The Night Manager полностью

"Oh man, you some damn big feller," Mama Low murmured admiringly, turning to stare at her through the open doorway. "You sho's hell one big white fuckin' millionaire king, Lord King Richard Fuckin' Onslow Fuckin' Roper, sir. Mass' Lamont, you cook nice tonight, mind. Otherwise that Mr. Lord Pasha of Roper he gonna have yo' ass. Then us po' niggers gonna help ou'selves to what's left of that ass, same as nigger pickin's off a rich man's plate."

"What does he make his money from?" Jonathan asked while he toiled.

"Roper?" Mama Low retorted incredulously. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know."

"Well, sure as hell. Mass' Lamont, I don't. And I sure as hell don't ask. He's some big company from Nassau that's losin' all its money. Man's as rich as that in recession time, he sure as hell some mighty big crook."

In a short while Mama Low would start creating his hot chilli sauce for the crawfish. Then the kitchen would fall into a dangerous hush. The sous-chef was not born yet who dared suggest that the yachties came to Hunter's Island for any other reason than Mama's chilli sauce.

* * *

The Pasha is in, her party of sixteen will soon arrive, an atmosphere of battle grips the kitchen as the first diners take their places at the lesser tables. No more brave talk, no more last touches of camouflage paint or nervous checking of the weapons. The unit has become a silent team, relating with eyes and bodies only, weaving round each other like mute dancers. Even Swats and Wet Eye have gone silent in the tension as the curtain rises on another fabled night at Mama Low's. Miss Amelia, poised at the cash desk in her plastic curlers, is braced for the first bill. Mama Low in his famous hat is everywhere, now rallying his troops in a stream of subdued obscenities, now out front jiggling and dissembling with the hated enemy, now back in the kitchen again, grating out orders made more effective by the suppression of his massive voice:

"Fine white lady, table eight, she some kind o' fuckin' caterpillar. Won't eat nuttin' but fuckin' lettuce leaves. Two Mama's salads, O'Toole! Bastard kid on six, he won't eat nuttin' but fuckin' hamburgers. One kid-sized hamburger, and spit on it! What's happenin' to the world, O'Toole? Ain't they got no fuckin' teeth no more? Don't they eat no fish? Wet Eye, take five 7-Ups and two Mama's punch to table one. Move it. Mass' Lamont, you just keep-on goin'-on makin' them mussels, six more dozen ain't too many, hear me, just you be sure you keep back sixteen portions for the Pasha. Mussels goes straight to the balls. Mass' Lamont. Ladies and gentlemen gon' screw their hearts out tonight, all on account yo' mussels. O'Toole, where's the dressings, you done drunk them? Melanie Rose, hon', them taters needs turnin' or they'll be sackcloth and ashes before yo' very eyes!"

All this under the protective strains of the six-strong Huntsman's steel band, which roosts on the sprawling roof of the terrace, the sweating faces of the players glistening in the fairy lights, white shirts glowing in the strobes. A boy called Henry is singing calypso. Henry did five years in Nassau prison for pushing coke and came home looking like an old man. Melanie Rose told Jonathan that Henry wasn't any good for lovin' no more, not after his beatings. "Some native people is sayin' that's how come he sing so high," she said with a sad smile.

It's a busy night, Mama Low's busiest in weeks, which explains the extra excitement. Fifty-eight dinners to be served and sixteen coming up the hill ― Mama Low has spotted them through his eyeglass ― and this is still low season. A whole tense hour goes by before Jonathan is able to do what he likes to do when the lull comes: sluice some cold water over his head and take the measure of his customers through the fisheye peephole in the swing door.

* * *

A close observer's view. Measured, technical, thorough. An in-depth, undeclared reading of the quarry, ahead of any contact with him. Jonathan can do this for days on end, has done it in ditches, hedges, lying up in barns, his face and hands dappled with camouflage paint, real foliage stitched into his battle dress. He is doing it now: I shall come to him when I come to him, and not before.