by Paul Bowles
“What?” He laid down his book. “Don’t tell me you’re interested in going!”
“No.” She sounded doubtful. “I just wondered.”
“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a film in Arabic called Fiancée for Rent. That’s what it says under the title.”
“It’s unbelievable.”
“I know.”
She wandered into the room, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette, and walked about in a circle for a minute or so. He looked up.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She paused. “I’m just a little upset. I don’t think you should have told that dream in front of Tunner.”
He did not dare say: “Is that why you cried?” But he said: “In front of him! I told it to him, as much as to you. What’s a dream? Good God, don’t take everything so seriously! And why shouldn’t he hear it? What’s wrong with Tunner? We’ve known him for five years.”
“He’s such a gossip. You know that. I don’t trust him. He always makes a good story.”
“But who’s he going to gossip with here?” said Port, exasperated.
Kit in turn was annoyed.
“Oh, not here!” she snapped. “You seem to forget we’ll be back in New York some day.”
“I know, I know. It’s hard to believe, but I suppose we will. All right. What’s so awful if he remembers every detail and tells it to everybody we know?”
“It’s such a humiliating dream. Can’t you see?”
“Oh, crap!”
There was a silence.
“Humiliating to whom? You or me?”
She did not answer. He pursued: “What do you mean, you don’t trust Tunner? In what way?”
“Oh, I trust him, I suppose. But I’ve never felt completely at ease with him. I’ve never felt he was a close friend.”
“That’s nice, now that we’re here with him!”
“Oh, it’s all right. I like him very much. Don’t misunderstand.”
“But you must mean something.”
“Of course I mean something. But it’s not important.”
She went back into her own room. He remained a moment, looking at the ceiling, a puzzled expression on his face.
He started to read again, and stopped.
“Sure you don’t want to see Fiancée for Rent?”
“I certainly don’t.”
He closed his book. “I think I’ll take a walk for about a half an hour.”
He rose, put on a sports shirt and a pair of seersucker trousers, and combed his hair. In her room, she was sitting by the open window, filing her nails. He bent over her and kissed the nape of her neck, where the silky blonde hair climbed upward in wavy furrows.
“That’s wonderful stuff you have on. Did you get it here?” He sniffed noisily, with appreciation. Then his voice changed when he said: “But what did you mean about Tunner?”
“Oh, Port! For God’s sake, stop talking about it!”
“All right, baby,” he said submissively, kissing her shoulder. And with an inflection of mock innocence: “Can’t I even think about it?”
She said nothing until he got to the door. Then she raised her head, and there was pique in her voice: “After all, it’s much more your business than it is mine.”
“See you soon,” he said.
Chapter IV
HE WALKED THROUGH the streets, unthinkingly seeking the darker ones, glad to be alone and to feel the night air against his face. The streets were crowded. People pushed against him as they passed, stared from doorways and windows, made comments openly to each other about him—whether with sympathy or not he was unable to tell from their faces—and they sometimes ceased to walk merely in order to watch him.
“How friendly are they? Their faces are masks. They all look a thousand years old. What little energy they have is only the blind, mass desire to live, since no one of them eats enough to give him his own personal force. But what do they think of me? Probably nothing. Would one of them help me if I were to have an accident? Or would I lie here in the street until the police found me? What motive could any one of them have for helping me? They have no religion left. Are they Moslems or Christians? They don’t know. They know money, and when they get it, all they want is to eat. But what’s wrong with that? Why do I feel this way about them? Guilt at being well fed and healthy among them? But suffering is equally divided among all men; each has the same amount to undergo. . . .” Emotionally he felt that this last idea was untrue, but at the moment it was a necessary belief: it is not always easy to support the stares of hungry people. Thinking that way he could walk on through the streets. It was as if either he or they did not exist. Both suppositions were possible. The Spanish maid at the hotel had said to him that noon: “La vida es pena.” “Of course,” he had replied, feeling false even as he spoke, asking himself if any American can truthfully accept a definition of life which makes it synonymous with suffering. But at the moment he had approved her sentiment because she was old, withered, so clearly of the people. For years it had been one of his superstitions that reality and true perception were to be found in the conversation of the laboring classes. Even though now he saw clearly that their formulas of thought and speech are as strict and as patterned, and thus as far removed from any profound expression of truth as those of any other class, often he found himself still in the act of waiting, with the unreasoning belief that gems of wisdom might yet issue from their mouths. As he walked along, his nervousness was made manifest to him by the sudden consciousness that he was repeatedly tracing rapid figure-eights with his right index finger. He sighed and made himself stop doing it.
His spirits rose a bit as he came out onto a square that was relatively brightly lighted. The cafés on all four sides of the little plaza had put tables and chairs not only across the sidewalks, but in the street as well, so that it would have been impossible for a vehicle to pass through without upsetting them. In the center of the square was a tiny park adorned by four plane trees that had been trimmed to look like open parasols. Underneath the trees there were at least a dozen dogs of various sizes, milling about in a close huddle, and all barking frantically. He made his way slowly across the square, trying to avoid the dogs. As he moved along cautiously under the trees he became aware that at each step he was crushing something beneath his feet. The ground was covered with large insects; their hard shells broke with little explosions that were quite audible to him even amidst the noise the dogs were making. He was aware that ordinarily he would have experienced a thrill of disgust on contact with such a phenomenon, but unreasonably tonight he felt instead a childish triumph. “I’m in a bad way and so what?” The few scattered people sitting at the tables were for the most part silent, but when they spoke, he heard all three of the town’s tongues: Arabic, Spanish and French.
Slowly the street began to descend; this surprised him because he imagined that the entire town was built on the slope facing the harbor, and he had consciously chosen to walk inland rather than toward the waterfront. The odors in the air grew ever stronger. They were varied, but they all represented filth of one sort or another. This proximity with, as it were, a forbidden element, served to elate him. He abandoned himself to the perverse pleasure he found in continuing mechanically to put one foot in front of the other, even though he was quite clearly aware of his fatigue. “Suddenly I’ll find myself turning around and going back,” he thought. But not until then, because he would not make the decision to do it. The impulse to retrace his steps delayed itself from moment to moment. Finally he ceased being surprised: a faint vision began to haunt his mind. It was Kit, seated by the open window, filing her nails and looking out over the town. And as he found his fancy returning more often, as the minutes went by, to that scene, unconsciously he felt himself the protagonist, Kit the spectator. The validity of his existence at that moment was predicated on the assumption that she had not moved, but was still sitting there. It was as if she could still see him from the window, tiny and far away a
s he was, walking rhythmically uphill and down, through light and shadow; it was as if only she knew when he would turn around and walk the other way.
The street lights were very far apart now, and the streets had left off being paved. Still there were children in the gutters, playing with the garbage and screeching. A small stone suddenly hit him in the back. He wheeled about, but it was too dark to see where it had come from. A few seconds later another stone, coming from in front of him, landed against his knee. In the dim light, he saw a group of small children scattering before him. More stones came from the other direction, this time without hitting him. When he got beyond, to a point where there was a light, he stopped and tried to watch the two groups in battle, but they all ran off into the dark, and so he started up again, his gait as mechanical and rhythmical as before. A wind that was dry and warm, coming up the street out of the blackness before him, met him head on. He sniffed at the fragments of mystery in it, and again he felt an unaccustomed exaltation.
Even though the street became constantly less urban, it seemed reluctant to give up; huts continued to line it on both sides. Beyond a certain point there were no more lights, and the dwellings themselves lay in darkness. The wind, straight from the south, blew across the barren mountains that were invisible ahead of him, over the vast flat sebkha to the edges of the town, raising curtains of dust that climbed to the crest of the hill and lost themselves in the air above the harbor. He stood still. The last possible suburb had been strung on the street’s thread. Beyond the final hut the garbage and rubble floor of the road sloped abruptly downward in three directions. In the dimness below were shallow, crooked canyon-like formations. Port raised his eyes to the sky: the powdery course of the Milky Way was like a giant rift across the heavens that let the faint white light through. In the distance he heard a motorcycle. When its sound was finally gone, there was nothing to hear but an occasional cockcrow, like the highest part of a repeated melody whose other notes were inaudible.
He started down the bank to the right, sliding among the fish skeletons and dust. Once below, he felt out a rock that seemed clean and sat down on it. The stench was overpowering. He lit a match, saw the ground thick with chicken feathers and decayed melon rinds. As he rose to his feet he heard steps above him at the end of the street. A figure stood at the top of the embankment. It did not speak, yet Port was certain that it had seen him, had followed him, and knew he was sitting down there. It lit a cigarette, and for a moment he saw an Arab wearing a chechia on his head. The match, thrown into the air, made a fading parabola, the face disappeared, and only the red point of the cigarette remained. The cock crowed several times. Finally the man cried out.
“Qu’est-ce ti cherches là?”
“Here’s where the trouble begins,” thought Port. He did not move.
The Arab waited a bit. He walked to the very edge of the slope. A dislodged tin can rolled noisily down toward the rock where Port sat.
“Hé! M’sieu! Qu’est-ce ti vo?”
He decided to answer. His French was good.
“Who? Me? Nothing.”
The Arab bounded down the bank and stood in front of him. With the characteristic impatient, almost indignant gestures he pursued his inquisition. What are you doing here all alone? Where do you come from? What do you want here? Are you looking for something? To which Port answered wearily: Nothing. That way. Nothing. No.
For a moment the Arab was silent, trying to decide what direction to give the dialogue. He drew violently on his cigarette several times until it glowed very bright, then he flicked it away and exhaled the smoke.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he said.
“What? A walk? Where?”
“Out there.” His arm waved toward the mountains.
“What’s out there?”
“Nothing.”
There was another silence between them.
“I’ll pay you a drink,” said the Arab. And immediately on that: “What’s your name?”
“Jean,” said Port.
The Arab repeated the name twice, as if considering its merits. “Me,” tapping his chest, “Smaïl. So, do we go and drink?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t feel like it. What do you feel like doing?”
“Nothing.”
All at once the conversation began again from the beginning. Only the now truly outraged inflection of the Arab’s voice marked any difference: “Que’est-ce ti fi là? Qu’est-ce ti cherches?” Port rose and started to climb up the slope, but it was difficult going. He kept sliding back down. At once the Arab was beside him, tugging at his arm. “Where are you going, Jean?” Without answering Port made a great effort and gained the top. “Au revoir,” he called, walking quickly up the middle of the street. He heard a desperate scrambling behind him; a moment later the man was at his side.
“You didn’t wait for me,” he said in an aggrieved tone.
“No. I said good-bye.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Port did not answer. They walked a good distance in silence. When they came to the first street light, the Arab reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn wallet. Port glanced at it and continued to walk.
“Look!” cried the Arab, waving it in his face. Port did not look.
“What is it?” he said flatly.
“I was in the Fifth Battalion of Sharpshooters. Look at the paper! Look! You’ll see!”
Port walked faster. Soon there began to be people in the street. No one stared at them. One would have said that the presence of the Arab beside him made him invisible. But now he was no longer sure of the way. It would never do to let this be seen. He continued to walk straight ahead as if there were no doubt in his mind. “Over the crest of the hill and down,” he said to himself, “and I can’t miss it.”
Everything looked unfamiliar: the houses, the streets, the cafés, even the formation of the town with regard to the hill. Instead of finding a summit from which to begin the downward walk, he discovered that here the streets all led perceptibly upward, no matter which way he turned; to descend he would have had to go back. The Arab walked solemnly along with him, now beside him, now slipping behind when there was not enough room to walk two abreast. He no longer made attempts at conversation; Port noticed with relish that he was a little out of breath.
“I can keep this up all night if I have to,” he thought, “but how the hell will I get to the hotel?”
All at once they were in a street which was no more than a passageway. Above their heads the opposite walls jutted out to within a few inches of each other. For an instant Port hesitated: this was not the kind of street he wanted to walk in, and besides, it so obviously did not lead to the hotel. In that short moment the Arab took charge. He said: “You don’t know this street? It’s called Rue de la Mer Rouge. You know it? Come on. There are cafés arabes up this way. Just a little way. Come on.”
Port considered. He wanted at all costs to keep up the pretense of being familiar with the town.
“Je ne sais pas si je veux y aller ce soir,” he reflected, aloud.
The Arab began to pull Port’s sleeve in his excitement. “Si, si!” he cried. “Viens! I’ll pay you a drink.”
“I don’t drink. It’s very late.”
Two cats nearby screamed at each other. The Arab made a hissing noise and stamped his feet; they ran off in opposite directions.
“We’ll have tea, then,” he pursued.
Port sighed. “Bien,” he said.
The café had a complicated entrance. They went through a low arched door, down a dim hall into a small garden. The air reeked of lilies, and it was also tinged with the sour smell of drains. In the dark they crossed the garden and climbed a long flight of stone steps. The staccato sound of a hand drum came from above, tapping indolent patterns above a sea of voices.
“Do we sit outside or in?” the Arab asked.
“Outside,”
said Port. He sniffed the invigorating smell of hashish smoke, and unconsciously smoothed his hair as they arrived at the top of the stairs. The Arab noticed even that small gesture. “No ladies here, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
Through a doorway he caught a glimpse of the long succession of tiny, brightly-lit rooms, and the men seated everywhere on the reed matting that covered the floors. They all wore either white turbans or red chechias on their heads, a detail which lent the scene such a strong aspect of homogeneity that Port exclaimed: “Ah!” as they passed by the door. When they were on the terrace in the starlight, with an oud being plucked idly in the dark nearby, he said to his companion: “But I didn’t know there was anything like this left in this city.” The Arab did not understand. “Like this?” he echoed. “How?”
“With nothing but Arabs. Like the inside here. I thought all the cafés were like the ones in the street, all mixed up; Jews, French, Spanish, Arabs together. I thought the war had changed everything.”
The Arab laughed. “The war was bad. A lot of people died. There was nothing to eat. That’s all. How would that change the cafés? Oh no, my friend. It’s the same as always.” A moment later he said: “So you haven’t been here since the war! But you were here before the war?”
“Yes,” said Port. This was true; he had once spent an afternoon in the town when his boat had made a brief call there.
The tea arrived; they chatted and drank it. Slowly the image of Kit sitting in the window began to take shape again in Port’s mind. At first, when he became conscious of it, he felt a pang of guilt. Then his fantasy took a hand, and he saw her face, tightlipped with fury as she undressed and flung her flimsy pieces of clothing across the furniture. By now she had surely given up waiting and gone to bed. He shrugged his shoulders and grew pensive, rinsing what was left of his tea around and around in the bottom of the glass, and following with his eyes the circular motion he was making.
“You’re sad,” said Smaïl.
“No, no.” He looked up and smiled wistfully, then resumed watching the glass.
