Пол Боулз - Let it come down

The final good nights were called as the other guests drove off.

«But it’s out of your way,» objected Richard Holland.

«Stuff and nonsense! Get in! How do you know where I’m going? I’ve got to meet Luis more or less in that neighborhood».

«Sh! What’s that?» Mrs. Holland held up a silencing finger. From somewhere in the dark on the other side of the street came a faint chorus of high, piercing mews.

«Oh, God! It’s a family of abandoned kittens,» moaned Daisy. «The Moors are always doing it. When they’re born they simply throw them out in a parcel into the street like garbage».

«The poor things!» cried Mrs. Holland, starting across the pavement toward the sound.

«Come back here!» shouted her husband. «Where do you think you’re going?»

She hesitated. Daisy had got into the car, and sat at the wheel.

«I’m afraid it’s hopeless, darling,» she said to Mrs. Holland.

«Come on !» Holland called. Reluctantly she returned and got in. When she was beside him in the back seat he said: «What did you think you were going to do?»

She sounded vague. «I don’t know. I thought we might take them somewhere and give them some milk». The car started up, skirting the wall for a moment and then turning through a park of high eucalyptus trees.

Dyar, sitting in front with Daisy, and infinitely thankful to be out of the Beidaoui residence, felt pleasantly relaxed. He had been listening to the little scene with detached interest, rather as if it were part of a radio program, and he expected now to hear an objection from Holland based on grounds of practicality. Instead he heard him say: «Why in hell try to keep them alive? They’re going to die anyway, sooner or later».

Dyar turned his head sideways and shouted against the trees going by: «So are you, Holland. But in the meantime you eat, don’t you?»

There was no reply. In the back, unprotected from the wet sea wind, the Hollands were shivering.

The next morning was cloudy and dark; the inescapable wind was blowing, a gale from the east. Out in the harbor the few freighters moored there rocked crazily above the whitecaps, and the violent waves rolled across the wide beach in a chaos of noise and foam. Dyar got up early and showered. As he dressed he stood in the window, looking out at the agitated bay and the gray hills beyond it, and he realized with a slight shock that not once since he had arrived had he gone to inquire for his mail. It was hard to believe, but the idea simply had not occurred to him. In his mind the break with the past had been that complete and definitive.

At the desk downstairs he inquired the way to the American Legation, and set out along the waterfront on foot, stopping, after ten minutes or so of battling against the wind, at a small café for breakfast. As he sat down at the teetering little table he noticed that his garments were sticky and wet with the salt spray in the air.

He found the Legation without difficulty; it was just inside the native town, through an archway cut in the old ramparts. In the waiting room he was asked by an earnest young man with glasses to sign the visitors’ register, whereupon he was handed one letter. It was from his mother. He wandered a while in the twisting streets, pushing through crowds of small screaming children, and looking vaguely for a place where he could sit down and read his letter. From a maze of inner streets he came out upon the principal thoroughfare for pedestrians, and followed it downhill. Presently he arrived at a large flat terrace edged with concrete seats, overlooking the docks. He sat down, oblivious of the Arabs who looked at him with their eternal insolent curiosity, and, already in that peculiarly unreal state of mind which can be induced in the traveler by the advent of a letter from home, tore open the envelope and pulled out the small, closely written sheets.

Dear Nelson:

I have neglected you shamefully. Since Tuesday for one

reason or another I have put off writing, and here it is

Saturday. Somehow after you left I didn’t have much

«gumption» for a few days! Just sat around and read and

sewed, and did what light housework I could without tiring

myself too much. Also had one of my rip-roaring sick-

headaches which knocked me out for 24 hours. However, I

am fine now, and have been for several days. Let me tell

you it was a terrible moment when they pulled up that

gangplank! Do hope you had no unpleasant experiences

with your cabin mates on the way over. They didn’t

look too good to me. Your father and I both thought

you were in for something, from the looks of them.

We are planning on driving down to Wilmington for Aunt

Ida’s birthday. Your father is quite busy these days and

comes home tired, so I guess one trip will be enough for

this winter. Don’t want him to get sick again.

Tho’t you might be interested in the enclosed clipping.

That Williams girl certainly didn’t lose any time finding a

new fiance, did she? Well, it seems as though practically all

your old friends were married and settled down now.

We were over at the Mott’s (Dr.) last evening after an

early movie. He is in bed with a bad kidney and we have been

several times to see them. Your father had a short visit

upstairs with him, has two male nurses & is a very sick man.

Louise, whom I don’t think you have seen in twenty years,

had come down unexpectedly to see how things were going.

She is a very attractive young woman, two children now.

She is most interested in your doings. Says she once stopped

at Tangier for an afternoon on a Mediterranean Cruise when

she was in college. Didn’t think much of it. She was

reminiscing about the good times you all used to have,

and wondered if I still made the cocoanut macaroons I used

to make. Says she never forgot them and the cookies.

Naturally I had forgotten.

Well, I am getting this in the mail today.

Please take care of your health, just for my sake.

Remember, if you lose that you lose everything. I have been

reading up on Morocco in the Encyclopaedia and I must say it

doesn’t sound so good to me. They seem to have practically

every sort of disease there. If you let yourself get run

down in any way you’re asking for trouble. I don’t imagine

the doctors over there are any too good, either, and the

hospital conditions must be very primitive.

I shall be on tenterhooks until I hear from you. Please

give Jack Wilcox my best. I hope he is able to make a go of

his business. What with all the difficulties placed in the

way of travel nowadays, both your father and I are very

dubious about it. However, he must know whether he is making

money or not. I don’t see how he can.

May and Wesley Godfrey were in the other evening, told

them all about your venture. They said to wish you good luck,

as you’d probably need it. Your father and I join with them

in the hope that everything goes off as you expect it to.

Well, here is the end of my paper so I will quit.

Love to you from

Mother

P.S. It seems it was Algiers that Louise Mott was in, not

Tangier. Has never been in the latter. Your father told me

just now when he came home for lunch. He is disgusted with

me. Says I always get everything mixed up!

Love again.

When he had finished reading he folded the letter slowly and put it back into the envelope. He raised his head and looked around him. A little Arab boy, his face ravaged by a virulent skin disease, stood near him, studying him silently — his shoes, his raincoat, his face. A man wearing a tattered outmoded woman’s coat, high-waisted, with peaked shoulders and puffed sleeves, walked up and stopped near the boy, also to stare. In one hand he carried a live hen by its wings; the hen was protesting noisily. Annoyed by its squawks, Dyar rose and went back into the street. Reading the letter had left him in an emotional no-man’s land. The street looked insane with its cheap bazaar architecture, its Coca-Cola signs in Arabic script, its anarchic assortment of people in damp garments straggling up and down. It had begun to rain slightly. He put his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and walked ahead looking down at the pavement, slowly climbing the hill. An idea had been in his mind, he had intended to do something this morning, but now since reading his mother’s letter he did not have the energy to stop and try to recall what it had been. Nor was he certain whether or not he would keep the luncheon appointment with the unpleasant woman he had met last night. He felt under no particular obligation to put in an appearance; she had given him no chance to accept or refuse, had merely ordered him to be at the Empire at two o’clock. He would either go or not go when the time came. He did not really believe Daisy’s fantastic story about her being a Russian agent — as a matter of fact, he rather hoped she would turn out to be something of the sort, something a little more serious than the rest of the disparate characters he had met here so far, and a spy for the Soviet Government would certainly be that.