Peter Rabe - The Box

Remal looked at Whitfield and frowned. Quinn’s talk was confusing him. Perhaps, this Quinn person himself was confused, he thought, and he’d best put a halt to this quickly now.

“To finish,” he said and got up, “as I gather from the police officials and by inference, you are familiar with the rules of disobedience. I have talked to you, Mister Quinn, and I wish you no harm. But I have talked to you about rules and I am now finished talking. Whitfield, take him home.” Remal turned and walked out the door.

He left Quinn speechless and Whitfield worried. Whitfield did not think Quinn would stay speechless or dumfounded like this for very long.

After the sirocco comes through and then disappears over the water, there is often a motion of slow, heavy air. Nobody feels it move in, but it is there, like a standing cloud, a mass of heat. This phenomenon, in a Western climate, might mean a thunderstorm and release. But not in Okar.

Quinn walked out into the street and felt it. He felt the still heat inside and out and how nothing moved. Something’s got to happen, he felt, something He walked next to Whitfield, ignoring him, aware only of the heat which did not move.

“Quinn, not so fast. Please,” said Whitfield. “The steps, you know,” and Whitfield puffed a little, which he blamed on breaking training with the two bottles in the back of the car.

Quinn stopped a few steps ahead of him, where the street leveled out again, and touched the side of his face.

“Uh. Quinn.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to tell you I am most awfully sorry about what happened to you tonight. Please believe me.”

Nothing’s happened yet, thought Quinn. He felt himself breathe and how hard it was. He almost began to count. Like a count-down, he thought, except I don’t know how many numbers to go “Believe me, Quinn, I had no idea. What I mean is, I was most terribly shocked coming upon that scene there by the fence. Really, Quinn.”

“I believe you,” said Quinn. He was suddenly bored with Whitfield. “I really do, Whitfield,” he said in order to make his point and stop talking. He wanted to get away. Whitfield would soon start meandering again and that had a dulling effect. Like getting drunk on Whitfield, Quinn thought. Got to get away now. Nothing holds as still as I’ve been holding still and I don’t know how but it can’t be much longer.

They crossed the main street and Quinn stopped under a light. “Whitfield, listen. I’m not going home yet. I’m nervous.”

“Fine. We can go to the hotel, where they serve…”

“Not that kind of nervous. When you get home, leave the light on for me.”

“What’s that you said?”

The question was stupid because Whitfield had understood well enough. He stopped and watched Quinn walk off. Sighing, he watched Quinn’s back lit by a lamp, then dark in shadow, then lit by a lamp, the footsteps getting fainter.

He’s batty, thought Whitfield. Now he’s going to the Arab quarter. But I’m going home. The last time I told Remal where Quinn might be, Remal had the poor thing beaten up. I feel shaken about it even now. I must plan something soothing at home The Arab quarter, Quinn discovered, was not very large. He walked the narrow streets slowly and twice ended up in open country where he could see no roads. The quarter was not large but it was complicated, and Quinn knew he was lost almost immediately But that did not bother him. He knew with an uncomplicated certainty he would find his man. Or Turk would find him. It was also very simple in his mind why he had to see Turk. There is a rat here whom I can understand. And maybe I can use what he knows. Quinn had no clear notion what this last thought really meant, but he did not question it. Remal, of course, had pushed him around, but the fact was, he had not yet reacted to it.

Maybe it never rains here, he thought, and the heat just hangs, just stays this way-He broke out in a sudden sweat, as if frightened. The noise got to him just as suddenly as if there had been silence before, which was not true. Some Arabs were arguing, or perhaps they were just talking, but they yelled, and children yelled, and a dog howled. Even the light makes a noise, thought Quinn. The yellow light in the doorway wasn’t still but jumped and gutted.

Quinn took a deep breath and smelled the warm oiliness of something cooking. All right, I’m hungry. That’s what all this is about, and he walked through the doorway into a long, crowded room with long tables, short tables, and men sitting on benches. The men stared at him but kept eating or talking. They looked at him as if they knew who he was.

Quinn sat down next to a man who was slurping a stew. He was an old man who seemed to have only one tooth and his jaw churned wildly while he ate. When Quinn looked up, there was a boy standing next to him who said something in Arabic.

“You the waiter?” said Quinn. “Eat,” and he showed what he meant by pointing at the stew the old man was eating.

“Don’t order that stuff. It’s not any good.”

Quinn turned and saw Turk standing behind him. Turk smiled quickly, as if it were expected of him.

“Why? Is it dog?”

“Not the point, friend. That dish is very cheap. The price goes by how rotten the meat is.” Then Turk said something to the boy, and when the boy had gone Turk sat down opposite Quinn. “I ordered for you. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

“You were looking for me, huh?”

Quinn felt an unreasonable annoyance at the remark, but then he admitted, yes, he had been looking for Turk. He wanted to ask, how in hell did you know I was looking for you, but felt cramped with his anger and said nothing.

“He beats you up, he beats me up, so of course we meet,” said Turk, and his smile made it sound like a stupid joke.

“You’re talking about Remal,” said Quinn.

“Of course. He who had them beat you up.”

“You seem to know everything.”

“Almost.”

“Is that how you lost your teeth, he beat you up?”

“No. I was speaking in a manner of speaking,” said Turk. “He beats me in some other way.”

“What way?” said Quinn, but his stew came at that moment, and while the boy put the bowl down Turk did not answer.

“In what way?” Quinn asked again.

“How does a strong man beat a weak one?” said Turk. “He ignores the weak one. He beats me in that way.”

That’s got nothing to do with me, and the thought came to Quinn in a rush of anger. He took a spoonful of stew and burnt his mouth.

“I would do an errand for him here and there,” Turk was saying, “and I would see how badly run all his business really is.”

“The smuggling?”

“Yes. And I would make suggestions, try to advise him on how to do better, more money, more everything. Ek-” said Turk with a shrug and a face as if avoiding the touch of something disgusting, “and he would ignore me.”

“You’re a sensitive bastard, aren’t you?” said Quinn, but though Turk answered something or other, Quinn did not hear him. The night’s beating, the off-hand treatment by Remal-all that came back now as a clear, sharp offense, like a second beating, not of the body this time, but something worse.

Like I didn’t exist, it struck Quinn. And this time, without moving a muscle, a cold hate, which seemed very familiar, moved into Quinn, settled there and started to heat.

“He could be somebody to admire,” Turk was saying, “but, well, ek-” and he made his gesture again.

“You poor bastard,” said Quinn with a lot of feeling. “You poor bastard,” and he started to eat his stew.

“Oh?” and this time, with a smile, Turk laughed. “What about you, man from the box?”