Paul Bowles - The Sheltering Sky

And so she stood unmoving, always shivering, holding herself very erect. When the train slowed down and came to a stop, the lion-faced man was gone. She got off and hurried through the rain, back toward the end of the train. As she climbed into the second-class carriage, she remembered that he had stepped aside like any normal man, to let her pass. She began to laugh to herself, quietly. Then she stood still. There were people in the corridor, talking. She turned and went back to the toilet, locked herself in, and began to make up by the flickering lantern overhead, looking into the small oval mirror above the washstand. She was still trembling with cold, and water ran down her legs onto the floor. When she felt she could face Tunner again, she went out, down the corridor, and crossed over into the first-class coach. The door of their compartment was open. Tunner was staring moodily out the window. He turned as she went in, and jumped up.

“My God, Kit! Where have you been?”

“In the fourth-class carriage.” She was shaking violently, so that it was impossible for her to sound nonchalant, as she had intended.

“But look at you! Come in here.” His voice was suddenly very serious. He pulled her firmly into the compartment, shut the door, helped her to sit down, and immediately began to go through his luggage, taking things out and laying them on the seat. She watched him in a stupor. Presently he was holding two aspirin tablets and a plastic cup in front of her face. “Take these,” he commanded. The cup contained champagne. She did as she was told. Then he indicated the flannel bathrobe on the seat across from her. “I’m going out into the passageway here, and I want you to take off every stitch you have on, and put on that. Then you rap on the door and I’ll come in and massage your feet. No excuses, now. Just do it.” He went out and rolled the door shut after him.

She pulled down the shades at the outside windows and did as he had told her. The robe was soft and warm; she sat huddled in it on the seat for a while, her legs drawn up under her. And she poured herself three more cups of champagne, drinking them quickly one after the other. Then she tapped softly on the glass. The door opened a little. “All clear?” said Tunner.

“Yes, yes. Come in.”

He sat down opposite her. “Now, stick your foot out here. I’m going to give them an alcohol rub. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you crazy? Want to get pneumonia? What happened? Why were you so long? You had me nuts here, running up and down the place, in and out of cars asking everybody if they’d seen you. I didn’t know where the hell you’d gone to.”

“I told you I was in the fourth-class with the natives. I couldn’t get back because there’s no bridge between the cars. That feels wonderful. You’ll wear yourself out.”

He laughed, and rubbed more vigorously. “Never have yet.”

When she was completely warm and comfortable he reached up and turned the lantern’s wick very low. Then he moved across and sat beside her. The arm went around her, the pressure began again. She could think of nothing to say to stop him.

“You all right?” he asked softly, his voice husky.

“Yes,” she said.

A minute later she whispered nervously: “No, no, no! Someone may open the door.”

“No one’s going to open the door.” He kissed her. Over and over in her head she heard the slow wheels on the rails saying: “Not now not now, not now not now . . .” And underneath she imagined the deep chasms in the rain, swollen with water. She reached up and caressed the back of his head, but she said nothing.

“Darling,” he murmured. “Just be still. Rest.”

She could no longer think, nor were there any more images in her head. She was aware only of the softness of the woolen bathrobe next to her skin, and then of the nearness and warmth of a being that did not frighten her. The rain beat against the window panes.

The roof of the hotel in the early morning, before the sun had come from behind the nearby mountainside, was a pleasant place for breakfast. The tables were set out along the edge of the terrace, overlooking the valley. In the gardens below, the fig trees and high stalks of papyrus moved slightly in the fresh morning wind. Farther down were the larger trees where the storks had made their huge nests, and at the bottom of the slope was the river, running with thick red water. Port sat drinking his coffee, enjoying the rain-washed smell of the mountain air. just below, the storks were teaching their young to fly; the ratchet-like croaking of the older birds was mingled with shrill cries from the fluttering young ones.

As he watched, Mrs. Lyle came through the doorway from downstairs. It seemed to him that she looked unusually distraught. He invited her to sit with him, and she ordered her tea from an old Arab waiter in a shoddy rose-colored uniform.

“Gracious! Aren’t we ever picturesque!” she said.

Port called her attention to the birds; they watched them until her tea was brought.

“Tell me, has your wife arrived safely?”

“Yes, but I haven’t seen her. She’s still asleep.”

“I should think so, after that damnable trip.”

“And your son. Still in bed?”

“Good heavens, no! He’s gone off somewhere, to see some caïd or other. That boy has letters of introduction to Arabs in every town of North Africa, I expect.” She became pensive. After a moment she said, looking at him sharply: “I do hope you don’t go near them.”

“Arabs, you mean? I don’t know any personally. But it’s rather hard not to go near them, since they’re all over the place.”

“Oh, I’m talking about social contact with them. Eric’s an absolute fool. He wouldn’t be ill today if it hadn’t been for those filthy people.”

“Ill? He looks well enough to me. What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s very ill.” Her voice sounded distant; she looked down toward the river. Then she poured herself some more tea, and offered Port a biscuit from a tin she had brought upstairs with her. Her voice more definite, she continued. “They’re all contaminated, you know, of course. Well, that’s it. And I’ve been having the most beastly time trying to make him get proper treatment. He’s a young idiot.”

“I don’t think I quite understand,” said Port.

“An infection, an infection,” she said impatiently. “Some filthy swine of an Arab woman,” she added, with astonishing violence.

“Ah,” said Port, noncommittal.

Now she sounded less sure of herself. “I’ve been told that such infections can even be transmitted among men directly. Do you believe that, Mr. Moresby?”

“I really don’t know,” he answered, looking at her in some surprise. “There’s so much uninformed talk about such things. I should think a doctor would know best.”

She passed him another biscuit. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to discuss it. You must forgive me.”

“Oh, I have no objection at all,” he protested. “But I’m not a doctor. You understand.”

She seemed not to have heard him. “It’s disgusting. You’re quite right.”

Half of the sun was peering from behind the rim of the mountain; in another minute it would be hot. “Here’s the sun,” said Port. Mrs. Lyle gathered her things together.

“Shall you be staying long in Boussif?” she asked.

“We have no plans at all. And you?”

“Oh, Eric has some mad itinerary worked out. I believe we go on to Aïn Krorfa tomorrow morning, unless he decides to leave this noon and spend the night in Sfissifa. There’s supposed to be a fairly decent little hotel there. Nothing so grand as this, of course.”

Port looked around at the battered tables and chairs, and smiled. “I don’t think I’d want anything much less grand than this.”