He sign up to my charade enthusiastically and insists: "Write,
write me a letter to them" - he doubles up in laughter.
Maurice carries in a mouldy plastic bag a few fading and creased
photographs of himself before. He is surrounded with minimally-attired
knockout adolescent girls. These may be the "escorts". He confesses to
wedding three of them and to fathering a brood.
I notice a sad-eyed kid, sprawled on a sofa, gaping at the camera. It's
unmistakable: a tiny Maurice. You also can't misjudge the expression in
Maurice's single, dewy, eyeball.
But Maurice the Cyclops never cries. His vising headaches merely reduce
him to reclining on his rusty metal bed, turning his back to us,
pretending to be slumbering. His shoulders quaver, yet we never dare
approach him.
"All my women betrayed me" - he tells me every morning, awakened by the
screaming wardens. I wonder what he dreams of that makes him reiterate
so often.
"The minute I entered the pen, they strayed with another. That's why I
divorced them, all three" - he elaborates.
Maurice places little trust in women. They hurt him so. "But they are
so beautiful!" - he utters wistfully, as he measures a new pair of
jeans he bought in his last vacation.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161