Paul Bowles - The Sheltering Sky

A further complexity was brought to the situation by the fact that also she lived through still other days when vengeance from above seemed the remotest of possibilities. Every sign was good; an unearthly aura of beneficence glowed from behind each person, object and circumstance. On those days, if she permitted herself to act as she felt, Kit could be quite happy. But of late she had begun to believe that such days, which were rare enough, to be sure, were given her only to throw her off her guard, so that she would not be able to deal with her omens. A natural euphoria was then transformed into a nervous and slightly hysterical peevishness. In conversation repeatedly she would catch herself up, trying to pretend that her remarks had been made in willful jest, when actually they had been uttered with all the venom of which a foul humor is capable.

She was no more disturbed by other people as such, than the marble statue is by the flies that crawl on it; however, as possible harbingers of undesirable events and wielders of unfavorable influence in her own life, she accorded other people supreme importance. She would say: “Other people rule my life,” and it was true. But she allowed them to do it only because her superstitious fancy had invested them with magical importance regarding her own destiny, and never because their personalities awoke any profound sympathy or understanding in her.

A good part of the night she had lain awake, thinking. Her intuition generally let her know when Port was up to something. She told herself always that it did not matter what he did, but she had repeated the statement so often in her mind that long ago she had become suspicious of its truth. It had not been an easy thing to accept the fact that she did care. Against her will she forced herself to admit that she still belonged to Port, even though he did not come to claim her—and that she still lived in a world illumined by the distant light of a possible miracle: he might yet return to her. It made her feel abject, and therefore, of course, furious with herself to realize that everything depended on him, that she was merely waiting for some unlikely caprice on his part, something which might in some unforeseen manner bring him back. She was far too intelligent to make the slightest effort in that direction herself, even the subtlest means would have failed, and to fail would be far worse than never to have tried. It was merely a question of sitting tight, of being there. Perhaps some day he would see her. But in the meantime so many precious months were going past, unused!

Tunner annoyed her because although his presence and his interest in her provided a classical situation which, if exploited, actually might give results where nothing else could, she was for some reason incapable of playing up to him. He bored her; she involuntarily compared him with Port, and always to Port’s advantage. As she had been thinking in the night she had tried again and again to direct her fantasies in such a way as to make Tunner an object of excitement. Naturally this had been a failure. Nevertheless she had resolved to attempt the building of a more intimate relationship with him, despite the fact that even as she had made the decision she was quite aware that not only would it be a thoroughly unsavory chore for her, but also that she would be doing it, as she always did everything that required a conscious effort, for Port.

There was a knock at the door into the hall.

“Oh, God, who is it?” Kit said aloud.

“Me.” It was Tunner’s voice. As usual, he sounded offensively chipper. “Are you awake?”

She scrambled about in the bed, making a loud noise that mingled sighs, flapping sheet, and creaking bedspring. “Not very,” she groaned, at last.

“This is the best time of day. You shouldn’t miss it!” he shouted.

There was a pointed silence, during which she remembered her resolution. In a martyred voice she called: “Just a minute, Tunner.”

“Right!” A minute, an hour—he would wait, and show the same good-natured (and false, she thought) smile when he finally was let in. She dashed cold water into her face, rubbed it with a flimsy turkish towel, put on some lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. Suddenly frantic, she began to look about the room for the right bathrobe. Through the partially open door into Port’s room she caught sight of his big white terry-cloth robe hanging on the wall. She knocked rapidly on the door as she went in, saw that he was not there, and snatched up the robe. As she pulled the belt about her waist in front of her mirror she reflected with satisfaction that no one ever could accuse her of coquetry in having chosen this particular garment. It came to the floor on her, and she had to roll the sleeves back twice to uncover her hands.

She opened the door.

“Hi”

There was the smile.

“Hello, Tunner,” she said apathetically. “Come in.”

He rumpled her hair with his left hand as he walked past her on his way to the window, where he pulled the curtains aside. “You holding a séance in here? Ah, now I can see you.” The sharp morning light filled the room, the polished floor-tiles reflecting the sun on the ceiling as if they had been water.

“How are you?” she said vacantly as she stood beside the mirror again, combing her hair where he had tousled it.

“Wonderful.” He beamed at her image in the mirror, making his eyes sparkle, and even, she noted with great distaste, moving a certain facial muscle that emphasized the dimples in his cheeks. “He’s such a fake,” she thought. “What in God’s name’s he doing here with us? Of course, it’s Port’s fault. He’s the one who encouraged him to drag along.”

“What happened to Port last night?” Tunner was saying. “I sort of waited up for him, but he didn’t show up.”

Kit looked at him. “Waited for up him?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Well, we more or less had a date at our café, you know the one. For a nightcap. But no hide, no hair. I got in bed and read until pretty late. He hadn’t come in by three.” This was completely false. Actually Tunner had said: “If you go out, look into the Eckmühl; I’ll probably be in there.” He had gone out shortly after Port, had picked up a French girl and stayed with her at her hotel until five. When he had come back at dawn he had managed to look through the low glass transoms into their rooms, and had seen the empty bed in one and Kit asleep in the other.

“Really?” she said, turning back to the mirror. “He can’t have had much sleep, then, because he’s already gone out.”

“You mean he hasn’t come in yet,” said Tunner, staring at her intently.

She did not answer. “Will you push that button there, please?” she said presently. “I think I’ll have a cup of their chicory and one of those plaster croissants.”

When she thought enough time had passed, she wandered into Port’s room and glanced at the bed. It had been turned down for the night and not touched since. Without knowing precisely why, she pulled the sheet all the way down and sat on the bed for a moment, pushing dents in the pillows with her hands. Then she unfolded the laid-out pajamas and dropped them in a heap at the foot. The servant knocked at her door; she went back into her room and ordered breakfast. When the servant had left she shut the door and sat in the armchair by the window, not looking out.

“You know,” Tunner said musingly, “I’ve thought a lot about it lately. You’re a very curious person. It’s hard to understand you.”

Kit clicked her tongue with exasperation. “Oh, Tunner! Stop trying to be interesting.” Immediately she blamed herself for showing her impatience, and added, smiling: “On you it looks terrible.”

His hurt expression quickly changed into a grin. “No, I mean it. You’re a fascinating case.”