by Paul Bowles
“Do we!” cried Dyar, with rather more animation than was altogether civil. Immediately he felt apologetic and began to stammer his thanks and excuses.
“Rush downstairs, darling. Don’t stop to say good night. Hurry! I’ll call you tomorrow at the office. I have something to talk to you about.”
He said good night, ran down the stairs, meeting the Marqués on the way.
“Jack is waiting for you outside. Good night, old boy,” said the Marqués, continuing to climb. When he reached the top of the stairs, Daisy was blowing out the candles along the wall. “Estamos salvados,” she said, without looking up. “Qué gentuza más aburrida,” sighed the Marqués.
She continued methodically, holding her hand carefully behind each flame as she blew on it. She had the feeling her evening had somehow gone all wrong, but at what point it had begun to do that she could not tell.
The malevolent wind struck out at them as they fought their way to the taxi. They crawled under one end of the great branch that lay diagonally across the road. The driver had some difficulty turning the car; at one point he backed into a wall and cursed. When they were on their way, going slowly down the dark mountain road, Wilcox said: “Well, did you see the bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen everything. You can go back to New York. Tangier holds no secrets for you now.”
Dyar laughed uneasily. After a pause he said: “What’s up tomorrow? Do I come around to the agency?”
Wilcox was lighting a cigarette. “You might drop in sometime during the late afternoon, yes.”
His heart sank. Then he was angry. “He knows damned well I want to start work. Playing cat and mouse.” He said nothing.
When they arrived in the town, Wilcox called “Atlantide.” The cab turned right, climbed a crooked street, and stopped before a large doorway. “Here’s fifty pesetas,” said Wilcox, pressing some notes into his hand. “My share.”
“Fine,” said Dyar. “Thanks.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The driver looked expectantly back. “Just wait a minute,” said Dyar, gesturing. He could still see Wilcox in the lobby. When he had gone out of sight, Dyar paid the man, got out, and started to walk downhill, the rain at his back. The street was deserted. He felt pleasantly drunk, and not at all sleepy. As he walked along he muttered: “Late afternoon. Drop in, do. Charmed, I’m sure. Lovely weather.” He came to a square where a line of cabs waited. Even in the storm, at this hour, the men spied him. “Hey, come! Taxi, Johnny?” He disregarded them and cut into a narrow passageway. It was like walking down the bed of a swiftly running brook; the water came almost to the tops of his shoes, sometimes above. He bent down and rolled up his trousers, continued to walk. His thoughts took another course. Soon he was chuckling to himself, and once he said aloud: “Golden apples, my ass!”
III
Thami was furious with his wife: she had a nosebleed and was letting it drip all over the patio. He had told her to get a wet rag and try to stanch it with that, but she was frightened and seemed not to hear him; she merely kept walking back and forth in the patio with her head bent over. There was an oil lamp flickering just inside the door, and from where he lay on his mattress he could see her hennaed feet with their heavy anklets shuffle by every so often in front of him. Rain fell intermittently, but she did not seem to notice it.
That was the worst part of being married, unless one had money,—a man could never be alone in his own house; there was always female flesh in front of him, and when he had had enough of it he did not want to be continually reminded of it. “Yah latif!” he yelled. “At least shut the door!” In the next room the baby started to cry. Thami waited a moment to see what Kinza was going to do. She neither closed the door nor went to comfort her son. “Go and see what he wants!” he roared. Then he groaned: “Al-lah!” and put a cushion over his abdomen, locking his hands on top of it, in the hope of having an after-dinner nap. If it were not for his son, he reflected, he would send her back where she belonged, to her family in the Rif. That might pave the way, at least, to his being taken back by his brothers and permitted to live with them again.
He had never considered it just of Abdelmalek and Hassan to have taken it upon themselves to put him out of the house. Being younger than they, he had of course to accept their dictum. But certainly he had not accepted it with good grace. It was typical of him to consider that they had acted out of sheer spite, and he behaved accordingly. He committed the unpardonable offence of speaking against them to others, dwelling upon their miserliness and their lecherousness; this trait had gradually estranged him from practically all his childhood friends. Everyone knew he drank and had done so since the age of fifteen, and although that was generally considered in the upper-class Moslem world of Tangier sufficient grounds for his having been asked to leave the Beidaoui residence, still, in itself it would not have turned his friends against him. The trouble was that Thami had a genius for doing the wrong thing; it was as if he took a perverse and bitter delight in cutting himself off from all he had ever known, in making himself utterly miserable. His senseless marriage with an illiterate mountain girl,—surely he had done that only in a spirit of revenge against his brothers. He must certainly have been mocking them when he rented the squalid little house in Emsallah, where only labourers and servants lived. Not only did he take alcohol, but he had recently begun to do it publicly, on the terraces of the cafés in the Zoco Chico. His brothers had even heard, although how much truth lay in the report they did not know, that he had been seen going on numerous trips by train to Casablanca, an activity which usually meant only one thing: smuggling of one sort or another.
Thami’s friends now were of recent cultivation, and the relationships between him and them not particularly profound ones. Two were professors at the Lycée Français, ardent nationalists who never missed an opportunity during a conversation to excoriate the French, and threw about terms like “imperialist domination”, “Pan-Islamic culture” and “autonomy”. Their violence and resentment against the abuses of an unjust authority struck a sympathetic chord in him; he felt like one of them without really understanding what they were talking about. It was they who had given him the idea of making the frequent trips to the French Zone and (for it was perfectly true: he had been engaging in petty smuggling) carrying through with him fountain-pens and wrist-watches to sell there at a good profit. Every franc out of which the French customs could be cheated, they argued, was another nail in the French economic coffin; in the end the followers of Lyautey would be forced to abandon Morocco. There were also the extra thousands of francs which it was agreeable to have in his wallet at the end of such a journey.
Another friend was a functionary in the Municipalité. He too approved of smuggling, but on moral grounds, because it was important to insist on the oneness of Morocco, to refuse to accept the three zones into which the Europeans had arbitrarily divided it. The important point with regard to Europeans, he claimed, was to sow chaos within their institutions and confuse them with seemingly irrational behaviour. As to the Moslems, they must be made conscious of their shame and suffering. He frequently visited his family in Rabat, always carrying with him a large bunch of bananas, which were a good deal cheaper in Tangier. When the train arrived at Souk el Arba the customs officers would pounce on the fruit, whereupon he would begin to shout in as loud a voice as possible that he was taking the bananas to his sick child. The officers, taking note of the growing interest in the scene on the part of the other native passengers, would lower their voices and try to keep the altercation as private and friendly as they could. He, speaking excellent French, would be polite in his language but noisy in his protest, and if it looked at any point as though the inspectors might be going to placate him and let the bananas by, he would slip into his speech some tiny expression of defiant insult, imperceptible to the other passengers but certain to throw the Frenchmen into a fury. They would demand that he give up the b
ananas then and there. At this point he would appear to be making a sudden decision, he would pick up the bunch by the stem and break the fruit off one by one, calling to the fourth-class passengers, mostly simple Berbers, to come and eat, saying sadly that since his sick son was not to have the bananas he wanted to give them to his countrymen. Thus forty or fifty white-robed men would be crouching along the platform munching on bananas, shaking their heads with pity for the father of the sick boy, and turning their wide accusing eyes toward the Frenchmen. The only trouble was that the number of customs inspectors was rather limited. They all had fallen into the trap again and again, but now they remembered the functionary only too well, and the last time he had gone through they had steadfastly refused to notice the bananas at all. When Thami heard this he said: “So you went through to Rabat with them?” “Yes,” said the other a little dejectedly. “That’s wonderful,” said Thami with enthusiasm. The functionary looked at him. “Of course!” Thami cried. “You broke the law. They knew it. They didn’t dare do anything. You’ve won.” “I suppose that’s true,” said the other after a moment, but he was not sure Thami understood what it was all about.
Thami opened his eyes. It was five minutes later, although he thought it was an hour or more. She had taken the lamp; the room was in darkness. The patio door was open, and through it he could hear the splatter of rain on the tiles. Then he realized that the baby was still crying, wearily, pitifully. “Inaal din——” he said savagely under his breath. He jumped up in the dark, slid his feet into his slippers, and stumbled out into the wet.
The lamp was in the next room. Kinza had picked the baby up and was holding him clumsily while she prepared to nurse him. The blood still ran down her face and was dripping slowly, regularly, from the end of her chin. It had fallen in several places on the baby’s clothing. Thami stepped nearer. As he did so, he saw a drop of blood fall square in the infant’s face, just above his lips. A cautious tongue crept out and licked it in. Thami was beside himself. “Hachouma!” he cried, seizing the baby and holding it out of her reach so that it began to scream in earnest. He laid it carefully on the floor, got an old handkerchief, stood in the doorway for a moment with his hand out in the rain, and when the cloth was soaked, he threw it to her. She had let blood drip over everything: the matting, the cushions, the floor, the brass tray on the tea-table, and even, he noted with a shiver of disgust, into one of the tea glasses. He picked up the tiny glass and threw it outside, heard it smash and tinkle. Now he wanted to get out of the house. At each moment it seemed to be raining harder. “So much the worse,” he thought. He would go, anyway. He pulled his raincoat down from the nail where it hung, put on his shoes and, without saying a word, went out of the door into the street. Only when he had shut it behind him did he notice that there was a violent wind to accompany the downpour.
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 live oaks 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 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 rumour 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 an 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 whisky came; they drank it, Thami making a face. Dyar ordered another set-up, for which Thami half-heartedly 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, neighbours. 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 firm. “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.
