Chapter
10
Etienne's
plane touched down at 4 PM. By 7 O'clock, he had exchanged his
dollars, and was at a mall, purchasing a black hoody, and a pair of
new black Jeans. His next purchase was a baseball bat, which he
found at a novelty sports shop. Next, a large wicker chair, of the
out-door kind, for patio furniture. Then off to the grocers, for a
large bottle of ketchup. Next stop, a pharmacy, where he purchased a
box of disposable latex gloves, and a large tub of Vaseline. And
finally, a visit to the hardware store, for a can of spray paint.
The proprietor glanced askance at using a passport for
identification, but sold it to him nonetheless. By the time his taxi
pulled up at a speak easy in a disreputable part of London, it
practically looked like a Camel.
He
thanked the cabby, and only let him go after he had inquired closely,
as to directions to the American Embassy. He paid for the room for 4
hours, and asked the attendant where he could find a lady of easy
virtue. With phone number in hand, he found himself in a small room,
with barely room to turn around. He had specified ground floor, and
he spent the first hour beating the seat out of the wicker chair,
with the baseball bat.
This
was no easy task. To impact the seat of the chair, he had to strike
with the end of the bat, and this jarred his arms with every blow.
There is a reason that ball players speak of a “sweet spot,” and
these blows could not be delivered by that part of the bat. He
stopped after 20 minutes for a breather, and when he went back to
work, he was breathing heavily. When he was finished, he took a
shower, and changed into the black outfit.
By
1 AM, he had slept for an hour and a half, and called a cab. It was
practically extortion, but he talked the man into dropping him at a
destination about two blocks from the embassy, with a song and dance
about returning the chair to an unreasonable ex-girlfriend. He had a
pair of latex gloves in every pocket, with the spray paint and
Vaseline in a paper bag. It was a chore, but he managed to place the
chair in a dark part of the roadway half a block from the Embassy.
He emptied the ketchup bottle into the middle, and smeared Vaseline
generously around the tattered seat. He stopped, changing gloves,
and then proceeded to spray paint the words, “FOR SARAH,” in
large letters in front of it, using the florescent orange road
marking paint he had obtained.
He
surveyed his work for seconds, before departing, taking only the
gloves and the can of spray paint. These he discarded at a “petrol
station,” before catching yet another taxi to the airport. He
slept fitfully in a chair by the boarding gate, until his return
flight was ready for departure. He had hoped to feel joy; instead he
felt grim satisfaction. His “graffiti” would be HARD to
overlook.
In
Sri Lanka, he mailed his parents a second post-card, before embarking
on the final leg of his journey. His Canadian passport would show no
evidence of his extra curricular activities, and he would tell his
parents that he had run across a school mate on holiday, and gone to
the game preserve in a moment of spontaneous joie de vivre.
He
had not been home a day before he had ensured his fiction would be
certified. He knew an upper class man who smoked, and it was an easy
bargain to strike.
Now
he must needs await his flame's response.
