by Paul Bowles
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.”
She pursed her lips angrily; she was furious, not so much because of what he was saying, although she considered it all idiotic, but because the idea of having to converse with him at all right now seemed almost more than she could bear. “Probably,” she said.
Breakfast arrived. He sat with her while she drank her coffee and ate her croissant. Her eyes had assumed a dreamy expression, and he had the feeling that she had completely forgotten his presence. When she had nearly finished her breakfast,
she turned to him and said politely: “Will you excuse me if I eat?”
He began to laugh. She looked startled.
“Hurry up!” he said. “I want to take you out for a walk before it gets too hot. You had a lot of stuff on your list anyway.”
“Oh!” she moaned. “I don’t feel—” But he cut her short. “Come on, come on. You dress. I’ll wait in Port’s room. I’ll even shut the door.”
She could think of nothing to say. Port never gave her orders; he hung back, hoping thereby to discover what she really wanted. He made it more difficult for her, since she seldom acted on her own desires, behaving instead according to her complex system of balancing those omens to be observed against those to be disregarded.
Tunner had already gone into the adjacent room and closed the door. It gratified Kit to think that he would see the disheveled bedclothes. As she dressed she heard him whistling. “A bore, a bore, a bore!” she said under her breath. At that moment the other door opened; Port stood there in the hall, running his left hand through his hair.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She was staring at him.
“Well, obviously. What’s the matter with you?”
He still stood there.
“What in God’s name’s wrong with you?” she said impatiently.
“Nothing.” His voice rasped. He strode to the center of the room and pointed to the closed connecting door. “Who’s in there?”
“Tunner,” she said with unfeigned innocence, as if it were a most natural occurrence. “He’s waiting for me while I get dressed.”
“What the hell goes on here?”
Kit flushed and turned away vehemently. “Nothing. Nothing,” she said quickly. “Don’t be crazy. What do you think goes on, anyway?”
He did not lower his voice. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
She pushed him in the chest with her outspread hands and walked toward the door to open it, but he caught her arm and pulled her around.
“Please stop it!” she whispered furiously.
“All right, all right. I’ll open the door myself,” he said, as if by allowing her to do it he might be running too great a risk.
He went into his room. Tunner was leaning out the window looking down. He swung around, smiling broadly. “Well, well!” he began.
Port was staring at the bed. “What is this? What’s the matter with your room that you have to be in here?” he demanded.
But Tunner appeared not to take in the situation at all, or else he refused to admit that there was any. “So! Back from the wars!” he cried. “And do you look it! Kit and I are going for a walk. You probably want some sleep.” He dragged Port over in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself!” he commanded. At the sight of his smeared face and red-rimmed eyes, Port wilted.
“I want some black coffee,” he grumbled. “And I want to go down and get a shave.” Now he raised his voice. “And I wish to hell you’d both get out of here and take your walk.” He pushed the wall button savagely.
Tunner gave him a fraternal pat on the back. “See you later, old man. Get some sleep.”
Port glared at him as he went out, and sat down on the bed when he had gone. A large ship had just steamed into the harbor; its deep whistle sounded below the street noises. He lay back on the bed, gasping a little. When the knocking came at the door, he never heard it. The servant stuck his head in, said: “Monsieur,” waited a few seconds, quietly shut the door and went away.
VII
He slept all day. Kit came back at lunch time; she went in softly, and having coughed once to see if he would wake, went to eat without him. Before twilight he awoke, feeling greatly cleansed. He rose and undressed slowly. In the bathroom he drew a hot tub, bathed at length, shaved, and searched for his white bathrobe. He found it in Kit’s room, but she was not there. On her table was a variety of groceries she had bought to take on the trip. Most of the items were black-market goods from England, and according to the labels they had been manufactured by appointment to H.M. King George VI. He opened a package of biscuits and began to eat one after another, voraciously. Framed by the window, the town below was growing dim. It was that moment of twilight when light objects seem unnaturally bright, and the others are restfully dark. The town’s electricity had not yet been turned on, so that the only lights were those on the few ships anchored in the harbor, itself neither light nor dark—merely an empty area between the buildings and the sky. And to the right were the mountains. The first one coming up out of the sea looked to him like two knees drawn up under a huge sheet. For a fraction of a second, but with such force that he felt the change’s impact as a physical sensation, he was somewhere else, it was long ago. Then he saw the mountains again. He wandered downstairs.
They had made a point of not patronizing the hotel bar because it was always empty. Now, going into the gloomy little room, Port was mildly surprised to see sitting alone at the bar a heavy-looking youth with a formless face which was saved from complete non-existence by an undefined brown beard. As he installed himself at the other end, the young man said with a heavy English accent: “Otro Tio Pepe,” and pushed his glass toward the barman.
Port thought of the cool subterranean bodegas at Jerez where Tio Pepe of 1842 had been tendered him, and ordered the same. The young man looked at him with a certain curiosity in his eyes, but said nothing. Presently a large, sallow-skinned woman, her hair fiery with henna, appeared in the doorway and squealed. She had the glassy black eyes of a doll; their lack of expression was accentuated by the gleaming make-up around them. The young man turned in her direction.
“Hello, Mother. Come in and sit down.”
The woman moved to the youth’s side but did not sit. In her excitement and indignation she seemed not to have noticed Port. Her voice was very high. “Eric, you filthy toad!” she cried. “Do you realize I’ve been looking for you everywhere? I’ve never seen such behavior! And what are you drinking? What do you mean by drinking, after what Doctor Levy told you? You wretched, boy!”
The young man did not look at her. “Don’t scream so, Mother.”
She glanced in Port’s direction, saw him. “What is that you’re drinking, Eric?” she demanded again, her voice slightly more subdued, but no less intense.
“It’s just sherry, and it’s quite delightful. I wish you wouldn’t get so upset.”
“And who do you think’s going to pay for your caprices?” She seated herself on the stool beside him and began to fumble in her bag. “Oh, blast! I’ve come off without my key,” she said. “Thanks to your thoughtlessness. You’ll have to let me in through your room. I’ve discovered the sweetest mosque, but it’s covered with brats all shrieking like demons. Filthy little beasts, they are! I’ll show it to you tomorrow. Order a glass of sherry for me, if it’s dry. I think it might help me. I’ve felt wretched all day. I’m positive it’s the malaria coming back. It’s about time for it, you know.”
“Otro Tio Pepe,” said the youth imperturbably.
Port watched, fascinated as always by the sight of a human being brought down to the importance of an automaton or a caricature. By whatever circumstances and in whatever manner reduced, whether ludicrous or horrible, such persons delighted him.
The dining room was unfriendly and formal to a degree which is acceptable only when the service is impeccable; this was not the case here. The waiters were impassive and moved slowly. They seemed to have difficulty in understanding the wants even of the French; certainly they showed no sign of interest in pleasing anyone. The two English people were given a table near the corner where Port and Kit were eating; Tunner was out with his French girl.
“Here they are,” whispered Port. “Keep an ear open. But try and keep a straight face.”
“He looks like a young Vacher,” said Kit, leaning far over the table, “the one who wandered across France slicing children into pieces, you remember?”
They were silent a few minutes, hoping to be diverted by the other table, b
ut mother and son appeared to have nothing to say to each other. Finally Port turned to Kit and said: “Oh, while I think of it, what was all that this morning?”
“Do we have to go into it now?”
“No, but I was just asking. I thought maybe you could answer.”
“You saw all there was to see.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if I thought so.”
“Oh, can’t you see—” Kit began in a tone of exasperation; then she stopped. She was about to say: “Can’t you see that I didn’t want Tunner to know you hadn’t come back last night? Can’t you see he’d be interested to know that? Can’t you see it would give him just the wedge he’s looking for?” Instead she said: “Do we have to discuss it? I told you the whole story when you came in. He came while I was having breakfast and I sent him into your room to wait while I got dressed. Isn’t that perfectly proper?”
“It depends on your conception of propriety, baby.”
“It certainly does,” she said acidly. “You notice I haven’t mentioned what you did last night.”
Port smiled and said smoothly: “You couldn’t very well, since you don’t know.”
