Пол Боулз - Let it come down

Under the trees of the Zoco de Fuera the chestnut vendors’ fires made a fog of heavy, rich smoke. From time to time a rough gust of wind reached down and scooped the top layer out into the air above the trees, where it dissolved. He looked suspiciously at the objects offered for sale, spread out in patterns and mounds on the stone slabs of the market. There were little truncated bamboo tubes filled with kohl, an infinite variety of roots, resins and powders; rams’ horns and porcupine skins, heavy with quills, and an impressive assortment of claws, bones, beaks and feathers. As the rain fell with more determination, those women whose wares were not protected by umbrellas began to gather them up preparatory to moving off toward more sheltered places. He still felt coreless — he was no one, and he was standing here in the middle of no country. The place was counterfeit, a waiting room between connections, a transition from one way of being to another, which for the moment was neither way, no way. The Arabs loped by in their rehabilitated European footgear which made it impossible for them to walk in a natural fashion, jostled him, stared at him, and tried to speak with him, but he paid them no attention. The new municipal buses moved into the square, unloaded, loaded, moved out, on their way to the edges of the city. A little way beyond the edges of the city was the border of the International Zone, and beyond that were the mountains. He said to himself that he was like a prisoner who had broken through the first bar of his cell, but was still inside. And freedom was not on sale for $390.

He decided it would do no harm to stop in and see Wilcox. A week or so, he had said, and this was the seventh day. He approached the entrance of the building with a rapidly increasing sensation of dread, although a moment ago he had not been conscious of any at all. Suddenly he found himself inside the pastry shop, sitting down at a table, ordering coffee. Then he asked himself what was worrying him. It was not so much that he realized Wilcox would be annoyed to see him come around without waiting to be telephoned, but that he knew the time had come to bring up the subject of money. And he knew that Wilcox knew it, would be expecting it, and so he was worried. He lit a cigarette to accompany his coffee; the hot liquid reinforced the savor of the smoke. When he had finished the coffee he slapped his knee and rose with determination. «We’ve got to have a showdown,» he thought. But the Europe-Africa Tourist Service might as well have been a dentist’s office for the reluctance with which he climbed the stairs and drew near its door.

He knocked. « Sí !» cried Wilcox. He turned the knob; the door was locked. « Quién ?» Wilcox called, with an edge of vexation or nervousness to his voice. Dyar hesitated, and was about to say: «Jack?» when the door was flung open.

As Dyar looked into Wilcox’s face, he saw the expression in his eyes change swiftly to one of annoyance. But the first emotion he had caught there had been one of unalloyed fear. Involuntarily Wilcox made a loud clicking sound of exasperation. Then he stepped back a little.

«Come in».

They remained standing in the ante-room, one on each side of the low table.

«What can I do for you?»

«I’ve got all that stuff you gave me down pat, pretty much. I thought I’d drop around and say hello».

«Yeah». Wilcox paused. «I thought we said I’d call you. I thought you understood that».

«I did, but you didn’t call».

«Any objection to waiting a few days? I’ve still got a lot of stuff here I’ve got to clear up. There’s no room for you here now».

Dyar laughed; Wilcox broke in on his laughter, his voice a bit higher in pitch. «I don’t want you here. Can’t you get that through your head? I’ve got special reasons for that».

Dyar took a deep breath. «I’ve got special reasons for coming here. I need some cash».

Wilcox narrowed his eyes. «What happened to all those express checks you had last week? Damn it, I told you you were Working for me. Do I have to sign a contract? I owe you a week’s wages, right? Well, I’d planned to pay you by the month, but if you want, I can make it twice a month. I know you’re short. It’s a nuisance to me, but I can do it that way if you like».

«But Jesus Christ, I need it now».

«Yeah, but I can’t give it to you now. I haven’t got it».

«What do you mean, you haven’t got it? It’s not that much». Dyar leered a bit as he said this.

«Listen, Nelson,» began Wilcox, his face taking on a long-suffering look — («Fake,» thought Dyar) — «I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t got it to give you. I’ve got a back bill at the Atlantide that would sink a ship. Whatever comes in goes to them now. If it didn’t I’d be in the street. You can see for yourself how much business I’m doing in here».

There were footsteps in the corridor. Wilcox stepped to the door and tried it; it was locked, but a vestige of alarm flickered again across his face. Dyar said nothing.

«Look,» he went on, «I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m stalling or anything. You’re working for me. It may just be a crazy idea of mine, but I think things are going to open up very soon, and I want you to be broken in and ready for the big day when it comes».

«I didn’t say you were stalling. I just said I needed money. But if you haven’t got one week’s pay now, how the hell do you expect to have twice as much next week?»

«That’s a chance we both have to take».

«Both!» He looked derisively at Wilcox.

«Unless you’re a bigger God-damned fool than I think you are you’ve still got a few express checks left that’ll last you at least till next week».

«That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m trying to save those for an emergency».

«Well, this is your emergency».

«That’s what you think». Dyar moved toward the door, opened it and stepped out into the corridor.

«Come here,» said Wilcox, following him quickly. He stood in the doorway and held out a five-hundred peseta note. «You’ve got me all wrong. Jesus! They don’t make ’em stubborner! You really think I’m trying to gyp you, don’t you?» He glanced nervously up and down the corridor.

«I don’t think anything,» Dyar said. He was trying to decide whether or not to take the money; his first impulse had been to refuse it, but then that seemed like a gesture of childish petulance. He reached for it, and said: «Thanks». Immediately afterward he was furious with himself. This anger was not assuaged by Wilcox’s next words.

«And now, for God’s sake, keep out of here until I call you, will you? Please !» The last word was more a shout of relief than of entreaty.

Again he cast a worried glance along the hall, and stepping inside the office, shut the door.

Slowly Dyar went down the stairs, still raging against himself for his blundering behavior. The money had been handed him as though he were a blackmailer come to exact more than the usual figure. Now it would be more difficult than ever to put the affair on a normal business basis.

As he stepped out into the street he realized that the rain was pouring down now. The sidewalks were empty; everyone had taken shelter under awnings, in doorways and arcades. Only an occasional Arab splashed along, seemingly oblivious of the storm. The pastry shop was crowded with people peering out into the street, most of them standing near the door so that if they were approached by a waitress they could move outside. He pushed through their ranks, sat down again and ordered another coffee. It was only then that he began to consider the aspect of Wilcox’s behavior which was not concerned with him — the much more interesting fact that he seemed to be expecting an imminent unwelcome arrival. «Daisy’s probably right,» he thought. Jack had incurred the displeasure of some local hooligan and was awaiting reprisal. Either that or he was trying to avoid a creditor or two. Yet neither supposition quite explained his reluctance to have Dyar visit the office.