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was ever jumbo-synthetic on God’s ill-fated, jittery little planet.
    This, I would soon find out, was standard fare whenever he found someone to buttonhole. He’d start with the First World, work his way down to the Second, then to the Third, till he’d wipe out every visible bare-bottomed savage in the rain forest and thrown the hapless survivors to the Huns, where they all belonged anyway, or to the Ottomans, who’d know what to do with them, or worse yet, to the Jesuits who’d sing a prayer before burning them alive and making missionaries of their children.
    He couldn’t have been older than thirty-four, wore a faded army fatigue jacket with many pockets, and was speaking in a Maghrebi accent to a bearded American college student who was clearly trying to look like Hemingway. The American occasionally dared to interrupt with tepid pieties in decent enough French, while Machine Gun Mouth was catching his breath to take lingering sips from his coffee cup, which he held from the rim, as if its handle were missing. “But you can’t generalize about all Americans,” said Young Hemingway, “nor can you say all women are this or that. Every human being is unique and different. Besides, I don’t agree with what you say about the Middle East, either.”
    Machine Gun reclined on his seat as he rolled his nth cigarette, licked the glued end of his cigarette paper after filling its midsection with tobacco, and like a cowboy who’d just spun the cylinder of his revolver after carefully reloading its chambers, pointed a stiffened forefinger that almost touched the temple of the startled young American, who had clearly never had a finger, much less a loaded pistol, pointed at his head: “All you know is what you learn from newspapers and your boolsheet television. I have my own sources.”
    “What sources?” asked the bearded American, who was beginning to look like a timid prophet about to bicker with the Lord God Himself.
    “Other sources,” snapped the North African. And before the young man had a chance to cross-examine him, there it was again, as good as new, oiled, rammed, reassembled, and reloaded, louder and more articulate yet: rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
    I knew I’d heard his voice many times before at Café Algiers, but on that late Sunday afternoon, the hammering staccato of his words was impossible to ignore. I could tell he knew people were looking over in his direction. He pretended not to notice, but it was clear he was picking his words and buffing his performance, like someone who while speaking to you is looking over your shoulder at the mirror behind you to make sure his hair is well combed. His speech was growing a touch too studied, as were his gestures and the exaggerated pitch of his explosive, out-of-control laughter. Obviously, he liked people to wonder about him. And I was—there was no doubt—wondering about him. I’d never come across anyone like this before. Primitive, yet completely civilisé . He crossed his legs in a very distinguished manner—but the look, the clothes, the hair were a ruffian’s.
    Suddenly I heard him again. Rat-tat-tat .
    “American women are like beautiful manor houses with lovely rooms and lavish art, but the lights are switched off. Americans are not born, they are manufactured. Ford-ersatz, Chrysler-ersatz, Buick-ersatz. I always know what Americans will say, because they think alike, speak alike, fuck alike.”
    Young Hemingway was listening to this tirade, trying to sneak in a few words edgewise to draw some sense from the diatribe; but there was no stopping the string of invectives that came rattling forth like pellets fed on a bullet belt. Rapid-fire Kalashnikov stuff, G.I. Joe ducking in the trenches with bullets whistling overhead and mud-buried mines exploding underfoot, and all about him senseless strafing and detonations. No sooner had he lambasted the female sex than he took a swipe at human greed, at Mormons, at underpaid Mexican waiters who