Leper Tango Read Online Free PDF Page B

liver-lipped, beet-eyed man — who wore his hair in a tightly tressed Chinaman ponytail, and was stuffed inside an undersized Sergeant Pepper admiral uniform — joined her onstage and on cue, they kicked into an off-key version of Les Feuilles Mortes .
    The act was macabre and burlesque, proving the Parisians hadn’t lost their taste for low-level music-hall . Rhanya, the star of the evening, had a head like a rhomboid stump, adorned with a shrub of follicles that looked to have been culled from a subterranean garden. Her face thickly painted with an oily film, smeared unevenly over her pulpy features. A makeshift bandage, wrapped around her head from skull to chin, completed her hybrid lizard lounge/emergency ward look. She was heavily intoxicated, but once she got into her number, she sang an honest, industrial version of the Piaf song La Vie en Rose .
    An old woman sat at a table nearby the stage, clapping listlessly. Three men stood together at the bar, drinking Pastis. If they lived in America, they would be assistant golf pros or real estate salesmen, or franchise operators. But, this was Paris, so they were just drunk. Two men seated alone at neighbouring tables, their backs to the wall, seemingly unaware of each other. One of the two bore a striking resemblance to Elvis Presley. Thick, pitch-black sideburns bordering a face buried in melancholy. Wearing a black leather vest, no shirt. His forearms covered in tattoos. Elvis II was seated in front of three empty bottles of St Emilion and was busy working his way through the fourth. Behind the King, an oversized map of the Paris Metro, and a message woodburned into the wall:
    No British, No Amerloques
    As Rhanya stepped off the stage, she noticed Tranh, who waved her to join us at the bar.
    â€œJe vais crever, Tranh . This time I am sure I am done for.” One of the three pastis drinkers caught wind of this. “Allez, Rhanya, vous étiez merveilleuse!”
    The second of the three pastis drinkers, a broadshouldered working stiff, lumbered up and put his arm around her.
    â€œApollinaire!”
    Rhanya burst into tears.“Je ne dors plus ! Before, at least, I could sleep. And now, terminé . If only I could sleep!”
    â€œCome home with me, Rhanya. I will make love to you. Like a Cossack!”
    â€œThank you for joining me this evening, Robinson. I
    am very pleased.”
    Rhanya sidled up to Tranh.
    â€œIf you buy me a Kir, I will suck your Asian cock,
    Tranh.”
    Tranh observed her momentarily, amused.
    â€œMr Robinson, there is nothing new in the human genome project. We have developed our own laboratory of mutant strains, right here in le Tambour .”
    He turned his attention back to Rhanya.
    â€œHave you not heard, Rhanya? The mayor has launched a vast campaign to flush Paris of anything and anyone offending the hygiene and anti-loitering laws.
    There is a chance you will be flushed out of the city if you are not careful.”
    â€œI cannot be stamped out. My stench is Parisian stench, and the mayor is a Corsican enculé !”
    As Rhanya said this, a trap door opened, and a lift came up, an oversized dumbwaiter, common to Parisian restaurants, used to bring up merchandise.
    â€œGet on the lift, Robinson. Maurice has a special room downstairs. I want to hear more of your tale.”
    We rode the lift downstairs, into a cellar vault, stacked to the ceiling with wine, beer, Campari, and foodstocks.
    At the far end of the room, two olive - green doors, barricaded shut. Tranh pushed hard against the doors, forcing them open.
    We entered a large room, with half a dozen rickety tables set up for board games. Pairs of men were intently focussed on games of speed chess or Chinese Go. An oval doorway led out of that room into a narrow, damp corridor.
    â€œWe are walking over the remains of the old cimetière des innocents . Molière is buried beneath us. And, at the exact same spot, La Fontaine. Here we