Leper Tango by David MacKinnon

and made her look like a star member of a Rio cabaret revue. Judging by her clothes and the furniture in the place, and the date of the Egyptian’s plane tickets, the tax authority’s chances of recovery were not high.
    I signed the lease, and handed over twelve post-dated cheques. By the time the Egyptian and I had finished our third beer, the day was coming to a close, and the moving men were being directed by Sheba back and forth in front of us with a king-size brass-rail bed. She eventually settled on dead centre of the loft. The rear wall was systematically lined with antique mirrors, brass lamps and other paraphernalia I had purchased cut-rate from the Egyptian. Within the day, we had gone from hell to heaven again.
    The Brazilian woman’s name was Zeta. She and Sheba spoke in different accents, but it was the same language. They were both experts in setting up or taking down camp very quickly, and wherever they were they knew they were born to lead the march towards the next great consumer frontier. The Eg yptian, now that his cheques were safe in his pocket, was waxing philosophy. “I knew the fates would intervene. I could not leave this place with just anyone. I have my reputation and my businesses here, of course. Maybe, someday, I will even come back and live here in Canada. But, you know, the taxes are far too high. This, you people must learn to change. Until you do this, you can never become a truly great nation.”
    Later, I realized that he had left no forwarding number, so I had no way of helping the police and the revenue service when they arrived the next day looking for him.
    The loft became our own little temple of sex and pain. The light coming through the windows of the solarium and the balconies were illusory, as there was only one exit to the loft, a thick door with a double deadbolt on it. The bed, a brass four-poster, quickly became the centrepiece of our existence. Right after the noon meal, I fell into the habit of strapping her arms to the top posts, fucking her from behind as her legs wriggled back and forth like two eels, then leaving her chained to the four-poster while I checked things out at the office. Upon my return, she would be crazy as a rabid dog, and only three or four hours of sex would get her as near to normal as someone like her could get. Then, after protracted discussions, she would insist I repeat the process on the following day. All that to say, in her own way, she enjoyed it.
    It was a cold winter morning, but the loft was tropical. She was stretched out beneath the sunroof, wearing a mud-coloured bodysuit. Her eyes were half-closed, the evil temporarily assuaged, yielding to the languid pleasures of our day-to-day life, such as it was. I still had money, and while I continued to use it up, things remained at a manageable level. She hadn’t moved for awhile, outside of casually leafing through a local cultural newspaper, which filled the front pages with rants against sexual abuse and the back pages with S & M personals.
    I was standing at the bar counter which divided the kitchen area from the rest of the loft. A notebook, what appeared to be a journal, was open. A series of handwritten entries in log form:
Carnet. . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Coup:
Sans 1 mot . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 700
Rendez-vous, vieux .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 3000
Touches parties . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 1000
Jew . . . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 3500
Bishop . . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 5000
Nichons . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 2000
Le dingot. . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. XX
The singer . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 5000
Slave . . . . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 4000
    L EPER T ANGO 83
    I think it was the first time that I had considered up front that she was a whore. A whore fucks men or fucks them around for a living, so she needs a log book for that. So, she was a whore. I looked up. She was watching me.
    â€œDo you know, Franck, there is a wine in the arrièrepays region where I grew