I study him closely. He has a well-developed torso, like a miniature
Schwarzenegger. He is trilateral both front and back. His shoulders a
triangle, imposed on squarish chest and powerful hands. I tell him so.
But Maurice seeks second and third opinions. He circles the muddy
pathways of the camp for hours, only a towel to his loins, and pesters
every passerby. They all confirm my observations.
"Your stomach is repulsive" - he tells me earnestly - "Stop eating so
much. Work out!"
I give him the letter I composed and he ponders it gravely. Then he
folds it carefully and withdraws an envelope from his peeling iron
dresser.
"Write me the address, too" - he says - "It must be the same hand."
I do so obediently. He inserts the letter in the envelope and licks it.
Thus opaque and sealed, he places it gingerly in a drawer.
It joins four identical epistles.
"Maurice, when will you send these letters?" - I demand.
"Soon" - he laughs - "I don't have stamps. Every time I go on detail I
forget to buy them. Tomorrow I will remember. Tomorrow I will dispatch
them and you will write me more. One of them will surely answer.
Something will come out of it."
I suggest to him to address some his missives to the beauties on the TV
soaps.
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