NOVEMBER 15, 1934
I LEFT THE “BEDROOM” feeling as if I’d been plowed over by a steamroller. Alcibé was back, struggling to eat some pancakes. I’d finally gotten him into the habit of sitting in a bedpan when he eats so I don’t have to clean up afterward. There was a stack for me, too, covered with fruit and still steaming. I sat at the desk and popped the cork on a new bottle of Crow.
“How the hell’d you pull all this off?” I asked.
He gave one of his customary nondescript shrug-like gestures.
“I suppose you had help,” I said.
“I do have friends other than you, Jones,” he said between munches.
“Sure you do,” I said.
“Hey, I did have an unlife before I met you in Port-au-Pauper, you know.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I said. “The bokor said that, too.”
“It’s just a pun,” he sai
