“Be right with you,” said the Negro casually, his big feet slapping against the wet floor as he sauntered off about his business. Bond watched the huge rubbery man, and his skin cringed at the thought of putting his body into the dangling pudgy hands with their lined pink palms.
Bond had a natural affection for coloured people, but he reflected how lucky England was compared with America where you had to live with the colour problem from your schooldays up. He smiled as he remembered something Felix Leiter had said to him on their last assignment together in America. Bond had referred to Mr Big, the famous Harlem criminal, as’that damned nigger’. Leiter had picked him up. “Careful now, James,” he had said. “People are so dam’ sensitive about colour around here that you can’t even ask a barman for a jigger of rum. You have to ask for a jegro.”
The memory of Leiter’s wisecrack cheered Bond up. He took his eyes off the Negro and looked over the rest of the Acme Mud Bath.
It was a square grey concrete room. From the ceiling, four naked electric light bulbs, spotted with fly droppings, threw an ugly glare on the dripping walls and floor. Against the walls were trestle tables. Bond automatically counted them. Twenty. On each table was a heavy wooden coffin with a three-quarter lid. In most of the coffins the profile of a sweating face showed above the wooden sides and pointed up at the ceiling. A few eyes were rolled inquisitively towards Bond, but most of the congested red faces looked asleep.
One coffin stood open, its lid up against the wall and its side hinged down. This seemed to be the one destined for Bond.
The Negro was draping a heavy, unclean-looking sheet over it and smoothing it down to form a lining to the box. When he had finished, he went to the middle of the room and chose two from a line of pails filled to the top with steaming dark brown mud, and dropped them with a double clang beside the open box. Then he dug his huge hand into one of them and smeared the thick viscous stuff along the bottom of the shroud and went on doing this until the whole bottom of it was two inches thick with mud. He then left it-to cool, Bond supposed-and went to a dented hip-bath full of ice blocks and groped around and extracted several dripping hand towels. He put these over his arm and made a round of the occupied coffins, stopping every now and then to wrap a cool towel round the sweating forehead of one of the occupants.
Nothing else was happening, and the room was quite silent except for the hiss of the hose close to Bond. This stopped and a voice said, “All right, Mr Weiss. That should fix you for today,” and a fat naked man with a great deal of black body-hair tottered weakly out of the shower cubicle and waited while the man with the cauliflower ear helped him into a terrycloth bath robe, gave him a quick rub down inside it, and led him to the door through which Bond had come.
Then the man with the cauliflower ear walked over to a door in the far corner of the room and went out. For a few moments light streamed through the door, and Bond saw grass outside and a blessed glimpse of blue sky, and then the man came back with two more steaming buckets of mud. He kicked the door shut behind him and added to the line of buckets in the middle of the room.
The Negro went over to Bond’s coffin and touched the mud with the flat of his hand. He turned and beckoned to Bond. “Okay, Mister,” he said.
Bond walked over and the man took his towel and hung his key on a hook above the box.
Bond stood naked in front of him.
“You ever had one of these before?”
“No.”
“Thought mebbe not, so I’m giving you the mud at no. If you’re acclimated, you can take 120 or even 130. Lie down there.”