Пол Боулз - Let it come down

From ahead came the noise of voices raised in angry dispute. Although the plaza out there was empty, the town was by no means entirely asleep. Turning a bend in the street he came out upon a small square darkened by a trellis of vines overhead. A group of excited men had gathered around two small boys who apparently had been fighting; they had started by being onlookers, and then, inevitably, had entered into the altercation with all the passion of the original participants. The rectangles of yellow light that lay on the pavement came from the shops that were open; in contrast the mottles of moonlight in dark corners were blue. He did not stop to watch the argument: walking along the white street in the moon’s precise light was conducive to the unfolding of plans. The commotion was such that no one noticed him as he passed through the shady square. The shops, which seemed to belong primarily to tailors and carpenters, were empty at the moment, having been deserted at the first indication of a diversion in the street. The way twisted a little; there was one more stall open here, and beyond, only the moonlight. It was a carpenter’s shop, and the man had been working in the doorway, building a high wooden chest shaped like a steamer trunk. The hammer lay where he had left it. Dyar saw it without seeing it; then he looked at it hard, looked involuntarily for the nails. They too were there, a bit long, but straight and new, lying on a little square stool nearby. Only when he had passed the shouting group again and had got so far beyond that he could no longer hear the hoarse cries, the hammer and one big nail in his coat pocket, did he realize that for all his great clarity of mind sitting by the fountain smoking his kif, he had been unbelievably stupid. What were the hammer and nail for? To fix the door. What door? The door to the cottage, the rattling door that kept him from sleeping. And where was the cottage, how was he going to get there?

He stood still, more appalled by the revelation of this incredible lapse in his mental processes than by the fact itself that he could not get to the house, that he had nowhere to sleep. This kif is treacherous stuff, he thought, starting ahead slowly.

Back in the deserted plaza he seated himself once again on the edge of the fountain and pulled out the pipe. Treacherous or not, like alcohol it at least made the present moment bearable. As he smoked he saw a figure emerge from the shadows on the dark side of the plaza and come sauntering over in his direction. When it was still fairly far away, but near enough for him to see it was a man carrying a large basket, it said: « Salam ». Dyar grunted.

« Andek es sebsi ?»

He looked up unbelieving. It was impossible. The stuff was treacherous, so he did not move, but waited.

The man came nearer, exclaimed. Then Dyar jumped up. «You son of a bitch!» he cried, laughing with pleasure, clapping Thami’s shoulder several times.

Thami was delighted, too. Dyar had eaten, was in a good humor. The return to the house with its attendant furious reproaches no longer had to be dreaded. He could broach the subject of the money. And there was his own kif-pipe, whose absence he had been so lately regretting, right in Dyar’s hand. But he was nervous about being here in the plaza.

«You’re going to have trouble here,» he said. «It’s very bad. I told you not to come. If one moqaddem sees you, ‘ Oiga, señor , come on to the comisaría, we look at your papers, my friend.’ Let’s go».

The moonlight was very bright when they had left the town behind and were among the olive trees. Halfway up the mountain, among the ragged rocks, they sat down, and Thami took out the majoun.

«You know what this is?» he asked.

«Sure I know. I’ve had it before».

«This won’t make you drunk for an hour yet. Or more. When we got to the house I’ll make tea. Then you’ll see how drunk».

«I know. I’ve had it before, I said».

Thami looked at him with disbelief, and divided the cake into two unequal pieces, handing the larger to Dyar.

«It’s soft,» Dyar remarked in some surprise. «The kind I had was hard».

«Same thing,» Thami said with indifference. «This is better». Dyar was inclined to agree with him, as regarded the flavor. They sat, quietly eating, each one conscious in his own fashion that as he swallowed the magical substance he was irrevocably delivering himself over to unseen forces which would take charge of his life for the hours to come.

They did not speak, but sat hearing the water moving downward in the gulf of moonlight and shadows that lay open at their feet.

«Home again!» Dyar said jovially as he went inside the house, greeted by the close mildewed smell he had said good-bye to so long ago. «Let’s make that fire before we blow our respective tops». He tossed the brief case into a corner, glad to be rid of it.

Thami shut the door, locked it, and stared at him, not understanding. «You’re already hashish,» he said. «I know when I look at you. What are you talking about?»

«The fire. The fire. Get some wood. Quick!»

«Plenty of wood,» said Thami imperturbably, pointing to the patio with its crates. Dyar stepped out and began to throw them wildly into the center of the room. «Break ’em up!» he shouted. «Smash ’em! It’s going to be God-damned cold in here without any blanket. We’ve got to keep the fire going as long as we can».

Thami obeyed, wondering at the surprising transformation a little majoun could work in a Christian. He had never before seen Dyar in good spirits. When he had an enormous pile of slats, he pushed it to one side and spread the two mats, one on top of the other, in front of the fireplace. Then he went out into the kitchen and busied himself building a charcoal fire in the earthen brazier, in order to prepare the tea.

«Ah!» he heard Dyar cry in triumph from the patio. «Just what we wanted!» He had unearthed several small logs in one corner, which he carried in and dumped beside the fireplace. He joined Thami in the kitchen. «Give me a match,» he said. «My candle’s gone out». Thami was squatting over the brazier, and he looked up smiling. «How do you feel now?» he asked.

«I feel great. Why? How do you feel?»

Thami handed him his box of matches. «I feel good,» he answered. He was not sure how to begin. Perhaps it would be better to wait until they were lying in front of the fire. But by then Dyar’s mood might have changed. «I wanted to buy a big bottle of cognac tonight, you know». He paused.

«Well, why didn’t you? I could do with a drink right now».

Thami rubbed his forefinger against his thumb, back and forth, expressively.

«Oh,» said Dyar soberly. «I see». He went back into the other room, stuffed some paper into the fireplace, put some crate wood on top, and lighted it. Then he walked over to the darkest corner of the room and keeping his eye on the door into the patio, pulled out five notes from the inside of his shirt. «This’ll show him I’m playing straight with him,» he said to himself. He returned to the kitchen and handed the money to Thami, saying: «Here».

«Thank you,» Thami said. He stood up and patted him on the back lightly, three pats.

«When you come in I’ll talk to you about the rest of it». He went out into the patio and stood looking up at the huge globe of the full moon; never had he seen it so near or so strong. A night bird screamed briefly in the air overhead — a peculiar, chilly sound, not quite like anything he had heard before. He stood, hearing the sound again and again in his head, a long string of interior echoes that traced an invisible ladder across the black sky. The crackling of the fire inside roused him. He went in and threw on a log. He crouched down, looking into the fire, following the forms of the flames with his eyes. The fireplace drew well; no smoke came out into the room.