounds.

"Watch for it, my dear. It will come again today - you'll see."

She writhed in his grasp but only briefly, less afraid than aggrieved at what was happening to the man whose life she had shared. She looked up, into his brilliant eyes. Perhaps indeed he was capable of mania, but if so, he was her maniac.

The Senegalese girl returned from her errand at this moment and cried out, vainly amid the great roar of nature. Her witness should have put paid to all the speculation, but credulous people will believe what they want to believe, and that is precisely what happened.