Leper Tango

by David MacKinnon

  “Franck, it is really so good to see you. Where on earth have you been? Come, let’s sit down, Franck. You have to tell me everything.”

  She pulled a cell phone out of her purse. I glanced over at her Paki pal, picking up his own unit five tables away.

  “Ranjit, something has come up, and it’s rather serious. I had better meet you back at the hotel. Non, non, I beg your pardon! You want to tie me up with what! Ridicule, listen, later, I can’t get into it, just go back. Chérie.”

  Ranjit understood and Ranjit laughed and Ranjit stood up, good-naturedly waving the waiter to his table.

  “So, Sheba, tell me all about Ranjit.”

  “Him?” she inquired, as if conducting an archeological dig. “Nobody, really. I’m helping him, in my own way. You seem awfully curious, Franck. Who are you working for these days? The CIA?”

  “Not at all. I’m strictly private sector.”

  “I once worked for the DST. The French secret service.” She stopped short, recalling something. “Franck, have you figured out the answer to my question?”

  “Ask a question, you get the answer. Anything, Sheba.”

  “About your fantasy.”

  “I actually did give this a little thought recently. Let me tell you a little anecdote, Sheba. When I worked criminal assizes, occasionally, it was pretty rare, but occasionally they’d catch a big fish, someone who actually ran things, as opposed to being a runner, or an enforcer. One day, a kingpin, the genuine article, was escorted into the courtroom for a preliminary hearing. His name was McNeill. My partner, Hervé Bourque, represented him. McNeill always had a few big-hair, big titted broads hanging from his elbow, and had a phalanx of thugs, ex-boxers and hit-men at his beck and call, laughing at his jokes, pushing reporters away, generally scaring the shit out of people. That particular day, I think I was entering a few guilty pleas, and wondered whether McNeill didn’t have a lot more figured out than me. Shortest distance between two points type of thing. McNeill’s dead now. But still, he had it figured out in a way.”

  She laughed. And the laugh was genuine. Even now, particularly now, I can see there were times she found things genuinely amusing.

  “You want to be a gangster, Franck! Oh, that’s so funny. Franck Robinson, gangster. What next!”

  “Don’t worr y about it, I can switch fantasies, no problem. You remember what we talked about in Montreal? Olive tree, overlooking the ocean, all of that. I’m thinking that nothing could make me happier.”

  She frowned, as if I had resurrected a bad memory. “All right, all kidding aside. I actually saw a shrink back in Montreal. You had some kind of effect on me, baby. I asked her what my problem was. Assuming I had a problem. She said my fantasy was to fuck the city of Paris.”

  She stared at me. Come to think of it, it wasn’t just

  her cunt. It was the cumulative effect of the saliva oozing up like a long dead geyser between her lips, her Grecian ass, her siren voice, and how they hypnotized me into believing that satanic cunt and its insatiable desires were actually good for me.

  “Fuck Paris?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Baiser toute une ville. C’est quand même curieux.” She smiled. “Who are you running away from, Franck?”

  I reached into my own grab bag of enemies and pulled out a recent candidate.

  “A man named Spike.”

  “Spike, horrible name. What does it mean, clou? So américain. I am so glad to see you again, Franck. Should we get married?”

  She pulled out a powder pack, flipped it open, looked into the mirror.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ranjit’s gone back to the hotel.”

  She laughed.

  “Tu es vraiment marrant, Franck. Now, I recall why I liked you. You are funny. What do you need?”

  “I think I might need a little haven for a while. And I’m flush, provided Spike doesn’t show up.”

  “My car’s outside, Franck.”

  “What about Ranjit?”

  She laughed, and I like to think that, in her own way, she was enjoying the moment.

  “I missed you, Franck. I had totally forgotten you, but I missed you all the same.”

  We drove all night, and arrived in La Rochelle right on the Atlantic coast in the Southwest in the late morning. She parked her Audi at beachside, and we walked along the ramparts of the port area, passing under a medieval clock marking the entrance into the walled old city. Her flat was on rue Gambetta, accessible through an inner courtyard. We walked up to another door, marked Escalier B. She punched in a four digit code, and the door clicked open. She walked down the corridor ahead of me and turned around.

  “Chez moi. For now.”

  Once inside, she showed me into her living room, and disappeared into another room. I dropped onto a California divan, scoped out the place. On the wall opposite, a star of David hung, dead centre. Beneath it, a jangle of pictures in a calculated disorder, each portraying Sheba in different poses. A vampire. An interior shot, her back to the camera, staring through a window onto the desolate Atlantic shore. An Audrey Hepburn

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s pose. In the next, an artful twist of a beret and a set of shades gave her the look of a terrorist.

  The last, a black and white shot from the back of a vintage Citroën. She wore a black pillbox with Egyptian motifs, a checkered dress with a v-neck and held a Colt 45 flat against her loins. Her left leg was propped up on the bumper.

  I recalled a conversation with Hervé over Scotch one evening back in Montreal. Hervé was a rare enough bird, had been through wars, both domestic and military, and understood most of the base rules of engaging in human conf lict. I inquired whether it was true that French broads liked to throw knives and dishes around as a form of foreplay.

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “I’ve heard those Mediterranean sluts are breathy little whores, but a little on the petulant side.”

  He’d shrugged, smiled knowingly. Poured me another Scotch.

  “Mon cher ami, I’m from the Midi. If a woman throws a plate at you, you fire two back.”

  “And if that doesn’t stop her?”

  “Then it’s a good aller-retour.” An aller-retour, he explained, was an open-ended cuff across one cheek, quickly followed by a backhand on the other as the recipient regained her balance. A return ticket.

  Sheba re-appeared with a bottle of Moet & Chandon on a silver plateau, two champagne flutes, six lines of coke and an assortment of pharmaceuticals.”

  “For you, Franck. A ton service.”

  She poured out a glass of the bubbly.

  “Try some of this. Christophe bought it for me. He’s a rep for the Rothschilds. Christophe has done a lot of things for me.”

  “I’ll bet he has.”

  “How long are you staying here, Franck?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What do you think? That you can just stroll into my house, and fuck me, like a pute?”

  I pretended to mull that one over for a moment.

  “That’s right. I’m going to fuck you. But, not like a whore. I’m going to fuck you my way. Now, give me some more of Christophe’s champagne.”

  I felt better immediately. Whatever we were preparing to do would take a while to play out.

  She walked across the room to a window overlooking her terrace, which in turn overlooked the old harbour, and a skew of yachts and catamarans moored for the evening. Behind that, a stretch of the Atlantic ocean.

  She had lit a Dunhill cigarette. She liked Dunhills, because the packs contained miniature retro lithographs of Dusenbergs, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces. The cigarette pack disappeared and, in its place, she held a sheaf of papers.

  In her left hand, a gold butane lighter, a yellow-blue flame shooting out of it towards the bottom corner of the paper. For a moment, she allowed the flames to lick up the A4 sheet, then tossed the whole scroll of paper carelessly out the window. We watched the flaming bundle fall downwards, it
s smoked edges rising upwards.

  “That was my last will and testament, Franck. I think I need to revise it.”

  “Very wise to review these things periodically. Guess what; you’re looking at the meister of the two page will.

  Bullet-proof, honey.”

  “Are you in receiver mode, Franck? Tu me reçois cinq>sur cinq?”

  She glanced out the window.

  “I once defenestrated a man at this very spot.”

  I sat back on the couch, taking it in, sucking on a slim Danneman cigar, listening to every word she evoked, for the words that came out of her mouth were entirely disconnected with the message she was conveying.

  I drank another glass of Christophe’s champagne and smoked a cigarette. This was relatively new turf, so it was fairly important to lay down some ground rules.

  Generally, the trick was to never give a woman what she asked for right away. Once you made them beg, they were yours. Which led to another set of problems.

  At some point in the conversation, the coke kickstarted me, and for a second, or an hour, who can tell, my mind drifted. When I came out of it, I was staring at the photos of her. Sheba had disappeared again. Her voice from a room down the corridor.

  “Franck.”

  I waited a few minutes, took my time, then strolled up to her bedroom. What was the rush? I was already inside enemy territory. But, she didn’t call again. I give her credit for that. She had rigged up a semi-transparent veil, which hung from the ceiling — like one of those mosquito nets in the African Queen. She was nude, and lay in the bed, beneath that veil, not moving, not saying a word.

  I had a strange feeling at the time, as if I were trapped inside one of those old 16 mm movie cameras, and had somehow become part of the celluloid.

  I took off my clothes, lifted the veil, climbed onto the bed. I looked into her eyes. The right eye seemed to scrutinize me. There was something lifeless in it, like a fish eye. The left eye was a conductor, a lightning rod, seemed to suck everything into a maelstrom behind the iris.

  “So, Franck. Fuck me your way.”

  I thought her eyes were agate blue that first evening, but I never really learned the real colour. She had as many sets of lenses as she did shoes. Generally, fucking a woman is a time of day when you can finally look at her objectively, beneath all the dissimulation, and the makeup and the fine sentiments, and you can see her in her bare moment of need, when she comes clean and tries to own you. I could already see that Sheba worked differently. She was a consumer, and I was perishable goods.

  We lay there for a while. Then I turned her flat onto her stomach. Pulled her up by the haunches, and stuck my prick into her.

  “Franck, hit me Franck, please.”

  I was pumping into her, really enjoying it, but the parallel thoughts were there. I was wondering at the time, even as I pumped into her, what do normal human beings do? What the fuck do they do with their time?

  Her voice intervened.

  “Non, Franck, je veux que tu m’encules. C’mon, Franck, stick it right up my ass, just pretend I am really your little Afghan fuck boy. You can do it, Franck.” I pulled my prick out of her. She was on all fours. A female mammal in the receptive period of the sexual cycle. My prick was chafed. Her head turned around to face me.

  “Please, Franck. I am begging you. Have mercy, Franck. Encule-moi.”

  Later, sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up, like I always did. I pulled back the veil hanging over the bed, walked into the other room, lit a cigarette, sat down at a laptop I’d brought with me, started writing a letter. Occasionally, I looked out the window, onto the beach. The Atlantic ocean. Not that long ago, I had been on the other side. Montreal.

  I heard a voice, whispering behind me, which I initially mistook for the Atlantic waves lapping onto the shore. Then, it came again.

  “Salaud.”

  I turned around. She looked really pissed about something. Her eyes flashing. Brief hallucination that she was twisting in the middle of a windstorm.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Nobody leaves me in the middle of the night. Nobody.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette.

  “Too bad. I’m not nobody.”

  I returned to my typing. Lit another cigarette. Men have pricks, and they’re like heat-seeking missiles, and the detectors pick up the cunt, and the cunt is at the service of a woman, and god knows what they want, but the cunt is the best thing going for them, and masks whatever lies beneath. I might even have been writing some such thing to Hervé, because I was distracted for a moment, or an hour, who knows, and during that time gap, she went into full flight, and caught me real good on the side of the face. Clawing out miniature trenches. I took her roughly by the shoulders and shook her until her head bobbed like a puppet’s. Then a voice coming out of me I didn’t recognize.

  “YOU STOP IT OR YOU’RE GOING RIGHT THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL, HEAR ME!!”

  She flopped like a rag doll. Her eyes closed. “Christ, baby, are you okay?”

  Her eyes opened. She nodded and I helped her to her feet. THWACK. She delivered a savage direct straight to the nose, breaking it. Then, just like automatic pilot, KERSMACK. I backhanded her hard enough to knock her right in the air, then down to the floor. Everything went quiet for a moment. Just her laying there, and me standing there. A trick le of blood came out of her mouth.

  Then, she did something which made me so damned hot, I think I must have gone a little bit crazy, maybe even permanently. She crawled onto the floor. Propped herself up again, like a dog. She was petite, and she just waited there, passive, expectant. Her ass at that point was still unscarred, but I was staring at that CUNT of hers. Like, we’re having a low-grade bacterial, syphilitic conversation, just me and that CUNT. And the cunt is saying: “You better just fuck me, Franck. You just BETTER FUCK ME!!!”

  III

  Say what you like about women’s liberation, in my experience the legal profession is still pretty well divided along sex lines. Basically, men only went into practice for the money. Women had other reasons, some of which eventually led them to bail out, or seek the protective awning of a bureaucratic office so they could still feel they were doing something useful. But, once they found their niche with the government, they could make your life miserable enough. So, my first call from Margaret Tillman of the Law Society was not necessarily a sign I was up to be appointed Queen’s counsel.

  “Mr Robinson.” “This is Robinson.”

  “Margaret Tillman. Law Societ y Investigations Branch.”

  “Good morning, Canada! What is it, about forty below in the Great White North? How are the Maple Leafs doing?”

  “I’m not calling to discuss the weather, Mr Robinson.

  Or ice hockey.” “Get to the point, Margaret. Haven’t I sent my annual dues?”

  “We’ve received a complaint filed by a certain Mr. Spike Nussbaum. You were counsel for the plaintiff in Sutherland vs Lloyds, Mr Robinson?”

  “Not on behalf of Mr Nussbaum.” “So, you do know him.”

  “The worst kind, Margaret. The unhappy spouse of a client.”

  “What does the name Finister Ebrams mean to you?” “Name rings a bell.”

  “He was a witness for the defence in the Holly Reichman trial. Mr Ebrams has indicated that you threatened him with criminal proceedings.”

  “I strictly deny. Look, Margaret, it is Margaret, isn’t it? I don’t even practice law anymore.”

  “That’s not what our investigators have reported.” “I think you have the wrong Franck Robinson.” “Thirty-five writs have been issued in your name in collections matters over the last six months. Defendant counsel was surprised to discover that you were unreachable when they tried to contact you.”

  “Well, who the hell is doing that? Get off your butt and do your job, Margaret. Throw the book at him. What year call to the bar are you, anyways, Margaret?”

 
; “Do you have any children, Mr Robinson?” “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Are you familiar with the recent deadbeat dad legislation? Let me fill you in, as I understand you’ve been out of the country. As a defaulting debtor under Montreal Family Court Order dated 14 December 2001, your driver’s licence has been revoked and your banking assets frozen. You have also been set down for a disciplinary hearing before the Benchers Committee to be held in two weeks.” “Sorry, booked solid.”

  “For the moment, I only require an address for service of process, Mr Robinson. You have a fixed address, Mr Robinson?”

  “Rue Scribe, number 9, ninth arrondissement. Paris.”

  “Isn’t that the American Express office, Mr Robinson?”

  “A home away from home. What of it?”

  “Good day, Mr Robinson. You’ll be hearing from us.”

  I returned to the beach, spotted her sunning under a parasol. She wore only the bottom of a bathing suit, her back arched, as she gazed out into the half moon bay where we now spent our afternoons.

  “You see those three islands, Franck? Ile de Ré was for the celebrities. Ile d ’Oléron for the regular tourists.

  And Fort Bayard the Southwest’s version of Alcatraz.

  But, you and me, if we stick together, we can have that and a lot more.”

  I realized it wasn’t enough for me to have her or possess her. I wanted something more and, though I couldn’t pin it down, I knew she still had plenty she hadn’t given away, and that somehow, I would never get.

  We listened to the waves lap onto the shore in silence, me behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist. She reached for a hexagonal container of coconut cream and handed it to me.

  “Tu veux bien, chéri? If you oil me down, I will tell you a story. I am sure you will like it.”

  She lay back, and exposed her tits to the world. Every time I was privy to a close up of a woman’s breasts, I did a mental gauge of how long it would be before things deteriorated. Physically, so to speak. In Sheba’s case, you knew it couldn’t last forever. On the other hand, it didn’t seem she could ever be anything but beautiful or dead. Nothing in between.