In no time at all, I was stretched out on an inclined marble table.
The Negro began to massage me vigorously.
"More gently there, fellow!"
My masseur did not reply, but laughed and rubbed still harder.
"Where do you come from? Kanem? Torkou? You laugh too much for a
Targa."
Unbroken silence. The Negro was as speechless as he was hilarious.
"After all, I am making a fool of myself," I said, giving up the case.
"Such as he is, he is more agreeable than Le Mesge with his
nightmarish erudition. But, on my word, what a recruit he would be for
Hamman on the rue des Mathurins!"
"Cigarette, sidi?"
Without awaiting my reply, he placed a cigarette between my lips and
lighted it, and resumed his task of polishing every inch of me.
"He doesn't talk much, but he is obliging," I thought.
And I sent a puff of smoke into his face.
This pleasantry seemed to delight him immensely. He showed his
pleasure by giving me great slaps.
When he had dressed me down sufficiently, he took a little jar from
the dressing-table and began to rub me with a rose-colored ointment.
Weariness seemed to fly away from my rejuvenated muscles.
A stroke on a copper gong. My masseur disappeared. A stunted old
Negress entered, dressed in the most tawdry tinsel. She was talkative
as a magpie, but at first I did not understand a word in the
interminable string she unwound, while she took first my hands, then
my feet, and polished the nails with determined grimaces.
Another stroke on the gong. The old woman gave place to another Negro,
grave, this time, and dressed all in white with a knitted skull cap on
his oblong head. It was the barber, and a remarkably dexterous one. He
quickly trimmed my hair, and, on my word, it was well done. Then,
without asking me what style I preferred, he shaved me clean.
I looked with pleasure at my face, once more visible.
"Antinea must like the American type," I thought. "What an affront to
the memory of her worthy grandfather, Neptune!"
The gay Negro entered and placed a package on the divan. The barber
disappeared. I was somewhat astonished to observe that the package,
which my new valet opened carefully, contained a suit of white
flannels exactly like those French officers wear in Algeria in summer.
The wide trousers seemed made to my measure. The tunic fitted without
a wrinkle, and my astonishment was unbounded at observing that it even
had two gilt galons, the insignia of my rank, braided on the cuffs.
For shoes, there were slippers of red Morocco leather, with gold
ornaments. The underwear, all of silk, seemed to have come straight
from the rue de la Paix.