Paul Bowles: The Delicate Prey: And Other Stories

Presently, when he felt that his audience was about to grow restive (even though he had to admit that they never would have shown it outwardly) he put on “Sonny Boy.” From the reaction it was not difficult to guess that this selection was finding less favor with its listeners. The general expression of tense anticipation at the beginning of the record soon relaxed into one of routine enjoyment of a less intense degree. When the piece was finished, Nicolás got to his feet again and raised his hand solemnly, saying: “Good. But the other music is more beautiful.”

The pastor made a short summation, and, after playing “Crazy Rhythm” again, he announced that the service was over.

In this way “Crazy Rhythm” became an integral part of Pastor Dowe’s weekly service. After a few months the old record was so badly worn that he determined to play it only once at each gathering. His flock submitted to this show of economy with bad grace. They complained, using Nicolás as emissary.

“But the music is old. There will be no more if I use it all,” the pastor explained.

Nicolás smiled unbelievingly. “You say that. But you do not want us to have it.”

The following day, as the pastor sat reading in the patio’s shade, Mateo again announced Nicolás, who had entered through the kitchen and, it appeared, had been conversing with the servants there. By now the pastor had learned fairly well how to read the expressions on Nicolás’s face; the one he saw there now told him that new exactions were at hand.

Nicolás looked respectful. “Señor,” he said, “we like you because you have given us music when we asked you for it. Now we are all good friends. We want you to give us salt.”

“Salt?” exclaimed Pastor Dowe, incredulous. “What for?”

Nicolás laughed good-naturedly, making it clear that he thought the pastor was joking with him. Then he made a gesture of licking. “To eat,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” murmured the pastor, recalling that among the Indians rock salt is a scarce luxury.

“But we have no salt,” he said quickly.

“Oh, yes, señor. There.” Nicolás indicated the kitchen.

The pastor stood up. He was determined to put an end to this haggling, which he considered a demoralizing element in his official relationship with the village. Signaling for Nicolás to follow, he walked into the kitchen, calling as he entered, “Quintina, show me our salt.”

Several of the servants, including Mateo, were standing in the room. It was Mateo who opened a low cupboard and disclosed a great stack of grayish cakes piled on the floor. The pastor was astonished. “So many kilos of salt!” he exclaimed. “Cómo se hace?”

Mateo calmly told him it had been brought with them all the way from Ocosingo. “For us,” he added, looking about at the others.

Pastor Dowe seized upon this, hoping it was meant as a hint and could be recognized as one. “Of course,” he said to Nicolás. “This is for my house.”

Nicolás looked unimpressed. “You have enough for everyone in the village,” he remarked. “In two Sundays you can get more from Ocosingo. Everyone will be very happy all the time that way. Everyone will come each time you speak. You give them salt and make music.”

Pastor Dowe felt himself beginning to tremble a little. He knew he was excited and so he was careful to make his voice sound natural.

“I will decide, Nicolás,” he said. “Good-bye.”

It was clear that Nicolás in no way regarded these words as a dismissal. He answered, “Good-bye,” and leaned back against the wall calling, “Marta!” The little girl, of whose presence in the room the pastor now became conscious, moved out from the shadows of a corner. She held what appeared to him to be a large doll, and was being very solicitous of it. As the pastor stepped out into the bright patio, the picture struck him as false, and he turned around and looked back into the kitchen, frowning. He remained in the doorway in an attitude of suspended action for a moment, staring at little Marta. The doll, held lovingly in the child’s arms, and swaddled in a much-used rag, was making spasmodic movements.

The pastor’s ill-humor was with him; probably he would have shown it no matter what the circumstances. “What is it?” he demanded indignantly. As if in answer the bundle squirmed again, throwing off part of the rag that covered it, and the pastor saw what looked to him like a comic-strip caricature of Red Riding Hood’s wolf peering out from under the grandmother’s nightcap. Again Pastor Dowe cried, “What is it?”

Nicolás turned from his conversation, amused, and told Marta to hold it up and uncover it so the señor could see it. This she did, pulling away the wrapping and exposing to view a lively young alligator which, since it was being held more or less on its back, was objecting in a routine fashion to the treatment by rhythmically paddling the air with its little black feet. Its rather long face seemed, however, to be smiling.

“Good heavens!” cried the pastor in English. The spectacle struck him as strangely scandalous. There was a hidden obscenity in the sight of the mildly agitated little reptile with its head wrapped in a rag, but Marta was still holding it out toward him for his inspection. He touched the smooth scales of its belly with his fingers, and withdrew his hand, saying, “Its jaws should be bound. It will bite her.”

Mateo laughed. “She is too quick,” and then said it in dialect to Nicolás, who agreed, and also laughed. The pastor patted Marta on the head as she returned the animal to her bosom and resumed cradling it tenderly.

Nicolás’ eyes were on him. “You like Marta?” he asked seriously.

The pastor was thinking about the salt. “Yes, yes,” he said with the false enthusiasm of the preoccupied man. He went to his bedroom and shut the door. Lying on the narrow bed in the afternoon was the same as lying on it at night: there was the same sound of dogs barking in the village. Today there was also the sound of wind going past the window. Even the canopy of mosquito netting swayed a little from time to time as the air came into the room. The pastor was trying to decide whether or not to give in to Nicolás. When he got very sleepy, he thought: “After all, what principle am I upholding in keeping it from them? They want music. They want salt. They will learn to want God.” This thought proved relaxing to him, and he fell asleep to the sound of the dogs barking and the wind shrilling past the window.

During the night the clouds rolled down off the mountains into the valley, and when dawn came they remained there, impaled on the high trees. The few birds that made themselves heard sounded as though they were singing beneath the ceiling of a great room. The wet air was thick with wood smoke, but there was no noise from the villlage; a wall of cloud lay between it and the mission house.

From his bed, instead of the wind passing the window, the pastor heard the slow drops of water falling upon the bushes from the eaves. He lay still awhile, lulled by the subdued chatter of the servants’ voices in the kitchen. Then he went to the window and looked out into the grayness. Even the nearest trees were invisible; there was a heavy odor of earth. He dressed, shivering as the damp garments touched his skin. On the table lay a newspaper:

BARCELONA BOMBARDEADO POR DOSCIENTOS AVIONES

As he shaved, trying to work up a lather with the tepid water Quintina had brought him, full of charcoal ashes, it occurred to him that he would like to escape from the people of Tacaté and the smothering feeling they gave him of being lost in antiquity. It would be good to be free from that infinite sadness even for a few hours.

He ate a larger breakfast than usual and went outside to the sheltered platform, where he sat down in the dampness and began to read the seventy-eighth Psalm, which he had thought of using as the basis of a sermon. As he read he looked out at the emptiness in front of him. Where he knew the mango tree stood he could see only the white void, as if the land dropped away at the platform’s edge for a thousand feet or more.