Paul Bowles - The Sheltering Sky

And yet, deeper than the empty region which was her consciousness, in an obscure and innermost part of her mind, an idea must already have been in gestation, since when in the late afternoon Tunner came again and hammered on the door, she got up, and standing with her hand on the knob, spoke: “Is that you, Tunner?”

“For God’s sake, where were you this morning?” he cried.

“I’ll see you tonight about eight in the garden,” she said, speaking as low as possible.

“Is he all right?”

“Yes. He’s the same.”

“Good. See you at eight.” He went away.

She glanced at her watch: it was quarter of five. Going to her overnight bag, she set to work removing all the fittings; one by one, brushes, bottles and manicuring implements were laid on the floor. With an air of extreme preoccupation she emptied her other valises, choosing here and there a garment or object which she carefully packed into the small bag. Occasionally she stopped moving and listened: the only sound she could hear was her own measured breathing. Each time she listened she seemed reassured, straightway resuming her deliberate movements. In the flaps at the sides of the bag she put her passport, her express checks and what money she had. Soon she went to Port’s luggage and searched awhile among the clothing there, returning to her little case with a good many more thousand-franc notes which she stuffed in wherever she could.

The packing of the bag took nearly an hour. When she had finished, she closed it, spun the combination lock, and went to the door. She hesitated a second before turning the key. The door open, the key in her hand, she stepped out into the courtyard with the bag and locked the door after her. She went to the kitchen, where she found the boy who tended the lamps sitting in a corner smoking.

“Can you do an errand for me?” she said.

He jumped to his feet smiling. She handed him the bag and told him to take it to Daoud Zozeph’s shop and leave it, saying it was from the American lady.

Back in the room she again locked the door behind her and went over to the little window. With a single motion she ripped away the sheet that covered it. The wall outside was turning pink as the sun dropped lower in the sky; the pinkness filled the room. During all the time she had been moving about packing she had not once glanced downward at the corner. Now she knelt and looked closely at Port’s face as if she had never seen it before. Scarcely touching the skin, she moved her hand along the forehead with infinite delicacy. She bent over further and placed her lips on the smooth brow. For a while she remained thus. The room grew red. Softly she laid her cheek on the pillow and stroked his hair. No tears flowed; it was a silent leave-taking. A strangely intense buzzing in front of her made her open her eyes. She watched fascinated while two flies made their brief, frantic love on his lower lip.

Then she rose, put on her coat, took the burnous which Tunner had left with her, and without looking back went out the door. She locked it behind her and put the key into her handbag. At the big gate the guard made as if to stop her. She said good evening to him and pushed by. Immediately afterward she heard him call to another in an inner room nearby. She breathed deeply and walked ahead, down toward the town. The sun had set; the earth was like a single ember alone on the hearth, rapidly cooling and growing black. A drum beat in the oasis. There would probably be dancing in the gardens later. The season of feasts had begun. Quickly she descended the hill and went straight to Daoud Zozeph’s shop without once looking around.

She went in. Daoud Zozeph stood behind the counter in the fading light. He reached across and shook her hand.

“Good evening, madame.”

“Good evening.”

“Your valise is here. Shall I call a boy to carry it for you?”

“No, no,” she said. “At least, not now. I came to talk to you.” She glanced around at the doorway behind her; he did not notice.

“I am delighted,” he said. “One moment. I shall get you a chair, madame.” He brought a small folding chair around from behind the counter and placed it beside her.

“Thank you,” she said, but she remained standing. “I wanted to ask you about trucks leaving Sba.”

“Ah, for El Ga’a. We have no regular service. One came last night and left again this afternoon. We never know when the next will come. But Captain Broussard is always notified at least a day in advance. He could tell you better than anyone else.”

“Captain Broussard. Ah, I see.”

“And your husband. Is he better? Did he enjoy the milk?”

“The milk. Yes, he enjoyed it,” she said slowly, wondering a little that the words could sound so natural.

“I hope he will soon be well.”

“He is already well.”

“Ah, hamdoul’lah!”

“Yes.” And starting afresh, she said: “Monsieur Daoud Zozeph, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Your favor is granted, madame,” he said gallantly. She felt that he had bowed in the darkness.

“A great favor,” she warned.

Daoud Zozeph, thinking that perhaps she wanted to borrow money, began to rattle objects on the counter, saying: “But we are talking in the dark. Wait. I shall light a lamp.”

“No! Please!” exclaimed Kit.

“But we don’t see each other!” he protested.

She put her hand on his arm. “I know, but don’t light the lamp, please. I want to ask you this favor immediately. May I spend the night with you and your wife?”

Daoud Zozeph was completely taken aback—both astonished and relieved. “Tonight?” he said.

“Yes.”

There was a short silence.

“You understand, madame, we should be honored to have you in our house. But you would not be comfortable. You know, a house of poor people is not like a hotel or a poste militaire. . . .”

“But since I ask you,” she said reproachfully, “that means I don’t care. You think that matters to me? I have been sleeping on the floor here in Sba.”

“Ah, that you would not have to do in my house,” said Daoud Zozeph energetically.

“But I should be delighted to sleep on the floor. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, no! No, madame! Not on the floor! Quand même!” he objected. And as he struck a match to light the lamp, she touched his arm again.

“Écoutez, monsieur,” she said, her voice sinking to a conspiratorial whisper, “my husband is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find me. We have had a misunderstanding. I don’t want to see him tonight. It’s very simple. I think your wife would understand.”

Daoud Zozeph laughed. “Of course! Of course!” Still laughing, he closed the door into the street, bolted it, and struck a match, holding it high in the air. Lighting matches all the way, he led her through a dark inner room and across a small court. The stars were above. He paused in front of a door. “You can sleep here.” He opened the door and stepped inside. Again a match flared: she saw a tiny room in disorder, its sagging iron bed covered with a mattress that vomited excelsior.

“This is not your room, I hope?” she ventured, as the match went out.

“Ah, no! We have another bed in our room, my wife and I,” he answered, a note of pride in his voice. “This is where my brother sleeps when he comes from Colomb-Béchar. Once a year he visits me for a month, sometimes longer. Wait. I shall bring a lamp.” He went off, and she heard him talking in another room. Presently he returned with an oil lamp and a small tin pail of water.

With the arrival of the light, the room took on an even more piteous aspect. She had the feeling that the floor had never yet been swept since the day the mason had finished piling the mud on the walls, the ubiquitous mud that dried, crumbled, and fell in a fine powder day and night. . . . She glanced up at him and smiled.