East of Suez by Howard Engel Read Free Book Online Page A

on the tombstone of a successful businessman. Maybe the world back home and here on the other side of the planet is divided into wise guys and suckers. I don’t know. It had me worried. Of that much I was sure.
    The shower, which I found down the hall, turned out to be a one-room all-purpose convenience center: a white-and-blue tiled stall with a tap in the wall just a few inches above floor level and a hole in the floor for the rest of the bathroom’s functions. That was it ! There was no flushing mechanism, just a bright plastic pail, with the face of Donald Duck on it. This stood ready to swab out the latrine when required. The fact that the whole of the stall would be involved in purging the vent in the floor, with its two ceramic footprints, I could tell, was not worth mentioning to the management. There was a Japanese-looking wooden stool for sitting on in one corner. A duckboard of white wood offered a means to stay above water. I wasn’t going to become attached to the plumbing.
    Dried off and with fresh clothes laid out on the bed, I looked out my window to see how much closer the forest had grown while I was asleep. It had the cunning to look disheveled and benign. For a few minutes I watched the birds flitting about from frond to frond, making a great racket. They were, of course, tropical birds, not like the ones at home. I couldn’t warm to them, and they seemed indifferent to the towel-wrapped figure staring at them through the slats in the blind.
    A knock at the door rescued me from this unprofitable reverie. It was a little brown man in white carrying a tray, which he put down on the small table beside my bed. Like St Nicholas in the Christmas poem, he spoke not a word and left me with steaming coffee and a crescent-shaped bun. A croissant , of course, although I’d never had one. The coffee came in a large grandfather cup. The milk was hot. All of this, along with a bit of jam, went down very well. It gave me a lift. I was relaxed and ready to meet the challenges of the day.
    When I came downstairs, there was a new man on the desk, but he smiled and called me by name as he first helped me adjust my watch, then handed me a note I wasn’t expecting. My watch didn’t convince me that the setting was serious. The numbers seemed to isolate me more than ever. I didn’t believe in Takot time. It didn’t feel right. At least, it didn’t worry me. The note was different. Who could be sending me notes? In fact, if it was known that I was here, I might as well catch the next plane home. My coming here was a secret. If the secret was common knowledge, my cover was well and truly blown.
    It proved to be from my recent fellow passenger and guide, Father O’Mahannay. My cover was still intact. Slowly I worked out what the words said. My nose didn’t quite touch the paper.
    Dear Mr Cooperman,
    I hope my old friend Costas hasn’t shocked you with lurid stories about my private life. He is a good man, if a bit of a gossip.
    I generally have a drink across from the Royal Botanical Gardens, near the palace, beginning around 4:30. Ask for Ex-Berlioz Square. If you would care to join me today, or, indeed, any day, please do. The bun-shop is called—you must excuse the naiveté of these colonials—Les Trois Magots.
    Until our next meeting, I am yours
    James O’Mahannay, SJ
    P.S. I hope to catch up with my friend in the rickshaw later today, although, frankly, it would be better for my poor head and liver if I had never met Thomas Lanier.
    J. O’M
    It was still some hours until the priest would be at the Trois Magots, and I felt restless to begin my inquiries, as the British television policemen say. The more I learned about this place, the more I could quiz the good father about.
    I asked the man on the desk where I might rent scubadiving gear and catch a boat to the coral reefs. He had enough English so that I was encouraged to abandon my high school French. It took a bit of mime from both of us to reach a full