An afternoon and a night spent fucking two of Mado’s girls, perfect as always. And he’d been masterful, he gloats, scratching his testicles. One of the girls brings him a tray which she sets down on the coffee table beside him. She’s wearing a short navy-blue silk pyjama shirt, with nothing underneath it. He slips his hand between her thighs and fondles her crotch, then attacks his breakfast. English-style. His favourite: astringent tea, bitter-tasting, toast and marmalade, freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice. A sigh of contentment. The girls have vanished into the bathroom. Another reason for his complacency is yesterday’s meeting with Bornand, not half as tough as he’d expected. The lost plane was an excuse to edge him out. He proved to be a real pushover. That was unexpected.Better watch the time: he mustn’t miss the flight to Beirut.He gets up and ambles lazily into the bedroom, dragging his feet, calls the other girl, the one wearing a basque revealing her generous breasts, and has her dress him while he buries his face and hands in her bosom.
