Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

“That’s bad,” he answered. “Of course, I have certain habits too — habits of eating, habits of sleeping, habits of working — but I don’t think that is what you meant, was it?”

“Let’s not talk about it. That isn’t what I meant, no.”

* * *

The next day Mrs. Copperfield said that they would go out and see some of the jungle. Mrs. Copperfield said they hadn’t the proper equipment and he explained that he hadn’t meant that they would go exploring into the jungle but only around the edges where there were paths.

“Don’t let the word ‘jungle’ frighten you,” he said. “After all it only means tropical forest.”

“If I don’t feel like going in I won’t. It doesn’t matter. Tonight we are going back to Colon, aren’t we?”

“Well, maybe we’ll be too tired and we’ll have to stay here another night.”

“But I told Pacifica and Mrs. Quill that we would be back tonight. They’ll be so disappointed if we aren’t.”

“You aren’t really considering them, are you?… After all, Frieda! Anyway, I don’t think they’ll mind. They’ll understand.”

“Oh, no, they won’t,” answered Mrs. Copperfield. “They’ll be disappointed. I told them I would be back before midnight and that we would go out and celebrate. I’m positive that Mrs. Quill will be very disappointed. She loves to celebrate.”

“Who on earth is Mrs. Quill?”

“Mrs. Quill … Mrs. Quill and Pacifica.”

“Yes, I know, but it’s so ridiculous. It seems to me you wouldn’t care to see them for more than one evening. I should think it would be easy to know what they were like in a very short time.”

“Oh, I know what they’re like, but I do have so much fun with them.” Mr. Copperfield did not answer.

They went out and walked through the streets until they came to a place where there were some buses. They inquired about schedules, and boarded a bus called Shirley Temple. On the insides of the doors were painted pictures of Mickey Mouse. The driver had pasted postcards of the saints and the holy virgin on the windshield above his head. He was drinking a Coca-Cola when they got in the bus.

“¿En que barco vinieron?” asked the driver.

“Venimos de Colon,” said Mr. Copperfield.

“What was that?” Mrs. Copperfield asked him.

“Just what boat did we come on, and I answered we have just arrived from Colon. You see, most people have just come off a boat. It corresponds to asking people where they live, in other places.”

“J’adore Colon, c’est tellement…” began Mrs. Copperfield. Mr. Copperfield looked embarrassed. “Don’t speak in French to him. It doesn’t make any sense. Speak to him in English.”

“I adore Colon.”

The driver made a face. “Dirty wooden city. I am sure you have made a big mistake. You will see. You will like Panama City better. More stores, more hospitals, wonderful cinemas, big clean restaurants, wonderful houses in stone; Panama City is a big place. When we drive through Ancon I will show you how nice the lawns are and the trees and the sidewalks. You can’t show me anything like that in Colon. You know who likes Colon?” He leaned way over the back of his seat, and as they were sitting behind him he was breathing right in their faces.

“You know who likes Colon?” He winked at Mr. Copperfield. “They’re all over the streets. That is what it is there; nothing else much. We have that here too, but in a separate place. If you like that you can go. We have everything here.”

“You mean the whores?” asked Mrs. Copperfield in a clear voice.

“Las putas,” Mr. Copperfield explained in Spanish to the driver. He was delighted at the turn in the conversation and fearful lest the driver should not get the full savor of it.

The driver covered his mouth with his hand and laughed.

“She loves that,” said Mr. Copperfield, giving his wife a push.

“No — no,” said the driver, “she could not.”

“They’ve all been very sweet to me.”

“Sweet!” said the driver, almost screaming. “There is not this much sweet in them.” He made a tiny little circle with his thumb and forefinger. “No, not sweet — someone has been fooling you. He knows.” He put his hand on Mr. Copperfield’s leg.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. Copperfield. The driver winked at him again, and then he said, “She thinks she knows las —I will not say the word, but she has never met one of them.”

“But I have. I have even taken a siesta with one.”

“Siesta!” the driver roared with laughter. “Don’t make fun please, lady. That is not very nice, you know.” He suddenly looked very sober. “No, no, no.” He shook his head sadly.

By now the bus had filled up and the driver was obliged to start off. Every time they stopped he would turn around and wag a finger at Mrs. Copperfield. They went through Ancon and passed several long low buildings set up on some small hills.

“Hospitals,” yelled the driver for the benefit of Mr. and Mrs. Copperfield. “They have doctors here for every kind of thing in the world. The Army can go there for nothing. They eat and they sleep and they get well all for nothing. Some of the old ones live there for the rest of their lives. I dream to be in the American Army and not driving this dirty bus.”

“I should hate to be regimented,” said Mr. Copperfield with feeling.

“They are always going to dinners and balls, balls and dinners,” commented the driver. There was a murmuring from the back of the bus. The women were all eager to know what the driver had said. One of them who spoke English explained rapidly to the others in Spanish. They all giggled about it for fully five mintues afterwards. The driver started to sing Over There, and the laughter reached the pitch of hysteria. They were now almost in the country, driving alongside a river. Across the river was a very new road and behind that a tremendous thick forest.

“Oh, look,” said Mr. Copperfield, pointing to the forest. “Do you see the difference? Do you see how enormous the trees are and how entangled the undergrowth is? You can tell that even from here. No northern forests ever look so rich.”

“That’s true, they don’t,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

The bus finally stopped at a tiny pier. Only three women and the Copperfields remained inside by now. Mrs. Copperfield looked at them hoping that they were going to the jungle, too.

Mr. Copperfield descended from the bus and she followed reluctantly. The driver was already in the street smoking. He was standing beside Mr. Copperfield, hoping that he would start another conversation. But Mr. Copperfield was much too excited at being so near the jungle to think of anything else. The three women did not get out. They remained in their seats talking. Mrs. Copperfield looked back into the bus and stared at them with a perplexed expression on her face. She seemed to be saying: “Please come out, won’t you?” They were embarrassed and they started to giggle again.

Mrs. Copperfield went over to the driver and said to him: “Is this the last stop?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And they?”

“Who?” he asked, looking dumb.

“Those three ladies in the back.”

“They ride. They are very nice ladies. This is not the first time they are riding on my bus.”

“Back and forth?”

“Sure,” said the driver.

Mr. Copperfield took Mrs. Copperfield’s hand and led her onto the pier. A little ferry was coming towards them. There seemed to be no one on the ferry at all.

Suddenly Mrs. Copperfield said to her husband: “I just don’t want to go to the jungle. Yesterday was such a strange, terrible day. If I have another day like it I shall be in an awful state. Please let me go back on the bus.”