Fat mother wept, of course. Is there anything more comical than a fat woman weeping? It never quite comes off. You loathed her fatness, unlike those other women. But fat mother wept because she missed you, and feared for you. Wept and wept and then she bit into her pillow so we wouldn’t hear her, and then she turned to laudanum to sleep at all—poor fat thing.
Tell me about the other women. Not Mrs. Ives—I know all about her. You might have attended the funeral at least, for decency’s sake!
Oh, it’s that face, is it? The hard face for the niggers—scare them into obeying, the porters and slaves. But we were speaking of the women—they were as follows: The whores in Zanzibar when you landed, mostly North African so almost white, then the native women along the way—they enjoyed you pawing at them, or you convinced yourself they did. You made Peter fuck them to prove that he was a man. He didn’t enjoy it but he would do anything for you, except make a proper off-spin bowler like you wanted. So on you went, tribe to tribe, father and son, fucking the Maasai, the Mamohela, the Bangweulu, the Bantu, the Burundi!"