I enviously sneaked
furtive glances at the ubiquitous tall, well-tailored, Aryan men who
roamed the streets.
In time, I, too, improved attire. My climb was meteoric: department
head, division chief, then two divisions, vice president. I became a
welcome guest in the hoary mountaintops and charmed castles of the
world's affluent and mighty.
I mulled four years of images while genteelly strolling down the
promenade, unfastening my necktie and nibbling at a colossal ice cream
cone. At last, I flung my reefer on one shoulder, stuffing the stifling
tie in an inside pocket. Unshackled, though officially confined, I
hummed a tune and drifted aimlessly.
Back at the hotel, Eli, submerged in a strategically-situated lounger,
leafed through the oversized pages of a local rag. He rose with
difficulty from his seat and embraced me warmly. Disengaging, he
scrutinised me, his two hands on my shoulders. And then another hug.
Sipping Campari orange, Eli attentively listened to my story. His
fleshy palms wriggled involuntarily in the more stirring passages, as
if to illustrate his mental notes. When I was through, he sighed: "We
will extricate you from this mess."
I handed over Pierre's phone number and we went up to my room.
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