Пол Боулз - Let it come down

In spite of the balm brought to her soul by this use of the plural pronoun, Eunice was suddenly visited by the terrible thought that perhaps the note she had just received had something to do with her behavior at the Beidaoui Palace; one of the brothers was coming to inform her discreetly that the hospitality of his home would henceforth not be extended to her and her friend Miss Kumari.

In a very thin voice she finally said: «Where did you spend the night?»

«I am lucky enough to have a few friends left,» said Hadija. «I went and slept with a friend. I would not have anything to do with that mess». She called it ese lio with supreme disgust. So it had not been she who had seen to getting her back to the hotel. But Eunice was too upset to go into that; she was having a vision of herself in the act of misbehaving in some spectacular manner — breaking the furniture, throwing up in the middle of the dance floor, insulting the guests with obscenities.

«But what did I do ?» she cried piteously.

« Bastante !» said the other, glancing at her significantly.

The conversation dragged on through the waning light, until Hadija, feeling that she now definitely had the upper hand, lit the candles on the mantel and went to stand in front of the mirror where she remained a while, admiring herself in the negligee.

«I look beautiful in this?» she hazarded.

«Yes, yes,» Eunice answered wearily, adding: «Hand me that bottle and the little glass beside it».

But before Hadija complied she was determined to pursue further the subject which preoccupied her. «Then I keep it?»

«Hadija! I couldn’t care less what you do with it. Why do you bother asking me? You know what I told you about my things».

Hadija did, indeed, but she had wanted to hear it repeated with reference to this particular garment, just in case of a possible misunderstanding later.

«Aha!» She pulled it tighter around her, and still watching her reflection over her shoulder, took Eunice the bottle of Gordon’s Dry and the tumbler.

«I very happy,» Hadija confided, going into English because it was the language of their intimacy.

«Yes, I daresay,» said Eunice drily. She decided to remain as she was, to receive M. Beidaoui. Seven o’clock was early; there was no need to dress more formally.

In order to obviate any possibility of Hadija’s seeing him at the Metropole, Thami had made her promise to meet him at seven o’clock in the lobby of the Cine Mauretania, which was a good half-hour’s walk from the hotel. She had demurred at first, but he still held the whip hand.

«She will want to come too,» she complained. «She won’t let me come alone».

«It’s very important,» he warned her. «If you try hard you’ll find a way».

Now she had to break the news to Eunice, and she dreaded it. But strangely enough, when she announced that she was going out for a walk before dinner and would return about eight, Eunice merely looked surprised for an instant and said: «I’ll expect you at eight, then. Don’t be late». Eunice’s acquiescence at this point had a twofold origin: she felt chastened by the idea of her behavior the preceding night, and she already had been vaguely wondering how she could keep Hadija away from the impending interview with M. Beidaoui. It seemed unwise to give him an opportunity to scrutinize her too closely.

Hidden among the kif-smokers, tea-drinkers and card-players in a small Arab café opposite the Metropole’s entrance, Thami watched Hadija step out the door and pass along the street in the direction of the Zoco Chico. A quarter of an hour later Eunice’s telephone rang. A M. Beidaoui wished to see Mile. Goode; he would wait in the reading room.

« Je déscends tout de suite ,» said Eunice nervously. She gulped one more small glass of gin and with misgiving went down to meet M. Beidaoui.

When she went into the dim room with its bastard Moorish decorations she saw no one but a young Spaniard sitting in a far corner smoking a cigarette. She was about to turn and go out to the desk, when he rose and came toward her, saying in English: «Good evening».

Before anything else crossed her mind she had a fleeting but unsavory intuition that she knew the young man and that she did not want to speak with him. However, here he was, taking her hand, saying: «How are you?» And because she was looking increasingly confused, he said: «I am Thami Beidaoui. You know» —

Without actually remembering him, she knew in a flash, not only that this was the ne’er-do-well brother of the Bei-daouis, but that she had had an unpleasant scene with him at the cocktail party. There were certain details in the face that seemed familiar: the strange eyebrows that slanted wildly upward, and the amused, mocking expression of the eyes beneath. Obviously, now that she saw him closely, she realized that no Spaniard could have a face like that. But it was not the grave figure clothed in white robes that she had expected to find. She was relieved, perplexed and apprehensive. «How do you do?» she said coldly. «Sit down».

Thami was not one to beat about the bush; besides, he took it for granted that it was only the dim light which had prevented her from recognizing him at once, that by now she remembered all the details of their exchange of insults, and had even more or less guessed the reason for his visit.

«You had a good time at my brothers’ house yesterday?»

«Yes. It was very pleasant,» she said haughtily, wondering what horrors of misbehavior he was remembering at the moment.

«My brothers like Miss Kumari, your friend. They think she’s a very nice girl».

She looked at him. «Yes, she is».

«Yes. They think so». She heard the slight emphasis on the word think , but did not realize it was purposeful. He continued. «At the party Madame Vanderdonk ask me: Who is that girl?» (Mme. Vanderdonk was the wife of the Dutch Minister.) «She says she looks like a Moorish girl». (Eunice’s heart turned over.) «I told her that’s because she’s Greek».

«Cypriot,» corrected Eunice tonelessly. He stared an instant, not understanding. Then he lit a cigarette and went on. «I know who this girl is, and you know, too. But my brothers don’t know. They think she’s a nice girl. They want to invite both of you to dinner next week, an Arab style dinner with the British Minister, and Dr. Waterman and Madame de Saint Sauveur and a lot of many people, but I think that’s a bad idea».

«Did you tell them so?» asked Eunice, holding her breath.

«Of course not!» he said indignantly. (Still safe! She thought; she was ready to go anywhere from here, at whatever cost, whatever hazard.) «That would be not nice to you. I wouldn’t do that». Now his voice was full of soft reproof.

«I’m sure you wouldn’t,» she said. She felt so much better that she gave him a wry smile.

He had gone down to the port that afternoon and had managed to get the price of the boat down to five thousand seven hundred pesetas. When it came time to pay, he still hoped to be able to knock off the extra seven hundred, simply by refusing to give them.

There were roars of laughter from the next room, which was the bar.

«Will you be at the dinner party?» said Eunice, not because she was particularly interested to know.

«I’m going away, I think,» he said. «I want to go to Ceuta in my boat, do a little business».

«Business? You have a boat?»

«No. I want to buy one. Tomorrow. It costs too much money. I want to get out». He made the hideous grimace of disgust typical of the low-class Arab; he certainly had not learned that at the Beidaoui Palace. «Tangier’s no good. But the boat costs a lot of money».

There was a silence.