What Am I Doing Here? by Bruce Chatwin Read Free Book Online

Anatole’s whisky. Later in the evening, they would lounge about the bar and look over the whores.
    The other foreign guest was a Chinese who went everywhere clutching a black attaché case.
    It was hot and airless in the bar. All the lights were red. The one white light came from the door leading into the hall, where the Englishman was still chatting to the receptionist. It was almost ten o’clock. The boy would soon be off duty.
    A man beside me was pretending to read a newspaper, but the pages glowed red and the print was unreadable. Over the bar there was an advertisement for Guinness and a slogan: Le Qualité de l’Homme Fait Son Trésor. In the Republic of Cameroon Guinness is thought to be an aphrodisiac. The barmaid wore a green plastic harp in her hair.
    The waiter had spilled a can of pineapple juice on the floor, the smell of pineapple mixed with the smell of disinfectant and the smell of Guinness and sweat. The seats were covered in warm red plastic. Your back stuck to it and came away with the sound of sticking-plaster.
    Three Bamilékés came in with two girls and sat at the next table. Like most Bamilékés, they were big men with very round mouths. They were swimming in sweat. Grey patches gradually spread over their shirts. They ordered two beers and a whisky, and soft drinks for the girls.
    The waiter moved clumsily. His arm muscles bulged out from under his shirt sleeves, and were netted with thick veins. He was a simple, placid boy and he smiled easily. He thought he had understood the order, but he came back and asked them to repeat it. One of the men went over it slowly, in French. His companion turned to me.
    â€˜ Lui, ’ he pointed to the waiter. ‘ Lui , il ne comprend pas. Il est sous-developpé parce qu’il a été né dans la zone britannique.’
    The waiter came from West Cameroon, which was once a British Protectorate.
    His face puckered with furious concentration. He looked along his biceps muscle at the tray with empty glasses on it. Then he grinned. And the grin grew and grew and the red light caught his teeth and made them glow.
    â€˜Sir!’ he said to me. ‘Dis people dey be fashun no fine. Dey was fashun by de Frenchman and dey hab no mannars.’
    There were five whores attached to Monsieur Anatole’s hotel — five permanents with rooms of their own – and several transients who took their customers out with them. Four of the residents were thin, but Big Mary was the biggest whore I have ever seen.
    Her shoulders heaved like a volcano when she laughed, and her smile lit up white and gold. She lumbered from table to table, wisecracking with the men, who creased up and cried out loud and hung onto their stomachs for laughing.
    â€˜That,’ said one of the Roundmouths, ‘is the première putain du Beauregard.’
    â€˜So I see.’
    â€˜You like her?’
    â€˜Not for me.’
    â€˜Ha!’ said Roundmouth, who, having discovered I didn’t like fat women, assumed I did like thin women, and decided to take me in hand. He enumerated the charms of all present and selected for me a fifteen-year-old, all arms and legs in a dress of see-through pink. She sat alone in a corner, chewing something.
    I walked over in her direction and pretended to take a look.
    â€˜Don’t touch them, Sir!’
    The Chinese was at my elbow.
    â€˜Don’t touch them. There will be diseases.’
    The girl sat up, interested, and looked me up and down with sad, amused eyes.
    â€˜ Qu’est-ce que c’est? ’ She thumbed the Chinese.
    â€˜C’est un Chinois.’
    â€˜What she say?’ asked the Chinese.
    â€˜She asked who you were and I said you were Chinese.’
    â€˜Mais qu’est-ce que c’est? ’
    â€˜ Un Chinois ,’ I repeated.
    â€˜ Chinois? ’ she stuck out her lower lip. ‘ Connais-pas Chinois! C’est garçon ou fille ou