a way that meant he sneered a lot ... probably at himself in the mirror of a morning if he could bear it. Heâd lost most of his hair, apart from a few strands heâd combed over the creamy whiteness of his pate. He had a tan line across his forehead from wearing a hat, a Panama that was hanging on the wall behind him.
While he finessed the joint I found my gaze locked on to a framed line drawing on the wall which I thought was a still life of a bowl of fruit, but on closer inspection proved to be an Oriental woman weighing a pair of huge balls and about to fellate an impossibly large cock.
âThat one gets the girls every time,â he said.
âOn the first train out of here?â
âYouâd be surprised,â he said, and licked the papers to his joint with a very red and glistening tongue that didnât look as if it could mind its own business for very long. He smoothed off the spliff and put a twist in the end. He tore a strip off a Marlboro packet, roached it and sat back to admire the craftsmanship.
âSo what brings you to me, M. Medway?â
âI thought we could have a chat about a mutual friend.â
âJean-Luc? No. I donât talk about Jean-Luc. You think of something else.â
The sweat stood out on his forehead and I felt my own Tunnelling down my spine.
âItâs hot in here.â
âThe air conâs broken. Itâs going to rain.â
He lit the joint, puffing at it to get it going, and then took a huge drag and held it in for so long he squeaked. He let the smoke out slowly and repeated. His eyes glazed and his face softened to a concentrated luxuriousness.
âYou donât happen to have any whisky?â
He opened a cabinet, poured me a shot of something and handed over the glass.
âIf you want to talk, you have to smoke as well.â
âToo paranoid?â I said.
He leaned over and bug-eyed me.
âWho?â he said, and smiled with as close to a good nature as he could get without borrowing a Ronald Reagan mask.
âMaybe that stuffâs good for you,â I said. âSmoothes you out. Stops your nerves jangling in your ears.â
âIn my ears?â he asked, nicely stoned now.
âWhatever.â
âSmoke,â he ordered, and held out the reefer.
I took a tentative drag and didnât cough my heels up. All the pollution Iâd been breathing had taken the virginity off my lungs.
âEnjoy,â he said. âThereâs not much else around here.â
I nodded at his porno drawing and took another quarter drag from the joint, not wanting to get wrecked in the first minute and waste my time here.
âNot here, M. Medway. Not in Africa. Thereâs plenty of girls to fuck, but, you know how it is for them, fucking the white man
câest comme un travail de ménage.â
âYou shouldnât knock yourself like that, Michel.â
âKnock myself?â he asked, rapping his head.
â
Tu ne dois pas dire du mal de toi-même
,â I said. âThereâs plenty of other people around whoâll do it for you.â
He grunted and leaned back in his chair.
âYou need to smoke some more, M. Medway. Take it in ... deep.â
âMarnier,â I said, sipping the whisky, the strong flavour of the grass like a hay espresso in my mouth. âTell me about Marnier. Why do you have to do little jobs for him? Especially when you donât like doing them for him ... do you?â
âI have no choice.â
âWhatâs he going to do to you if you donât?â I asked. âKill you?â
âKill me. Pah!â he roared, and rocked back on his wooden chair. He fought his feet out from under the desk and put them up on an unopened ream of paper he had sitting next to the phone. He was wearing dirty white plimsolls with no laces. He drew a hand down his gaunt features, picking up some sweat on the way which he wiped on to the thigh