Bab 14: An Envelope
My eyes searched the hall for the general while I left, but the fellow was nowhere to be found.
He must have taken the two ladies he replaced me with to bed, who knows, another set of women will rush into the restroom with more cum on their lap, and, as for the minister of education, I hope so much to begin with her.
"Ma'am, the general left you something."
The lady who pressed a tag to my cloth earlier said as I approached the door.
"What?" I asked.
"Here." She passed an envelope to me.
I tore open the envelope and slipped its contents out of it. it was a cheque and an invitation to his place. He claimed he wanted to make donations to my charity organization. I smiled and winked at the lady.
"Thanks for keeping this for me," I said and used the door.
I walked past the two guards, but stopped abruptly and turned to them.
"Did anyone tip you tonight?" I asked.
They looked at each other in confusion. Maybe no one told them.
"No, ma'am." One of them said.
"Then have this." I handed them the cheque written by the general.
"Put your name and account, and get yourselves a good life with the money."
"Okay, ma'am, thanks a lot, ma'am."
"Enjoy." I took off.
***
It was really easy spotting him out in the club, he was sitting alone on a big sofa in the club, and many cheerful night workers and some caring men were shouting French words at him.
One of them was shouting at him to go grab a dance with the girls. I watched it all, but I sensed something, it wasn't just about him not understanding and speaking the French language, but he seemed not to be the sort that rolls with social workers who promise men all the pleasant things a man could have in bed, in exchange of money.
"Alessandro Greco, a special orthopedist," I whispered to myself and made towards him.
The lights at his side weren't entirely red or blue. It was a mix of lights going round and round like we were taught the earth rounds its orbits.
"Enjoying the show?" I asked.
He turned to me, and his face broke into a smile. he seemed not to recognize me yet, but he was simply glad someone spoke English after all the French jamboree.
"You speak English?" he asked
.
"I just did, doctor Alessandro Greco, a special orthopedist," I repeated just what I rehearsed earlier.
He paused. I wonder what was going on in his mind. Maybe he could be wondering who it could be that knew him in the club where everyone was speaking French to him.
"You?" his face broke into a smile. "stilettoes patient."
Damn, he remembered me, but with nothing but the stilettoes that shifted my leg.
I nodded because I couldn't accept with words, the name, stilettoes patient.
"Come on, sit here." He showed me a space beside him.
I sat next to him. "What are you doing out here, alone?"
"I'm just being human." He replied. "It's good out here at night."
I smiled and looked around. It was far better in here with all the loud music, especially the Nigerian hits blaring in my ears than up there where they play the song of the colonizer and dance the dance of the colonizer, and call it the life losers would not afford.
"Yeah, indeed, you are being human here, and the Nigerian music, do you like them?" I asked.
"Just like your people do." He replied. "They don't speak English, but they keep vibing hard each time an Afrobeat sound pops up."
I laughed. He knew Afro-beats. That's massive. People around had so far had questions, no one knows the secret of the Afro-beats, why it has gone far off in the world such that even white people listen and dance to them.
"Wow." I smiled. "You have no drinks on your table."
"Madame, vous le connaissez? Il a l'air confus." The man sitting on the next seat hollered.
"Oui, c'est vrai, c'est un ami." I replied.
"Come on, I'll appreciate it if you don't sell me off for a penny with that funny language," Alessandro said.
I smiled. "He asked if I know you."
"And you said what?" he asked.
"I told him you are my friend," I replied.
"Friend, that's good." He hollered; his eyes lit with excitement. "Let's go grab some drinks."
***
He led me to the bartender's stand and there, he offered me a stool before he sat on the next one.
"You are back, Italo." The barman winked at me instead of him.
Well, I was sure, with my dressing, he must know for sure that I'm not one of the night workers, yet, he winked at me like he knew what I was up for, to fuck the white man and collect dollars. Very sick of him.
"His name is not Italo." I came in Alessandro's defense. "His name is Alessandro."
"You don't need to tell him much."
Alessandro dropped a ten-dollar bill for the fella. "Come on, fix us something."
The barman smiled and took the money, raised his brows at me, and returned to work.
He fixed us a few concoctions, and we played the silly game of gulping each shot after counting three, like naïve teenagers who just stepped out into the world after being trapped in the space of boarding schools for most of their teenage age.
"One, two, three!" I yelled this time, and—we gulped.
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