Пол Боулз - Let it come down

Brusquely he cut her short. «I’ll do it the first thing tomorrow morning and get it off my mind». He was suddenly extremely tired. He felt a million miles away. She went on talking; it was inevitable. But eventually he caught the waiter’s eye and paid the bill.

«I have a car down the street,» she said. «Where would you like to go?» He thanked her and said he was going to stop into the nearest restaurant for dinner. When she had finally gone, he walked blindly along the street for a while, swearing under his breath now and then. After his dinner he managed to find his way to the Hotel de la Playa. Even with the electricity on, the place was dim and shadowy. He went to bed and fell asleep listening to the waves breaking on the beach.

In the morning there was a watery sky; a tin-colored gleam lay on the harbor. Dyar had awakened at eight-thirty and was rushing through his toilet, hoping not to arrive too late at the Atlantide. Daisy de Valverde’s request still puzzled him; it was illogical. It occurred to him that perhaps it was merely part of some complicated scheme of hers — a scheme for encouraging an imagined personal interest in her. Or maybe she thought she was flattering his vanity in appealing to him instead of to Wilcox. But even so, the mechanics of the procedure troubled him. He resolved not to think about it, merely to get it done as quickly as possible.

Wilcox looked perturbed, took no notice of his lateness. «Have some coffee?» he asked, and indicated his breakfast tray. There was no extra cup. «I’ll have it in a few minutes, thanks, across the street». Wilcox did not press him, but got back into bed and lit a cigarette.

«I have an idea the best thing right now would be for you to learn a little something,» he said meditatively. «You’re not of much use to me in the office as you are». Dyar stiffened, waited, not breathing. «I’ve got a lot of reading matter here that it would help a lot for you to know pretty much by heart. Take it on home and study it for a while — a week or so, let’s say — and then come back and I’ll give you a little test on it». He saw Dyar’s face, read the question. « With salary. Don’t worry — you’re working. I told you that yesterday. As of yesterday». Dyar relaxed a little, but not enough. «The whole thing smells,» he thought, and he wanted to say: «Can’t anyone in this town tell the truth?» Instead, he decided to be a little bit devious himself for a change, thinking that otherwise he would not be able to get Daisy de Valverde’s hotel reservation.

«I’d like to go over to the office for a few minutes and finish typing a letter I was writing last night. Shall I go and get those keys you’re having made for me?»

He thought Wilcox looked uncomfortable. «To tell the truth, I don’t think there’ll be time,» he replied. «I’m going over there now, and I’ll be pretty busy there all day. For several days, in fact. A lot of unexpected work that’s come up. It’s another good reason for you to take this time off now and study up on the stuff. It fits in perfectly with my schedule. Those keys like as not wouldn’t be ready anyway. They never have things when they promise them here».

Dyar took the pile of papers and booklets Wilcox handed him, started to go out, and standing in the open doorway said: «What day shall I get in touch with you?» (He hoped that somehow the words would have ironic overtones; he also hoped Wilcox would say: «Ring me up every day and I’ll let you know how things are going».)

«You’ll be staying on at the Playa?»

«As far as I know».

«I’ll call you, then. That’s the best way».

There was nothing to answer. «I see. So long,» he said, and shut the door.

Because he did not trust Wilcox, he felt he had been wronged by him. Feeling that, he had a natural and overwhelming desire to confide his trouble to someone. Accordingly, when he had eaten his breakfast and read a three-day-old copy of the Paris Herald , he decided to telephone Daisy de Valverde, believing that the true reason he was calling her was to tell her it would not be possible for him to do the little favor for her, after all. The annoyance he now felt with Wilcox made him genuinely sorry not to be able to help her in that particular fashion. He rang the Villa Hesperides: she was having breakfast. He told her the situation, and stressed Wilcox’s peculiar behavior. She was silent a moment.

«My dear, the man’s a raving maniac!» she finally cried. «I must talk to you about this. When are you free?»

«Anytime, it looks like».

«Sunday afternoon?»

«What time?» he said, thinking of the picnic with Hadija.

«Oh, sixish».

«Sure». The picnic would be over long before that.

«Perfect. I’ll take you to a little party I know you’ll enjoy. It’s at the Beidaouis’. They’re Arabs, and I’m devoted to them».

«A party?» Dyar sounded unsure.

«Oh, not a party, really. A gathering of a few old friends at the Beidaoui Palace».

«Wouldn’t I be a little in the way?»

«Nonsense. They love new faces. Stop being anti-social, Mr. Dyar. It just won’t do in Tangier. My poor poached egg is getting cold».

It was agreed that she would call for him at his hotel at six on Sunday. Again he apologized for his powerlessness to help her.

«Couldn’t care less,» she said. «Good-bye, my dear. Until Sunday».

And as Sunday approached and the weather remained undecided, he was increasingly apprehensive. It would probably rain. If it did, they could not have a picnic and there would be no use in his going to the Parque Espinel to meet Hadija. Yet he knew he would go anyway, on the chance that she might be waiting for him. Even if the weather were clear, he must be prepared for her not being there. He began to train inwardly for that eventuality and to repeat to himself that it was of no importance to him whether she appeared or not. She was not a real person; it could not matter what a toy did. But there was no inner argument he could provide that would remove the tense expectancy he felt when he thought of Sunday morning. He spent the days learning the facts in the material Wilcox had given him, and when he got up on Sunday morning it was not raining.

Where the little side street ended they came out at the top of a high cliff. It was a windy day and the sky was full of fast-moving clouds. Occasionally the sun came through, a patch of its light spreading along the dark water of the strait below. Halfway down, where the gradient was less steep and brilliant green grass covered the slope, a flock of black goats wandered. The odor of iodine and seaweed in the air made Dyar hungry.

«This is the life,» he said.

«What you sigh?» inquired Hadija.

«I like this».

«Oh, yes!» She smiled.

A long series of notches had been hewn in a diagonal line across the upper rock, forming a stairway. Slowly they descended the steps, he first, holding the picnic basket carefully, feeling a little dizzy, and wondering if she minded the steepness and height. «Probably not,» he thought presently. «These people can take anything». The idea irritated him. As they got lower the sound of the waves grew louder.

On the way down, there was an unexpected grotto to their right, partially covered by a small growth of cane. A boy crouched there, the dark skin of his body showing through his rags. Hadija pointed.

«He got goats. The guarda ».

«He’s pretty young». The boy looked about six years old.

Hadija did not think so. «All like that,» she said without interest.

Here and there in the strait, at varying distances from the shore, a seemingly static ship pointed eastward or westward. Dyar stopped a moment to count them: he could discern seven.