burnt rum 4

        Mango felt no desire to become acquainted with the father he had never known. Over time his psyche healed. Horrific scars crisscrossed his developing mind. Consciously he did not hate Henri Bertrand for abandoning him in the womb. But dreams were another matter. He burned the Haitian roue upon a thorny telegraph pole. Trussed and bound with baling wire, a faceless Henri Bertrand screamed for mercy as blue flames consumed him. Through the dream wafted a porcine stench from the grease and ash. Upon waking Mango could recall every detail. Lucid as his face in the mirror.


        The Philco radio played the music of love. Above the static and keening of airwaves, Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington seranaded the two people writhing upon the couch with "Mood Indigo."
        The woman held the man with all the strength of her soul and moaned. Henri Bertrand re-inserted himself and plumbed deeper than ever before. Suddenly he was gushing into her bottomless lake of desire.



                                                                                             *


        It was her nature to apologize for things beyond her control. Fretting with the radio, she said, "Reception has always been poor."
        The bluebeard chuckled deeply. He lit a Virginia Number 3 cigarette, gazed into her darkness, and blew smoke. Contented.
        She felt his eyes and shook her head, thinking this was such folly. Entertaining this diabolical faun, this Baphomet.
        He opened a brown paper bag and extracted an exotic brand of gin, tainted with rose petal and cucumber. Suddenly she felt free to tease him.
        "You promised me absinthe."
        Without a word, he poured the delicate liquor into her dram glass. His animal magnetism was a palpable entity, untamed. Violent odors assaulted her. He had not bathed in days. Armpit and scrotum reeked. Yet she detected a pleasant splash of Lilac Vegital.


                                                                                     *


        Her pungency reminded him of calamari. His stomach rumbled. She lifted her face from the plane of his belly and murmured, "You need feeding."
        As she padded toward the kitchen he snatched her from behind and thumped a buttock as he would a watermelon.
        "Sit back down," he commanded.
        Then with a royal grunt he shifted close to the radio, then tweaked its fine tuning, hoping that the gods of the ionosphere were in good humor.
        "There is a musical culture in Africa," he said. "Club bands duplicate the sounds of radio and mix them with their melodies. Listen to King Sunny Adi's recordings and it's as if you're out in the bush twiddling with a radio dial. King Sunny Adi is very popular with people I visit in Africa."
        "Are those people black?"
        "Blacker than you, mon cher."
        He stroked her mocha breasts and suckled her coffee bean nipples. His tongue moved upon her like a serpent. Again she saw how his penis aimed like a divining rod toward heaven. That night she conceived Mango.