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Page 44.

“How are my men doing?” Astrid said, tipping back a bottle of lambic against china teeth, and sitting down in the sand beside Rob.

“Your men are solving the world’s problems,” Brégel said with a brushing motion of his red and blue mottled hands.

“The men are hungering for the company of someone who walks up from the sea like a young goddess,” Rob said softly.

Astrid laughed, and her father didn’t hear. Madame Sylvie Brégel of course missed nothing, but appeared to aid and abet her daughter in a subversive way. Rob noticed that Sylvie rarely sat beside Henri or touched him. Rob reached languidly behind his chair and pulled a cold Alsatian beer from a cooler kept refreshed by a black valet. It would be an interesting evening, and interesting sport. After a certain amount of subtle negotiation at some telepathic level assisted by gestures and nuances, the game became clear. At the moment, Sylvie had no need of actual assistance in bed. Rather, her game was to secure a sense of approval by flaunting still attractive charms and receive signals that, if she were open, they might connect on another day. During all this, Sylvie deftly saved Astrid at the last moment, reining the girl in with the children and servants and making off to the villa. This left Rob to drive back along the river with Brégel to the capital. Madame Brégel had rewarded Rob by contacting a mutual friend that afternoon in Soyo. Rob had momentarily forgotten about Régine Clery, and looked forward to some steamy relief with her from his needs. While the limousine with Brégel and Rob rocked through the deep Congo night under rustling trees and palm fronds with the great Congo River on their left. Rob listened to Brégel’s endless monologues about his home in Belgium and his ideas about white people in Africa. Rob occasionally caught glimpses of another limousine following half a kilometer behind, and he guessed that would be Madame Clery.

He was right. The parties in their two cars, separately, each caught small bumpy river planes that smelled of spicy local food. Flying via Matadi and Luozi they arrived in Leopoldville in a little over two hours. There, Brégel thanked Rob for a lovely day and had himself driven off to his hotel suite near the Belgian mining conglomerate headquarters.

Rob, on the other hand, continued on with a taxi to the small but elegant Hotel Blankenberge, not far from the airport and the Congo River.

Régine Clery was in the waiting room reading a newspaper. The hotel was quiet and subdued, since it was getting late. The concierge, a gray-haired Arab, kept busy behind his counter, and the one page, a young native lad wearing white gloves and a round hat, took his time about sweeping dust out of the corners with a half-length broom.

Rob walked up and offered his arm. Régine put her paper aside and rose. She was a slim, elegant dark-haired woman of 30, wearing a crisply cut black jacket and dark dress with small flowers. Her husband, a mining engineer, was away in the field most of the time and had a black mistress in Katanga with whom he preferred to spend his free time. Régine was a French-speaking Walloon from Chimay in Hainaut. A strong touch of the Mediterranean, perhaps even Araby, ran in her veins, and her skin had a light complexion like gold tobacco, darkening around the finger joints. She said she had an ancestor who had come from France in the 1830s, with the Foreign Legion of Charles X, and married an African woman, probably an Egyptian, but she wasn’t sure—it was a dark, hushed family secret. Régine had freckles the same dark color all over the sharp, exotic lines of a body perfectly made for skimpy Art Deco-style dresses. Her color made her the object of disdain (jealousy, Rob thought). She’d had a fine education in a cloister school and spoke flawless English in addition to French, Flemish, and German. The husband was an ignoramus, Rob had long since decided, and Régine needed rescuing. Her thin figure, though, came from another source.

“Hello, Régine.”

“Rob, darling.”

“Did you have a nice flight?” Rob said wrapping his hand over hers as she thrust her arm through his.

“I dozed,” she said with a slight laugh. “Sylvie is my closest confidante. I had no idea you were in Boma.”

“Does Sylvie know everything?”

“I’m sure she does. She is very tolerant. She helps me when she can.” They walked arm in arm together as if they were married, a deceptive portrait. “I wish I could be like her.”

“You’re still young.”

“A faded flower,” Régine said.

“Nonsense. You just need a fresh start, that’s all.”

Régine looked at him sadly. There was hunger in her eyes, and he knew the routine.

“Want me to take you home?”

She shook her head.

They stepped outside for a few moments, and Rob asked: “Do you have it?”

She nodded, held up a small white packet. “Will you help me?” She handed him a tiny metal object. “Let’s have just a snort and a nice drink first.” This was only for starters, they both knew. Poor thing. Poor darling. Such a beautiful woman, married to a tree stump.

“My pleasure, Régine.” Opening the small brown earring box inside the packet, he used the spoon she’d given him to take out a small quantum of heroin, one for each nostril. She held a finger on each opposite nostril and inhaled, quickly, violently, so that her cheekbones looked like ceramic and her eyes closed as if she were dying. He put the rest away, pressing it into her hands, and she stuffed it into her purse in the same motion. Then she leaned against the wall, face up toward the moonlight, and sighed deeply. Her breathing became relaxed and easy. “Merci.”

They entered a tiny room overlooking the river with its lights, very romantic, and sat at a table with a candle. The proprietor, a tired looking old black man, shuffled out grumpily and informed them the restaurant was closed. After a bit of haggling, he left them two glasses and a bottle of Elephant palm wine. He offered to light the candle, but Rob emphatically raised his palm and shook his hand. The old man left the matches on the table and shuffled off. The wine was too sweet and too harsh and a bit warm, but they sipped it sparingly and let it wrap itself around them with its faint intoxicated aura. They held hands and laughed gently as they talked.

“Brégel was telling me about mining in Katanga,” Rob said.

She laughed. “I heard enough about that when we first got here. Now I hear nothing.” She shrugged. “It’s just as well. After the war, c’est tout. We are finished. I go my way, he goes his way.”

“He is a fool.”

“We knew that long ago. And you, mon cher? You are not a fool. Will you ever marry?”

He grinned. “Probably not.” Probably yes, but to a nice Virginia debutante who could fuss like a Southern lady but probably couldn’t tell Angola in Africa from Angola in Louisiana. “You covered your tracks?”

She shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “I’m with Sylvie in Boma.” She exhaled and he enjoyed the smells of her mouth, her tobacco, her perfume. He leaned close and kissed her. She leaned willingly, hungrily, forward. Their tongues swept silently together, in the silence of the little room where a clock ticked and out on the river a ferry whistle shrilled briefly, a steamy hiss that echoed around the hills and river bends.

“I have information for you,” she said.

“Oh good. I need something to make my day interesting.”

“This is good information, darling. It should get you started paying all that money you owe, and it should keep me supplied with what I need.”

He held both her chill hands in his. “What, darling? Tell me.”

“In the morning, sweetheart. I want to enjoy you with me tonight. In the morning, we will travel north together. You’ll see.” She touched his nose with the tip of her forefinger and made a naughty, promising face.