22
The FBI has a good figure, blue eyes, light blond hair, peaches-and-cream complexion, the pleasant odor of honest soap. No Parisian perfume for her. She tells me her name is Kimberley Jones. I think she’s about twenty-eight and a worrier. She is a little gaunt. I suspect overexercise.
I am in a hospital such as I have never seen: a private room like a room in a five-star hotel, with a window which looks out on palms and banana plants, orchids and bougainvillea, hibiscus and the infinitely enticing whish-whish of an automatic irrigation system. When I last regained consciousness the FBI was already here. She said: “You lost a lot of blood, pilgrim, we only just got to you in time.” She could almost be a nurse, the way she takes my pulse from time to time and plumps the bed.
When I reemerged the second time from the depths of delicious oblivion, where I’m sure I encountered my brother Pichai, the seat by my bed was occupied not by the FBI but by a more military figure.
“All this for a scratch? The Buddha must really love you.”
“How do I look?” I had been afraid to ask this question of a foreign woman.
“Without the nose? On you, an improvement.” To my startled glance, the Colonel added: “Joking, joking.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “But just tell me this, it won’t go any further I promise: Why did you have to kill the old lady? Was she coming on to you?”
I lay back on my pillow and returned to oblivion, just so I could tell Pichai about that one.
It seems that my mother met the Colonel in the corridor today. There’s a gleam in her eye as she draws up her chair.
“He’s very charming, isn’t he? I think he must be very rich.”
“No, Mother.”
“He asked me out on his yacht. Is it true it’s one of those huge things with a captain and crew, swimming platform, all that?”
“No, please, don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t care for myself, but it would be good for you. You deserve promotion more than any cop on the force, and you’ll never get it without developing connections. He even hinted—”
“If I was offered promotion that way, I would refuse it.”
She sighs and pats my hand. “Well, you can’t say I don’t try. You’re such a moral boy, I don’t know where you get it from.”
“Of course you know who I get it from, obviously not from you. I don’t know who I get it from because you won’t tell me.”
Nervous laughter as she reaches for her Marlboro. “I will, darling, one day, I just need a little time, that’s all.”