to ask that question anywhere in Togo.
Chapter 10
The day had worked its way around to one o'clock and I found myself sitting in the open part' of the German Restaurant with a beer in front of me that was so cold it steamed like liquid nitrogen. There was a mixed crowd in the dozen or so cubicles. Some trans-Saharan travellers giving themselves a luxury, some German businessmen not talking to each other and plodding through large hunks of roast pork and sauerkraut with huge jugs of beer, a French couple having a sibilant row like two cats fighting, and an ascetic looking Scandinavian who sat at the table next to me reading Kierkegaard and eating his paper napkin.
I turned round from the French couple whose row had reached a crescendo of hissing and terminated with a loud slap that had silenced the restaurant. A young woman in her late twenties stood at the edge of the table. Apart from her height, the bewildering curvaceousness of her figure and the dangerous length of her fingernails, the thing that jolted me about Nina Sorvino was her hair. There was a hell of a lot of it, enough to stuff several bolsters and have spare for a couple of scatter cushions. It was also very black. It wasn't dyed, because I could see it shining midnight blue in the sunlight that fell through the raffia matting above us.
'Bruce Medway,' she said, arcing her hand down in a way that might have opened up an unwary person from the neck to the abdomen. We shook hands.
'Nina Sorvino?' I said.
'Dat's me,' she said, with a lot of Bronx in the accent. She sat down and her hair drew around her like a heavy shawl. The waiter appeared and I ordered an omelette and salad while Nina asked for a rare entrecote steak and fries.
'You a vegetarian, Bruce?'
'I don't look that ill, do I?'
'You need protein, need some blood in your veins.'
I looked at the quantity of protein coming out of Nina's head and fingers and reckoned she was on a cow a week.
Nina wanted some wine so I ordered a cold Beaujolais which the waiter brought straightaway. He poured a taster for Nina who beckoned him with a fingernail saying: 'Don't be shoy.'
The waiter filled the glass and fled. She took some Camels out of her handbag and holding the cigarette between the pillar box-red razors of her nails, lit it with a match which she blew out with the first exhalation of smoke. She tinkled the wine glass with the other handful of nails and looked at me looking at them.
'Dey're all my own,' she said, and gave me a little kick with her foot under the table which I winced at.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'I cut my toenails, I can't afford the sheets.' She laughed with a snort and so did I, forgoing the snort. This was almost too much for a single hangover to bear on its own, so I downed the cold beer and struck out for the wine.
She had a tough look to her face. It wasn't a mean look, it was a look that could stand up for itself when the chairs started flying in the saloon. She had very straight black eyebrows over dark brown eyes. Her nose was blade sharp and her nostrils arched from the blade like the prow of a ship through water. She had the habit of breathing through her nose and her nose alone, which meant the nostrils flared occasionally giving an air of impatience. As her nostrils flared, her red and glossy lips pouted. She knew this. The smoking was a diversionary tactic. The effect was of getting the come on and the knee in the groin at the same time. She wore a dark blue raw silk blouse and a white cotton skirt. She was dressed for work but I felt there was a racier wardrobe elsewhere.
She was looking at me with her head to one side. She dropped her bottom lip and showed me the straight line of her white teeth.
'You know, don't ask me why, but I kinda like English guys.'
'Any particular reason?'
'I said, "Don't ask me
Chapter 10
The day had worked its way around to one o'clock and I found myself sitting in the open part' of the German Restaurant with a beer in front of me that was so cold it steamed like liquid nitrogen. There was a mixed crowd in the dozen or so cubicles. Some trans-Saharan travellers giving themselves a luxury, some German businessmen not talking to each other and plodding through large hunks of roast pork and sauerkraut with huge jugs of beer, a French couple having a sibilant row like two cats fighting, and an ascetic looking Scandinavian who sat at the table next to me reading Kierkegaard and eating his paper napkin.
I turned round from the French couple whose row had reached a crescendo of hissing and terminated with a loud slap that had silenced the restaurant. A young woman in her late twenties stood at the edge of the table. Apart from her height, the bewildering curvaceousness of her figure and the dangerous length of her fingernails, the thing that jolted me about Nina Sorvino was her hair. There was a hell of a lot of it, enough to stuff several bolsters and have spare for a couple of scatter cushions. It was also very black. It wasn't dyed, because I could see it shining midnight blue in the sunlight that fell through the raffia matting above us.
'Bruce Medway,' she said, arcing her hand down in a way that might have opened up an unwary person from the neck to the abdomen. We shook hands.
'Nina Sorvino?' I said.
'Dat's me,' she said, with a lot of Bronx in the accent. She sat down and her hair drew around her like a heavy shawl. The waiter appeared and I ordered an omelette and salad while Nina asked for a rare entrecote steak and fries.
'You a vegetarian, Bruce?'
'I don't look that ill, do I?'
'You need protein, need some blood in your veins.'
I looked at the quantity of protein coming out of Nina's head and fingers and reckoned she was on a cow a week.
Nina wanted some wine so I ordered a cold Beaujolais which the waiter brought straightaway. He poured a taster for Nina who beckoned him with a fingernail saying: 'Don't be shoy.'
The waiter filled the glass and fled. She took some Camels out of her handbag and holding the cigarette between the pillar box-red razors of her nails, lit it with a match which she blew out with the first exhalation of smoke. She tinkled the wine glass with the other handful of nails and looked at me looking at them.
'Dey're all my own,' she said, and gave me a little kick with her foot under the table which I winced at.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'I cut my toenails, I can't afford the sheets.' She laughed with a snort and so did I, forgoing the snort. This was almost too much for a single hangover to bear on its own, so I downed the cold beer and struck out for the wine.
She had a tough look to her face. It wasn't a mean look, it was a look that could stand up for itself when the chairs started flying in the saloon. She had very straight black eyebrows over dark brown eyes. Her nose was blade sharp and her nostrils arched from the blade like the prow of a ship through water. She had the habit of breathing through her nose and her nose alone, which meant the nostrils flared occasionally giving an air of impatience. As her nostrils flared, her red and glossy lips pouted. She knew this. The smoking was a diversionary tactic. The effect was of getting the come on and the knee in the groin at the same time. She wore a dark blue raw silk blouse and a white cotton skirt. She was dressed for work but I felt there was a racier wardrobe elsewhere.
She was looking at me with her head to one side. She dropped her bottom lip and showed me the straight line of her white teeth.
'You know, don't ask me why, but I kinda like English guys.'
'Any particular reason?'
'I said, "Don't ask me
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