The Day of the Jackal

The barman waltzed away delighted. A man, a man, a man. Oh there was going to be such a row tonight. He could see the «petites folles' on the far side of the corridor sharpening their claws. Most were waiting for their regular «butches', but some were without a date and had turned up on spec. This new boy, he thought, was going to create an absolute sensation.

The client next to the jackal turned towards him and gazed with unconcealed curiosity. The hair was a metallic gold, meticulously groomed down on to the forehead in a series of pointed spikes like a young Greek god on an ancient frieze. There the likeness ended. The eyes were mascara'ed, the lips a delicate coral, the cheeks dusted with powder. But the makeup could not conceal the tired lines of an ageing degenerate, nor the mascara the arid hungry eyes.

«Tu m'invites?»

The voice was a girlish lisp.

The Jackal slowly shook his head. The drag shrugged and turned back to his companion. They went on with their conversation in whispers and squeaks of mock dismay. The jackal had taken off his windcheater; and as he reached for his drink proffered by the barman, the muscles down the shoulders and back rippled under the T-Shirt.

The barman was delighted. A «straight'? No, he couldn't be, he wouldn't be here. And not a butch looking for a nance, or why had he snubbed poor little Corinne when she asked for a drink. He must be… how marvellous! A handsome young butch looking for an old queen to take him home. What fun there was going to be tonight.

The butches started homing in just before midnight, sitting at the back, surveying the crowd, occasionally beckoning the barman for a whispered conversation. The barman would return to the bar and signal to one of the «girls'.

«Monsieur Pierre wants to have a word with you, darling. Try and look your best, and for God's sake don't cry like you did last time.»

The jackal made his mark shortly after midnight. Two of the men at the back had been eyeing him for several minutes. They were at different tables and occasionally shot each other venomous glances. Both were in late middle age; one was fat, with tiny eyes buried in obese lids and rolls on the back of his neck that flowed over his collar. He looked gross and piggish. The other was slim, elegant, with a vulture's neck and balding pate across which the few strands of hair were elaborately plastered. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with narrow trousers and a jacket whose sleeves showed a hint of lace at the cuffs. There was a flowing silk foulard artfully knotted at the throat. Something to do with the world of the arts, fashion or hair-styling, the Jackal thought.

The fat one beckoned to the barman and whispered in his ear. A large note slipped into the barman's tight trousers. He returned across the bar floor.

«The monsieur wonders if you would care to join him for a glass of champagne,» whispered the barman, and regarded him archly.

The Jackal put down his whisky.

«Tell the monsieur,» he said clearly, so the pansies round the bar could hear, «that he does not attract me.»

There were gasps of horror, and several of the flick-knife-thin young men slipped off their bar-stools to come nearer so that they would not miss a word. The barman's eyes opened wide with horror.

«He's offering you champagne, darling. We know him, he's absolutely loaded. You've made a hit.»

For reply the Jackal slid off his bar-stool, took his glass of whisky and sauntered over to the other old queen.

«Would you permit that I sit here?» he asked. «One is embarrassing me.»

The arty one almost fainted with pleasure. A few minutes later the fat man, still glowering from the insult, left the bar, while his rival, his bony old hand indolently placed across that of the young American at his table, told his new-found friend what absolutely absolutely shocking manners some people had.

The Jackal and his escort left the bar after one o'clock. Several minutes before, the queer, whose name was Jules Bernard, had asked the jackal where he was staying. With a show of shame facedness the Jackal admitted that he had nowhere to stay, and that he was flat broke, a student down on his luck. As for Bernard, he could hardly believe his good fortune. As chance would have it, he told his young friend, he had a beautiful flat, very nicely decorated, and quite quiet. He lived alone, no one ever disturbed him and he never had anything to do with the neighbours in the block, because in the past they had been terribly, terribly rude. He would be delighted if young Martin would stay with him while he was in Paris. With another show, this time of intense gratitude, the jackal had accepted. Just before they left the bar he had slipped into the lavatory (there was only one) and had emerged a few minutes later with his eyes heavily mascara'ed, powder on his cheeks, and lipstick on his mouth. Bernard looked very put out, but concealed it while they were still in the bar.