by Paul Bowles
ONE DAY TEX told her that a man named F.T. was coming to dinner. F.T. was an old friend of his father’s, who managed his financial affairs for him. Malika was interested to hear what such work entailed, so Tex made an effort to explain the mechanics of investment. She was quiet for a while. But then you can’t make money unless you already have it, she said.
That’s about it, Tex agreed.
F.T. was middle-aged and well-dressed, with a small gray moustache. He was delighted with Malika, and called her Little Lady. This struck her as vaguely insulting, but since she could see that he was a pleasant and well-behaved man otherwise, she made no objections. Besides, Tex had told her: Remember. If you should ever need anything, anything at all, just call F.T.’s number. He’s like my father.
During dinner she decided that she really liked F.T., even though he seemed not to take her very seriously. Afterward he and Tex talked together for a long time. The words went on for so long that Malika fell asleep on a divan and awoke only after F.T. had gone. She was apologetic for having been rude, but she blamed Tex for allowing it to happen.
He threw himself down beside her. F.T. thought you were great. He says you’re beyond a doubt the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
He’s a nice man, she murmured.
Ever since her arrival in California, her life had seemed static. When she thought back about it, she decided that it had stopped moving when she had left the Berlitz School. Innocently, she asked Tex if she might continue the lessons here. To her astonishment he ridiculed the suggestion, claiming that all she needed was practice in conversation. Because he was not in the habit of refusing her anything, she did not take him at his word, and continued to dwell on her desire for further instruction. All at once she saw that he was going to be firm; he seemed to consider her dissatisfaction a criticism of him. Finally she realized that he was angry.
You don’t understand! she cried. I have to study English more before I can study anything else.
Study!
Of course, she said calmly. I’m always going to study. You think I want to stay like this?
I hope you do, Honey, for my sake. You’re perfect.
He took hold of her, but she wriggled free.
That evening Tex said to her: I’m going to get an extra woman in the kitchen and let Salvador give you lessons in cooking. That’s something you should learn, don’t you think?
Malika was silent. Do you want me to learn? You know I want to make you happy.
She began to spend several hours each day in the kitchen with Salvador and Concha, a Mexican girl of whose work the little Filipino was scornful. It was a pleasant enough room, but the number of strange machines and the little bells that kept sounding as Salvador rushed from one spot to another awed and confused her. She was even a bit afraid of Salvador, because his face never changed its fixed expression—that of a meaningless grin. It seemed to her that when he was annoyed the grin became even wider. She took care to pay strict attention to everything he told her. Soon he had her making simple dishes which they ate at lunch. If the recipe called for a béchamel or a chasseur, he made it himself and incorporated it, since the timing was more than Malika could manage. It gratified her to see that Tex thought her food good enough to be served at table. She continued to spend two hours in the kitchen each morning, and another hour or so before dinner in the evening. Sometimes she helped Salvador and Concha prepare a picnic hamper, and they went to the beach. She would have liked to tell Tex about the picnics on the beach at Tangier, but there was no way of doing that.
XVII
OCCASIONALLY, DESPITE Malika’s entreaties, Tex would take advantage of her morning session in the kitchen to drive the small car into the city on an errand. She would be uneasy until he returned, but he was always back in time for lunch. One morning he failed to appear at the usual hour. The telephone rang. Salvador wiped his hands and stepped into the butler’s pantry to answer it, while Malika and Concha went on chatting together in Spanish. In a moment Salvador reappeared in the doorway, and with a radiant smile told Malika the police had called to say that Mister Tex had met with an accident and was in a hospital in Westwood.
Malika rushed at the little man and seized him by the shoulders. Telephone to F.T.!
She hopped up and down while he searched for the number and dialed it. As soon as she saw that he was speaking to F.T., she snatched the telephone from his hand.
F.T.! Come and get me! I want to see Tex.
She heard F.T.’s voice, calm and reassuring. Yes. Now you just wait quietly for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t you worry. Let me speak to Salvador again.
She left Salvador talking into the telephone and rushed upstairs to the studio, where she began to walk back and forth. If Tex was in the hospital, he probably would not be home to sleep that night, and she would not stay in the house without him. She went out onto the sun-deck and stared at the trees. Tex is dead, she thought.
It was mid-afternoon before F.T.’s car drew up at the door. He found her in the studio lying face down on a couch. When she heard his voice she sprang up, wide-eyed, and ran to him.
That night Malika slept at F.T.’s house. He had insisted upon taking her home with him and leaving her in the care of his wife. For it was true that Tex was dead; he had succumbed not long after reaching the hospital.
F. T. and his wife did not commiserate with Malika. Mrs. F. T. said a show of sympathy could induce hysteria. Malika merely talked on and on, weeping intermittently. Sometimes she forgot that her listeners did not know Arabic or Spanish, until at their prompting she would go back into English. She had sworn to accompany Tex whenever he went out, and she had not done so, therefore he had been killed, he was the only being in the world she loved, and she was far from home, and what was going to become of her here alone?
That night as she lay in the dark listening to the occasional passing wail of a police siren, she was assailed afresh by the sensation she had felt on the plane—that of having gone too far for the possibility of return. Being with Tex had made it possible to accept the strangeness of the place; now she saw herself as someone shipwrecked on an unknown shore peopled by creatures whose intentions were unfathomable. And no one could come to rescue her, for no one knew she was there.
She slept at F.T.’s house for several nights. During the days she visited supermarkets and other points of interest with Mrs. F. T. You’ve got to keep busy, her hostess told her. We can’t have you brooding.
There was no way, however, of preventing Malika from worrying about what was to become of her, stranded in this unlikely land without a peseta to buy herself bread, and only the caprice of F.T. and his wife between her and starvation.
XVIII
ONE MORNING F. T. himself drove Malika to his office. Out of respect for him she had dressed with great care in a severe gray silk suit from Balenciaga. Her entrance into the office with F.T. caused a stir of interest. When she sat facing him across his desk in a small inner room, he pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer. As he leafed through them he began to talk.
Betty tells me you’re worried about money.
Seeing Malika nod, he went on. I take it you haven’t any at all. Is that right?
She felt in her handbag and pulled out a crumpled twenty dollar bill that Tex had given her one day when they were shopping.
Only this, she said, showing him.
F.T. cleared his throat.
Well, I want you to stop worrying. As soon as we get everything cleared up you’ll have a regular income. In the meantime I’ve opened a checking account for you at the bank downstairs in this building.
He saw anxiety flitting across her face, and added hastily: It’s your money. You’re his sole beneficiary. After taxes and all the rest, you’ll still have a substantial capital. And if you’re wise, you’ll leave it all just where it is, in certificates of deposit and treasury notes. So stop worrying.
Yes, she said, understanding nothing.
I nev
er let Tex play with stocks, F.T. went on. He had no head for business.
She was shocked to hear F.T. denigrate poor Tex in this way, but she said: I see.
When we get everything straight and running smoothly, you ought to have around fifty thousand a month. Possibly a little more.
Malika stared at F.T. Is that enough? she asked cautiously.
He shot a quick glance at her over his spectacles. I think you’ll find it’s enough.
I hope so, she said with fervor. You see, I don’t understand money. I never bought anything myself. How much does a thing cost? I don’t know. Only in my own country.
Of course. F.T. pushed a checkbook along the top of the desk toward her. You understand, this is a temporary account for you to draw on now, until all the legal work is finished. I hope you won’t overdraw. But I’m sure you won’t.
He smiled encouragingly at her. Remember, he went on. There are only twenty-five thousand dollars there. So be a good girl and keep track of your checks.
But I can’t do what you tell me! she exclaimed. Please do it for me.
F.T. sighed. Can you write your name? he asked very quietly.
Tex showed me in Lausanne, but I’ve forgotten.
In spite of himself, F.T. raised his arms. But my dear lady, how do you expect to live? You can’t go on this way.
No, she said miserably.
F. T. pushed back his chair and stood up. Well, he said jovially, what you don’t know you can always learn. Why don’t you come up here every morning and study with Miss Galper? She’s as smart as a whip. She’ll teach you everything you need to know. That’s my suggestion for you.
He was not prepared for her vehement response. She jumped up and hugged him. Oh, F.T.! That’s what I want! That’s what I want!
XIX
THE FOLLOWING DAY Malika moved her luggage into a hotel in Beverly Hills. Under F.T.’s advice she kept Salvador on, living in the house, but now functioning solely as chauffeur. Each morning he called at the hotel for her and drove her to F.T.’s office. She found this routine stimulating. Miss Galper, a pleasant young woman with glasses, would spend the forenoon working with her, after which they generally went to lunch together. There had not been much glamor in Miss Galper’s life, and she was fascinated by Malika’s accounts of Europe and Morocco. There remained a basic mystery in her story, nevertheless, since she never explained how she came to be living at Tim’s flat in Tangier. In her version, she might have come into being during a picnic on the beach at Sidi Qacem.
When after two months F. T. saw that Malika was, if anything, even more serious and determined about pursuing her practical education, he suggested that the lessons continue at the hotel. Now it was Miss Galper whom Salvador drove to and from Beverly Hills. Occasionally they went shopping—small expeditions to Westwood that delighted Malika because for the first time she was aware of prices, and could gauge the buying power of her money. F.T. had told her that with what Tex had left for her she would be able to live better than most people. At the time she had supposed this was a part of his attempt to comfort her, but now that she understood the prices she realized that he had been stating a fact. She said nothing to Miss Galper of her surprise at finding the cost of goods so low. Instead, she overwhelmed her with a constant flow of small gifts.
You’ve got to stop this, Malika, Miss Galper told her.
The first month they had done nothing but arithmetic. After that there was the telling of time, the names of the days and the months. With some difficulty Miss Galper taught her to sign the two forms of her name: Malika Hapgood and Mrs. Charles G. Hapgood. By the time the lessons were moved to the hotel, Malika had begun to practice writing out in words complicated sums given her in figures. They went back to dates, and she had to learn to write them correctly.
You can leave everything else to a secretary, Miss Galper told her. But you’ve got to take care of your money yourself.
To this end she gave Malika a course in reading bank statements, and another in spacing the purchase of securities to assure regular turnover.
As the months went by and Malika’s insight into the functioning of the world around her grew, she began to understand the true extent of her ignorance, and she conceived a passionate desire to be able to read the texts of newspapers and magazines.
I’m not an English teacher, Miss Galper told her. F.T. doesn’t pay me for that. We can get you a good professor whenever you want.
Malika, being persuaded that she could learn only from Miss Galper, consulted F.T. about it. After a certain amount of deliberation, he devised a plan which delighted Malika and pleased Miss Galper as well. He would give Miss Galper a year’s holiday with salary if Malika wanted to take her on as a paid companion during that time. In this way, he implied to Malika, she would be able to get the reading lessons she wanted. He added that he did not think Miss Galper was the person to give them, but since Malika had her heart set on being taught by her, this seemed to him a viable strategy.
It was Miss Galper’s idea to make a tour of Europe. F.T. suggested they buy a big car, put it on a freighter, and take Salvador along with them to pick it up over there and drive it. When Malika heard this, she asked why they could not all go on the ship with the car. It might be possible, F. T. told her.
Eventually F.T. had arranged to get Malika a new passport, had even helped Miss Galper and Salvador expedite theirs, and, accompanied by Mrs. F.T., had bidden them a lengthy farewell at the dock in San Pedro. It was a comfortable Norwegian freighter bound for Panama and eventually for Europe.
The ship was already in tropical waters. Malika said she had imagined it could be this hot only in the Sahara, and certainly not on the sea. She had nothing to do all day. Salvador spent most of his time sleeping. Miss Galper sat in a deck chair reading. She had refused to give Malika any kind of lessons while they were on the ship. It would make me seasick, she assured her. But she noticed Malika’s boredom, and talked with her for long periods of time.
XX
MALIKA COULD NOT SIT, as Miss Galper could, looking at the sea. The flat horizon on all sides gave her much the same sensation of unreality she had experienced on the plane with Tex. Panama came as a relief, making it clear that the ship had not been static during all those days, and that they had reached a very different part of the world.
It took all day to go through the canal. Malika stood on deck in the sun, waving back to the men working along the locks. But from Panama on, her restlessness increased daily. She was reduced to playing endless games of checkers with a yawning Salvador each afternoon in the narrow passengers’ lounge. They never spoke during these sessions. From the beginning of the voyage the captain had urged Malika to visit the bridge. At some point Miss Galper had mentioned that he had the power to seize anyone on the ship and have him locked into a dark cell somewhere below. When Malika finally accepted his invitation she took Miss Galper along.
Standing at the prow, Malika stared ahead at the white buildings of Cádiz. As the ship moved into the port, the combination of the light in the air, the color of the walls and the odors on the wind told her that she was back in her part of the world and close to home. For a long time she had refused to think about the little house above the gully. Now that it no longer frightened her, she was able to imagine it almost with affection.
It was her duty to go and visit her mother, however hostile a reception she might get from her. She would try to give her money, which she was certain she would refuse to take. But Malika was ready with a ruse. If her mother spurned the money, she would tell her she was leaving it next door with Mina Glagga. Once Malika was out of the way, her mother would lose no time in going to claim it.
Miss Galper had hoped to spend the night in Cádiz, but Malika insisted on driving straight to Algeciras. Now that she was so near home, she wanted to get there as soon as she could. I must see my mother, she said. I must see her first.
Of course, said Miss Galper. But you haven’t seen her in two years or more
and she isn’t expecting you. One day sooner or later?
We can come back. Now I have to go and see my mother.
In Algeciras at the hotel that night they saw Salvador eating at the other end of the long dining room. He had changed from his uniform into a gray flannel suit. Malika observed him carefully, and said: He’s drinking wine.
He’ll be all right tomorrow, Miss Galper told her. They always drink, Filipinos.
He was at the door grinning when they came out of the hotel in the morning to be driven to the dock. Most of the passengers going to Tangier were Moroccans. Malika had forgotten the shameless intensity with which her countrymen stare at women. Now she was back among her own kind. The realization startled her; she felt both excitement and apprehension.
XXI
AFTER, THEY HAD settled into their quarters at the hotel, Malika went down to the desk. She hoped to visit her mother in the evening, when she was sure to be in the house, and when there would be a valid excuse for not staying too long. She intended to reserve two rooms in Tetuan for the night, one for Salvador and one for herself, and return to Tangier in the morning. In the lobby they told her of a new hotel on the beach only a mile or so from her town. She asked them to telephone for reservations.
Miss Galper’s room was down the corridor from hers. Malika knocked on her door and told her she would be leaving about five o’clock, in order to get to the hotel before dark.
Miss Galper looked at her searchingly. I’m glad you’re doing it now and getting it over with, she said.
You can have a good time, Malika told her. There are bars where you can go.
No, thank you. The men here give me the creeps. They all try to talk to you.
Malika shrugged. What difference does it make? You can’t understand what they’re saying.
This was fortunate, she thought. The brutally obscene remarks made by the men to women passing in the street disgusted and infuriated her. Miss Galper was lucky not to know any Arabic.
