Colonel Jumbo parted the slats of the venetian blind and recalled fleetingly, almost unconsciously, that people performed this gesture in American B pictures. He looked out into the night, which was blue. That too was a feature of American B pictures, as people waited for the dawn. Colonel Jumbo had seen a great number of American films. He wondered whether they had had an influence on his personality. True, he would have liked to be a sort of real Humphrey Bogart. And a black one, he added as a private afterthought. From there his ideas wandered slightly, because he remembered that a gossiping publicist had intimated that Bogart was very well hung. Which got Jumbo to thinking about his own prick, incapable, as large as it was, of stirring Josyane. He also thought of Aimé Césaire, who never missed a chance to talk about well-hung Negroes. You had to admit that his immediate cultural background encouraged this. Mâbré, marbled, with its nasal a, was a complimentary adjective in Creole commonly used to describe male potency. That devil Césaire, thought Jumbo. Then his mind turned back, wearily, to Josyane. Sweat and white meat. Laboring. The whole security team had screwed her. Which explained her inertia. Cold comfort for Jumbo.
“Oo-ah! Waah!” went Marshal Oufiri, stretching and yawning.
“You coming down, George?” demanded Jumbo.
Oufiri shrugged. He didn’t know.
“What’s the time?”
“Four forty.”
“Good,” sighed Oufiri in a deeply satisfied way. “In twelve hours all this will seem so far off. We’ll be drinking mint tea, or cocoa, good and hot in nice cool offices. Are you sad, my little Jumbo?”
“Dunno. I’m fed up with everything.”
“It’s because you’re in charge of the secret service, if I may say so. As a prefect in the middle of nowhere you would get your hopes up again.”
Jumbo turned his yellow eyes toward the marshal, wanting to see if what had just been said was a threat, but no, Oufiri was more avuncular than ever, philosophizing placidly.
“What do you think it’s going to cause,” asked Jumbo, “by way of internal turmoil, this N’Gustro business?”
“I could be wrong,” answered Oufiri while not appearing to believe it, “but if it gets us into a bit of an international crisis, even the Left won’t budge. They are nationalists first and foremost. If it is foreigners who accuse us of giving their man a hard time, they’ll soon clam up.”
“The politicians, sure,” said Jumbo, “but what about other people?”
“Other people have never even heard of N’Gustro. N’Gustro is a politician, and this business will have no more impact than a teachers’ strike.”
Jumbo sniggered. Which was what Oufiri had intended.
The marshal smiled with his fat blue lips. A teachers’ strike—such perfect wit!
“Why are we listening to this shit?” demanded Jumbo angrily, his irritation returning as he pointed at the tape recorder.
“This white guy is so stupid,” sighed Oufiri happily. “Listening to him makes me feel distinctly more impressive.”