Пол Боулз - Let it come down

It was late. From time to time he met a man hurrying along, face hidden under the hood of his djellaba, head bent over, eyes on the ground. The streets of Emsallah were unpaved; the muddy water ran against him all the way to the boulevard. Here a solitary cautious car moved by under the rain’s onslaught, sounding its horn repeatedly.

He passed along the Place de France under the low overhanging branches of the liveoaks in front of the French Consulate. Neither the Café de Paris nor the Brasserie de France was open. The city was deserted, the Boulevard Pasteur reduced to two converging rows of dim lights leading off into the night. It was typical of Europeans, he thought, to lose courage and give up all their plans the minute there was a chance of getting themselves wet. They were more prudent than passionate; their fears were stronger than their desires. Most of them had no real desire, apart from that to make money, which after all is merely a habit. But once they had the money they seemed never to use it for a specific object or purpose. That was what he found difficult to understand. He knew exactly what he wanted, always, and so did his countrymen. Most of them only wanted three rams to slaughter at Aïd el Kebir and new clothing for the family at Mouloud and Aïd es Seghir. It was not much, but it was definite, and they bent all their efforts to getting it. Still, he could not think of the mass of Moroccans without contempt. He had no patience with their ignorance and backwardness; if he damned the Europeans with one breath, he was bound to damn the Moroccans with the next. No one escaped but him, and that was because he hated himself most of all. But fortunately he was unaware of that. His own dream was to have a small speedboat; it was an absolute necessity for the man who hoped to be really successful in smuggling.

Right now he wanted to get to the Café Tingis in the Zoco Chico and have a coffee with cognac in it. He turned into the Siaghines and strode rapidly downhill between the money changers’ stalls, past the Spanish church and the Galeries Lafayette. Ahead was the little square, the bright lights of the gasoline lamps in the cafés pouring into it from all four sides. It could be any hour of the day or night — the cafés would be open and crowded with men, the dull murmuring monotone of whose talking filled the entire zoco. But tonight the square was swept by the roaring wind. He climbed the steps to the deserted terrace and pushed inside, taking a seat by the window. The Tingis dominated the square; from it one could look down upon all the other cafés. Someone had left an almost full pack of Chesterfields on the table. He clapped his hands for the waiter, took off his raincoat. He was not very dry underneath it: a good deal of water had run down his neck, and below his knees he was soaked through.

The waiter arrived. Thami gave his order. Pointing at the cigarettes he said: «Yours?» The waiter looked vaguely around the café, his forehead wrinkled with confusion, and replied that he thought the table was occupied. At that moment a man came out of the washroom and walked toward Thami, who automatically started to rise in order to sit somewhere else. As the man reached the table he made several gestures indicating that Thami remain there. «That’s okay, that’s okay,» he was saying. «Stay where you are».

Thami had learned English as a boy when his father, who often had English people of rank staying at the house, had insisted he study it. Now he spoke it fairly well, if with a rather strong accent. He thanked the man, and accepted a cigarette. Then he said: «Are you English?» It was curious that the man should be in this part of the town at this hour, particularly with the weather the way it was.

«No. I’m American».

Appraisingly Thami looked at him and asked if he were from a boat: he was a little afraid the American was going to ask to be directed to a bordel, and he glanced about nervously to see if anyone he knew was in the café. One rumor he could not have circulating was that he had become a guide; in Tangier there was nothing lower.

The man laughed apologetically, saying: «Yeah, I guess you could say I’m from a boat. I just got off one, but if you mean do I work on one, no».

Thami was relieved. «You stay in a hotel?» he asked. The other said he did, looking a little bit on his guard, so that Thami did not ask him which hotel it was, as he had intended to do.

«How big is Tangier?» the man asked Thami. He did not know. «Are there many tourists now?» That he knew. «It’s very bad. No one comes any more since the war».

«Let’s have a drink,» the American said suddenly. «Hey, there!» He leaned backward, looking over his shoulder for the waiter. «You’ll have one, won’t you?» Thami assented.

He looked at Thami for the first time with a certain warmth. «No use sitting here like two bumps on a log. What’ll it be?» The waiter approached. Thami still had not decided what kind of man this was, what he could afford. «And you?» he asked.

«White Horse».

«Good,» said Thami, having no idea what this might be. «For me, too».

The two men looked at each other. It was the moment when they were ready to feel sympathy for one another, but the traditional formula of distrust made it necessary that a reason be found first.

«When have you come to Tangier?» asked Thami.

«Tonight».

«Tonight, for the first time?»

«That’s right».

Thami shook his head. «What a wonderful thing to be an American!» he said impetuously.

«Yes,» said Dyar automatically, never having given much thought to what it would be like not to be an American. It seemed somehow the natural thing to be.

The whiskey came; they drank it, Thami making a face. Dyar ordered another set-up, for which Thami halfheartedly offered to pay, quickly slipping his money back into his pocket at Dyar’s first «no».

«What a place, what a place,» said Dyar, shaking his head. Two men with black beards had just come in, their heads wrapped in large turkish towels; like all the others they were completely engrossed in unceasing and noisy conversation. «They sit here talking all night like this? What are they talking about? What is there to talk about so long?»

«What are people talking about in America?» said Thami, smiling at him.

«In a bar, usually politics. If they talk. Mostly they just drink».

«Here, everything: business, girls, politics, neighbors. Or what we are talking about now».

Dyar drained his glass. «And what are we talking about?» he demanded. «I’m damned if I know».

«About them». Thami laughed and made a wide gesture.

«You mean they’re talking about us?»

«Some, perhaps».

«Have fun, chums,» Dyar called loudly, turning his head toward the others. He looked down at his glass, had difficulty in getting it into clear focus. For a second he forgot where he was, saw only the empty glass, the same little glass that was always waiting to be refilled. His toe muscles were flexing, and that meant he was drunk. «Which is the nearest subway?» he thought. Then he stretched his legs out in front of him voluptuously and laughed. «Jesus!» he cried. «I’m glad to be here!» he looked around the dingy bar, heard the meaningless chatter, and felt a wave of doubt break over him, but he held firrn. «God knows where this is, but I’d rather be here than there!» he insisted. The sound of the words being spoken aloud made him feel more sure; leaning back, he looked up at the shadows moving on the high yellow ceiling. He did not see the badly dressed youth with the sly expression who came in the door and began to walk directly toward the table. «And I mean it, too,» he said, suddenly sitting upright and glaring at Thami, who looked startled.