Anything served as a cue for all of them to dive
into the welter of their own preoccupations. Just because they knew each
other and Naapu so well, they seemed free to wander at will in the
secret recesses of their predilections and their memories. I felt like
Circe--or perhaps Ulysses; save that I had none of that wise man's
wisdom.
The reward of my abstinence, I found, was to be the seeing home of
Schneider. It would have come more naturally to Follet, who also lived
at Dubois's, but Follet was fairly snarling at Schneider. French Eva's
name had been mentioned. On my word, as I saw Follet curving his spinal
column, and Schneider lighting up his face with his perfect teeth, I
thought with an immense admiration of the unpolished and loose-hung
Stires amid the eternal smell of tar and dust. It was a mere discussion
of her hair, incoherent and pointless enough. No scandal, even from
Schneider. There had been some sense, of a dirty sort, in his talk to
me; but more wine had scattered his wits.
I took Schneider home, protesting to myself that I would never be so
caught again. He lurched rather stiffly along, needing my help only when
we crossed the unpaved roads in the darkness. Follet went ahead, and I
gave him a good start. When we reached the hotel, Ching Po surged up out
of the black veranda and crooked his arm for Schneider to lean upon.
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