The marshal turned the tape recorder off because the telephone was ringing. He picked up. As he listened, he rolled a Bastos back and forth between his lips. He put off lighting it; he had already smoked more than enough. His throat was dry. He gave a brief little cough.
“Okay,” he said into the phone, “Tell him to go fuck himself if he calls back.”
He consulted his watch.
“I’m leaving France in the morning. Let him complain to the Pope.”
He chuckled, kept listening for a few moments more, and hung up. The dark flesh between his eyebrows crinkled. Perhaps there was going to be an incident. Oufiri did not care at all. The Palace would be obliged to support him. The army general staff would not let him be harried. The crinkles disappeared. His black skin was smooth once more. Oufiri poured himself an anis and drank it undiluted. He decided to light his Bastos. The idea of the regime having a crisis gave him a mild erection. In the worst-case scenario, if the Palace opted for a showdown, Oufiri would take over. The Americans would back him. He would prefer that things not reach that point. This former French army corporal was all for obedience, so long as obedience did not frustrate his wishes. He did not see himself as a dictator. Too much trouble.
With the Bastos at the corner of his mouth, he smiled in the half darkness, revealing his filed teeth and two gold crowns. It amused him to think about Henri Butron, the pathetic little fool.
It was too late to sleep. He lacked the fortitude to awaken Josyane and labor away. Yawning, he switched the tape recorder back on. He strode up and down the room, flicking cigarette ash into the fireplace. He paid scant attention to the voice on the tape.