In the Hour Before Midnight Read Free

in those days at least, a complete absence of the kind of racial tensions I’d noticed elsewhere in Africa.
    The man who ran the “Lights of Lisbon” was named Coimbra, a thin, cadaverous Portuguese with one interest in life—money. He had a hand in most things as far as I could judge and didn’t have a scruple in the world. Whatever you wanted, Coimbra could get it for you at a price. We boasted the finest selection of girls on the coast.
    I noticed Burke the moment he came in, although his enormous physique would have made him stand out anywhere. I think that was the thing which struck one most about him—the air of sheer physical competence and controlled power that made men move out of his way, even in a place like that.
    He was dressed for the bush in felt hat, shooting jacket, khaki pants and sand boots. One of the girls made a pass at him, a quadroon with skin like honey and the kind of body that would have had a bishop on his knees. Burke looked through her, not over her, as if she simply didn’t exist, and ordered a drink.
    The girl was called Lola and as we’d been more than good friends I felt like telling him he was missing out on a damn good thing, but maybe that was just the whisky talking. In those days I wasn’t too used to it and it was dangerously cheap. When I looked up, he was standing watching, a glass of beer in one hand.
    â€œYou want to lay off that stuff,” he said as I poured another. “It won’t do you any good, not in this climate.”
    â€œMy funeral.”
    I suppose that was the right kind of reply for the tough, footloose adventurer I fondly imagined myself to be at that time and I toasted him. He challenged me calmly, his face quite expressionless, and when I raised the glass to my lips it took a real physical effort. The whisky tasted foul. I gagged and put the glass down hurriedly, a hand to my mouth.
    His expression didn’t change. “The barman tells me you’re English.”
    Which was what I thought he was at the time, for his Irish upbringing was indicated more by tricks of speech and phrasing than accent.
    I shook my head. “American.”
    â€œYou don’t sound like it.”
    â€œI spent what they term the formative years in Europe.”
    He nodded. “I don’t suppose you can play ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’?”
    â€œAs ever was,” I said, and moved into a reasonably straight rendering of the beautiful old Irish folk song.
    It lacked John McCormack, but wasn’t bad though I do say it myself. He nodded soberly when I finished. “You’re good—too good for this place.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “Is it all right if I smoke?”
    â€œI’ll tell the barman to send you a beer,” he replied gravely.
    He returned to the bar and a moment later one of Coimbra’s flunkeys tapped him on the shoulder. There was a short conversation and they went upstairs together.
    Lola came across, yawning hugely. “You’re losing your touch,” I told her.
    â€œThe Englishman?” She shrugged. “I’ve met his kind before. Half a man. Big in everything except what counts.”
    She moved on and I sat there thinking about what she had said, working my way through a slow blues. At that time I was inclined to think she was talking into the wind, probably out of a kind of professional pique at being snubbed. A man didn’t have to be the other thing just because he wasn’t particularly attracted to women, although I’venever seen any virtue in not indulging at every opportunity in what is one of life’s greatest pleasures as far as I’m concerned. The Sicilian half of me discovered women early.
    I came to the end of the number I was playing and lit a cigarette. For some reason there was one of those sudden lulls that you sometimes get with a crowd anywhere. Everyone seemed to stop talking and the whole thing became curiously