Free Opium by Colin Falconer

the French much better. I like their women. You like women, Mister Crocé?'
    “What do you think?'
    Ky laughed, a brittle sound, like a bark. “Of course. It must be very hard for a man like you, in prison all this time.” A Vietnamese girl cycled past in a beautiful ao dai , a long mauve smock, split to the thigh, over ankle length diaphanous silk trousers. “So beautiful, yes? Beauty is a question of balance, isn't it, Monsieur Crocé? I can talk to you about this, I think, because you are a connoisseur of such things, just like me.”
    Baptiste did not think this was a philosophical discussion. He wondered where this was leading.
    “Yes, a question of balance. Nothing too big, nothing too small. The eyes, the lips, the nose, the breasts. They say breasts should not be too big, same as rice bowl. Bigger and it is all wasted, smaller and not enough to weigh in the hand.” A beat, and then: “Like Noelle. Everything is perfect. In balance.”
    Noelle.
    So, she had come through for him. She had bought him his freedom, and now he knew the price.
    They had stopped outside a Chinese hotel. The lobby was open to the street. A man in brown peasant pyjamas came out and hawked into the gutter.
    Ky reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and handed Baptiste his passport. “Well, goodbye, Mister Crocé.”
    “I can go?'
    “Of course.” As Baptiste‚ got out, Ky leaned forward and whispered. “She is waiting for you, inside. Room 23. If she is wet, it is not because she is happy to see you. It is because I have only just left her!'
    Ky tapped the driver on the shoulder with his swagger stick and the jeep lurched away into the noonday traffic.
     
    ***
     
    The door was not locked.
    As he went in, he saw his own reflection in the cracked mirror of an ancient dressing table. He looked gaunt and desperate. The shades were down and the room was in semi-darkness. The room was bare, just an armoire and a native wooden platform bed covered with a thick cotton pad.
    Then he saw her silhouette, by the window.
    “Noelle.”
    She came towards him and put her arms around him. “Baptiste. Oh my God. You're so thin.”
    “I'm all right.”
    “I thought I'd never see you again.” She reached up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Mon pauvre.”
    He looked down at his clothes, they were encrusted with dirt. “I need a bath.”
    She nodded and led him through to a cool, white tiled washroom. Pale chinchook lizards chirruped high on the walls. There was a water jar in one corner, almost as high as his waist, with a long handled dipper resting on its edge.
    She unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off him, then unfastened the cracked leather belt and let the rest of his clothes drop onto the wet, stained tiles. She scooped up some of the cold water with the dipper and poured it over his head. Baptiste leaned back against the wall and gasped with pleasure.
    Noelle worked soap into a rich lather in her hands and started to soap down his body. Her hands were warm, and the tiles on his back were cold.
    “He has missed me,” she whispered.
    “Please,” he murmured. Her fingers encircled him. He gasped aloud, every nerve jangling and raw. He pulled her towards him, pulled up the simple cotton shift she was wearing. She was naked underneath. He gripped the cheeks of her bottom and lifted her easily. He was panting, like a runner. “Noelle ...”
    “Go on,” she whispered.
    The world had narrowed into one single uncontrollable and desperate need. He pressed her against the wall, and he forced his way inside her. Almost as quickly it was over.
    The pounding of blood in his ears softened, the jackhammer of his heart slowed. As the world returned, he was aware of her trembling, her arms curled around his neck. She was crying.
    “It's all right,” he whispered.
    “Baptiste, I would do anything for you.”
    But you hardly know anything about me, he thought. Maybe you are just in love with me because I am the kind of man your father