that.”
“No brigands versus Mossad. No showdowns at the table.”
“Exactly. And if they don’t like our lump of shit tomorrow—no loss. At least we tried.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes—tomorrow. I told you, full disclosure.”
“Fuck it, Michael. I’m done.”
I got up, making a loud noise with my chair, and headed out the door toward a place to be determined later.
“How done?” Michael called after me.
* * *
In two minutes I arrived at the bar pretty nicely drenched. I took a table where I could watch the storm.
At the bar sat Spaulding, his cranium wrapped in a big white turban. He pointed at it. “What do you think?”
What I think—I thought to myself—is you’re spying on me.
I checked my watch. Time to lift the drinks moratorium. An hour past.
As I looked around for the barman, Spaulding came over to me. “Shit, Nair, I sort of didn’t recognize you yesterday. You know—without the uniform.” He set a full drink before me, saying, “Cheers, mate. It’s made with Baboon Whiskey.”
Like that, I drank half of it down. “Have a seat.”
“I really can’t. Car’s waiting. I’m checking out.”
I nearly said, Good. “Where are you off to?”
“Oh, God knows. The itinerary’s a bit complicated. Entebbe to start. What about you?”
“Just here. Then home again.”
“Home again to—”
“Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam! I love the hash. Do you go to the coffee shops?”
“Every day. Wrap up in my turban and get out my hookah and set fire to all manner of shit.”
He laughed and said, “Happy trip, Nair,” and headed off briskly, with a sort of half salute that knocked at his stupid head-wrap.
A bit sweet, but the drink had a kick. I signaled the barman. “Let’s try a vodka martini.”
Rain swept across the pool’s face, and then it stopped. The sky was half-and-half—one storm had passed, another was coming. My first drinks in three days were going to my head, expanding my consciousness. I didn’t like it. I gulped the vodka without tasting it and made my way to my bungalow and changed into shorts and a long-sleeved shirt and lay down. The TV lit up when I tried it. I watched Ugandan news, a report about a pair of twins conjoined at the shoulder—in other words, a two-headed baby—who had died, and then one about a child whose face had been eaten by a pig. Its fingers as well.
This information drove me out to a chair on the verandah. The sky was stuffed with thunderheads nearly black. I shut my eyes yet felt aware of the garden at my elbow, the blooms opening as if in a time-lapse, the stalks lengthening. Blossoms like dangling red bells, blossoms like tiny white fountains, fuzzy yellow caterpillars on brown twigs, a squad of snails lugging their small shelters up the spears of a plant.
The moment was dark as evening, but all was bathed in a great vividness. The rain shot out of the sky, hard as hail. A wondrous assurance lifted me, a force positively religious invited me to stand and shed my shirt, to drop my shorts and kick them from my feet. No need of clothes when clothed in African magic, and I walked naked across the grounds through the booming and the lightning with the sweet rain pouring all around, and soon I stood looking down into the swimming pool. Everybody else was indoors, and through this whole experience no other person was visible anywhere in the world except the bartender, all alone behind the bar under his awning a few yards from the poolside, watching as I jumped into the water and drowned.
From this dream I woke to another: I lay on my back beside the pool while Michael Adriko kissed me, breathed fire into my mouth and down my throat. I rolled over retching and coughing, my lungs tearing.
I came awake again on a lower rung of reality, still lying on my back, but now in my hotel room, wrapped in a shroud, shivering. Michael sat beside me on the bed.
I said, or tried to say, “You spat in my mouth.”
“What happened to you,
“No brigands versus Mossad. No showdowns at the table.”
“Exactly. And if they don’t like our lump of shit tomorrow—no loss. At least we tried.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes—tomorrow. I told you, full disclosure.”
“Fuck it, Michael. I’m done.”
I got up, making a loud noise with my chair, and headed out the door toward a place to be determined later.
“How done?” Michael called after me.
* * *
In two minutes I arrived at the bar pretty nicely drenched. I took a table where I could watch the storm.
At the bar sat Spaulding, his cranium wrapped in a big white turban. He pointed at it. “What do you think?”
What I think—I thought to myself—is you’re spying on me.
I checked my watch. Time to lift the drinks moratorium. An hour past.
As I looked around for the barman, Spaulding came over to me. “Shit, Nair, I sort of didn’t recognize you yesterday. You know—without the uniform.” He set a full drink before me, saying, “Cheers, mate. It’s made with Baboon Whiskey.”
Like that, I drank half of it down. “Have a seat.”
“I really can’t. Car’s waiting. I’m checking out.”
I nearly said, Good. “Where are you off to?”
“Oh, God knows. The itinerary’s a bit complicated. Entebbe to start. What about you?”
“Just here. Then home again.”
“Home again to—”
“Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam! I love the hash. Do you go to the coffee shops?”
“Every day. Wrap up in my turban and get out my hookah and set fire to all manner of shit.”
He laughed and said, “Happy trip, Nair,” and headed off briskly, with a sort of half salute that knocked at his stupid head-wrap.
A bit sweet, but the drink had a kick. I signaled the barman. “Let’s try a vodka martini.”
Rain swept across the pool’s face, and then it stopped. The sky was half-and-half—one storm had passed, another was coming. My first drinks in three days were going to my head, expanding my consciousness. I didn’t like it. I gulped the vodka without tasting it and made my way to my bungalow and changed into shorts and a long-sleeved shirt and lay down. The TV lit up when I tried it. I watched Ugandan news, a report about a pair of twins conjoined at the shoulder—in other words, a two-headed baby—who had died, and then one about a child whose face had been eaten by a pig. Its fingers as well.
This information drove me out to a chair on the verandah. The sky was stuffed with thunderheads nearly black. I shut my eyes yet felt aware of the garden at my elbow, the blooms opening as if in a time-lapse, the stalks lengthening. Blossoms like dangling red bells, blossoms like tiny white fountains, fuzzy yellow caterpillars on brown twigs, a squad of snails lugging their small shelters up the spears of a plant.
The moment was dark as evening, but all was bathed in a great vividness. The rain shot out of the sky, hard as hail. A wondrous assurance lifted me, a force positively religious invited me to stand and shed my shirt, to drop my shorts and kick them from my feet. No need of clothes when clothed in African magic, and I walked naked across the grounds through the booming and the lightning with the sweet rain pouring all around, and soon I stood looking down into the swimming pool. Everybody else was indoors, and through this whole experience no other person was visible anywhere in the world except the bartender, all alone behind the bar under his awning a few yards from the poolside, watching as I jumped into the water and drowned.
From this dream I woke to another: I lay on my back beside the pool while Michael Adriko kissed me, breathed fire into my mouth and down my throat. I rolled over retching and coughing, my lungs tearing.
I came awake again on a lower rung of reality, still lying on my back, but now in my hotel room, wrapped in a shroud, shivering. Michael sat beside me on the bed.
I said, or tried to say, “You spat in my mouth.”
“What happened to you,
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