The Unpublished PROLOGUE
Every night, following the evening meal that we took in the galley, we would go back on the deck to escape the heat. Georges would appear wearing the traditional Kikoi, a sarong type garment, carrying his tape deck. He would play a lot of 70’s rock and roll and dance around the deck like the madman that he was.
“I hate the Taarab music. I love rock and roll!” he would shout. “Put another dime in the juke box baby!” Occasionally he would fall to the deck and spin around in a circle like an upside down turtle or a hip-hop kid.
“How the fuck did we get into this one?” asked Clarence.
“Just luck,” I said. “Bad luck.”
On one day, (I have no idea if it was the first day or the fifth), Georges showed up wearing a pistol in a holster strapped to his waist like a western gunslinger.
“Pirates,” he said patting it.
I had been seeing people and things that were not there for a while at this point. So when the big green lizard crawled out of the ropes at the base of one of the lifeboats I was not concerned. Nor was I concerned when it walked toward my legs, stopped, puffed up and hissed. I didn’t really get concerned until Georges pulled out the pistol and blew the lizard into a million pieces.
The head, with its mouth still open, came to rest against my right foot. There is still a bloodstain on my Converse sneaker.
Clarence and I looked at each other.
“This is something different isn’t it?” he said from under his big Panama hat.
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
My ears were ringing and there was a strong smell of cordite.
Georges yelled something at one of the crewmen who came out with a mop and bucket and washed the remains of the lizard off the deck. He picked up the head with his bare hand and flung it over the side. It was hot and still that day and we heard the splash as the head hit the water.
“And now Big Man,” he said. “Tell me a story about you and Bruce that nobody has ever heard before. Tell me a story that you have never told anyone else in your life.”
I need to point out here that he was still holding the pistol in his hand when he said this. We were all very drunk and everything seemed completely unreal. Sounds and colors were all heightened as if we had taken acid. (Which we would have done if we had any) Everything beyond this point exists as a blur in my memory. The next clear recollection I have is waking up in a hospital room in Madagascar with malaria in a bed next to a dwarf named Miles Fingerhut. Miles had just lost his left foot to diabetes. He was a famous gourmet chef who created and owned “Fingerhut’s” the popcorn with truffle salt treat ubiquitous in parts of Indonesia.
“You want to hear a story about me and Bruce?” said Clarence.
He was twirling his glass unconsciously. The amber liquid swirled.
“Yes,” said Georges. “Please.”
Clarence killed the drink. He put his glass down, picked up the bottle and refilled it.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s one….”
