Page 58 - Three Adventures

The Nazarene Foreskin

“Please call me Manur—if I may have the honor of a reciprocal
familiarity of nomenclature.”
Scoop pre-empted the pleasantry next in line. “Yes, yes, Manur, we
are glad to see that chivalry has not fallen on the battlefields of
Lebanon. Nevertheless, we shouldn’t give Miss Cohn-Diaz any false
hope of getting into the grounds of Saint Elias.”
Chovel, whose hands had slowly been migrating to the backs of
their stools, stood back a step with open palms. They were strong,
brown, hairless. Scoop suddenly became aware of his own
unmanicured and tobacco-stained fingers. He shoved them in his
pockets.
“Certainly not!” exclaimed the photographer, attired in his day
uniform of knife-creased khakis and light green multi-pocketed vest
over a spotless white shirt. “I would not dream of disappointing the
young lady. Vi, not merely do I possess the same press pass as does
Scoop, but I am a native of Beirut, Paris of the Middle East, with all
the linguistic and cultural benefits thus conferred. And, more
importantly, I am the brother-in-law of the officer in charge of
security at Saint Elias.”
“Why, that is wonderful!” gushed the object of his attentions.
“Could you—I mean, would you—” she stopped and an aching
silence abruptly opened a vacuum shrieking for someone, anyone, to
abhor and fill it.
“Mademoiselle, it would be my pleasure. If you have no other
engagements this afternoon—” another caesura, another pregnant
pause.
By the time Scoop looked up from his drink they were gone.

* * * * *

The phone rang, not a pleasant pre-dawn interruption in any time
zone. Scoop shucked the clinging wisps of dream and dissipation and
grabbed the handset while blinking at the clock radio beside it on his
nightstand.
“What is it? Who is this?”

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