Mamaki was obviously waiting in the shadows as she sprang out like a disturbed bullfrog. She was smiling and bowing; it was quite comical. At one point, I thought her breast might fall out of her dress but thankfully the steel struts of her brassiere held fast. After she had bowed at least a dozen times, the same man as earlier, still wearing the light blue suit, got out of the taxi. He handed Mamaki an envelope, which she took and opened. She turned her back to him, pulled out the deepest pile of money I had ever seen, and counted it while mumbling to herself. Halfway through the pile, she looked over to me. “Batuk, Batuk, go on, get in the car. Off you go.” The taxi driver, a tall, fat man who wore a sand-colored army uniform, got out of the car. The uniform was dirty and he smelled as unclean as any of my cooks. He said to me in a tone of disdain dressed in false politeness, “Get in the car … next to me.” The politeness, I figured, was for the sake of the man in the light blue suit.“Batuk, is it?”
