The marshal turned the tape recorder off once more. His auditory perceptions had lapsed into a somewhat inconsistent receptiveness. Consequently he could perfectly well hear the rhythm of the coitus proceeding upstairs, but he also apprehended, more easily even than Butron’s voice, a barely audible whine coming from the machine.
The whine was indeed virtually blotting out the voice, at least so far as the marshal’s perception was concerned.
He rolled over on the enormous couch and with his fat index finger depressed a sort of pneumatic rubber cup originally meant to be operated by a foot during meals in order to activate a ghostly bell and summon a member of the help.
Formerly the masters of the place would use this bell gizmo to mobilize their Spanish domestics. In the event, Oufiri, after pressing the button, saw the man with the Schmeisser hurry in, but without the Schmeisser.
The marshal pointed this out.
“Left it in the hallway,” spat the man.
“Unwise,” sighed the marshal.
“No,” said the man, “I have a little piece.”
“‘No,’ what?” demanded Oufiri.
“No, Excellency.”
Oufiri deigned to smile.
“Let’s see it.”
The man understood that evidence of his competence was being requested. The sidearm seemed to appear magically in his outstretched hand even though in reality he had withdrawn it from inside his canvas jacket. Oufiri offered a smile oilier than the first one. He was pleased. He rolled his eyes as he looked at the gun.
“It’s cute. I don’t know that one.”
The man approached respectfully and handed the weapon to him. He then took a step back like a polished servant.
“It is a Miroku, Excellency.”
Oufiri stared at the man as if wondering whether he was razzing him by claiming that the gun had such an obscene-sounding name.*
“I am not joking, Excellency. It’s called a Miroku. It’s Japanese.”
Once convinced that the name was real, Oufiri burst out laughing. He returned the automatic to its owner. He continued to shake with mirth.
“Once this operation is over,” he said, “I should love it if you were to make a gift of it to me.”
“As Your Excellency wishes,” the thug hazarded, momentarily foxed by the marshal’s formal phraseology.
Oufiri gave an avuncular nod.
“Good,” he said. “But enough of that. I need a lubricant.”
“A lubricant, Excellency?”
“An oilcan.”
“Momentito,” said the man, and he hastened out of the room, slipping his automatic back beneath his left arm.
Oufiri was alone for about five minutes. He amused himself by drawing his fat finger across the plastic housing of the tape recorder. This produced a squeak that to an uninfluenced ear would be just a squeak but to the marshal’s, magnificently dilated by the hash, embodied a near infinity of subtle harmonics. The marshal was put in mind of a time when he used to play the steel violin in the bush.
He was in a delightful mood. Everything conspired to fill him with satisfaction. He thought of Colonel Jumbo, whom he could still hear in action upstairs. He could tell that the colonel was tiring. The mattress was no longer squeaking—groaning, more like. Josyane for her part was neither squeaking nor groaning. She must have been half-comatose. As well hung as he was, Jumbo could not arouse her. Tough. The marshal laughed once more.
He also thought about the cellar, where his victim was dangling. A delicious frisson ran through him. Later on he would get into the quick of the matter with his own bare hands. After a few hours the face of anyone strung up by the feet turns black. But with a black person this effect is invisible.
The marshal was high. He drew on his hot pipe. He was floating. The Schmeisser man came back in. Oufiri hardly recognized him. The man handed him an oilcan. The marshal thanked him and started to oil the tape recorder. Greasy marks spotted the throw. The Schmeisser man had left.
“Miroku! Miroku!” the marshal kept saying euphorically.
And he sprayed oil all over the place.
*To a French ear, the name suggests “look up the ass.” (Trans.)