The Stories of Paul Bowles (27 page)

The evening Jesus Maria arrived back at his barracks in the capital, he stood alone in the latrine looking at himself in the fly-specked mirror. Slowly he began to smile, watching the movements of his facial muscles. “No,” he said, and tried again. He opened his eyes wider and smiled with all his might. The man’s face had looked something like that; he would never be able to get it exactly, but he would go on trying because it made him happy to recall that moment—the only time he had ever known how it feels to have power.

(1950)

I
N THE MIDDLE OF
the afternoon, lying on his mat, Ali sneezed. A hen that had been drowsing near him screeched and rushed out of the room to a circle of bare dusty ground under the fig tree, where she settled. He listened a while to the distant intermittent thunder in the mountains to the south of the town; then, deciding that he would be able to sleep no more until night, he sat up.

Beyond the partition of upright reeds his brother was talking to El Mehdi, one of the drivers of the carriages that brought people up from the town. From the terrace of the café the eye could wander over the tortured red earth with its old olive trees to the dark caves that lay just below the walls of the town.

The view was something visitors usually considered worth seeing. They would take one of the ancient carriages that waited down in the town and be driven up along the winding road that baked all day in the sunlight; it took less than an hour to reach the café. There they would sit under the trellis in the shade of the vines and drink their tea or their beer. The driver would give the horses water and before twilight they would start back.

On Sundays many carriages and cars came; the cafe was full all day.

His brother, who owned the café and kept the accounts and the money, claimed that he made more on a Sunday than during all the rest of the week. Ali was skeptical of that, not because the statement seemed incredible, but simply because his brother had made it. There was the overwhelming fact that his brother was older than he and therefore had inherited the café from their father. In the face of such crushing injustice there was nothing to be done. Nor was anything his brother had to say of interest to him. His brother was like the weather: one watched it and was a victim of its whims. It was written, but that did not mean it could not change.

He leaned against the wall matting and stretched. His brother and El Mehdi were drinking beer; he was certain of it by the way their voices died down when there was any sound outside the room. They wanted to be able to hide the glasses swiftly if someone should come near the door, so they were listening as they talked. The idea of this childish secrecy disgusted him; he spat on the floor by his feet, and began to rub his bare toe back and forth in the little white mass of saliva.

The thunder rolled in the south mountains, no louder but longer than before. It was a little early in the season for rain, but the rain might come. He reached for the water jug and drank lengthily. Then he sat quite still for a while, his eyes fixed on the framed portrait of the Sultan that hung on the opposite wall.

The thunder came again, still scarcely any louder, but this time unmistakably nearer, the sound more intimate in its movements. It was like a person taking pains to cǫnceal his approach. There was a clapping of hands on the terrace, and a man’s voice called:
“Garçon!”
His brother went out, and he heard El Mehdi gulp the rest of his beer and follow him. Presently a woman’s voice remarked that it was going to rain. Then El Mehdi shouted,
“Eeeeee!”
to his horses, and the carriage began to creak as it started down the road.

After the customers had left, his brother remained outside. Ali went silently to the door, saw him standing by the parapet, his hands behind him, looking out over the town. At the other end of the terrace squatted the boy who washed the glasses and swept the floor. His eyes were closed. There was very little sound from the town below. Occasionally a bird flew out from the hill behind and let itself drop down toward the lower land. The sky was dark. His brother turned and saw him standing in the doorway.

“You slept?”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“Incha’ Allah.”

“Listen.” His brother’s hand went up and he turned his face sideways. Very faintly from the town came the sound of the small boys’ voices as they ran through the streets chanting the song to Sidi Bou Chta, the song they always sang just before the rain.

“Yes.”

Now the thunder was over the nearest mountains. His brother came toward the door and Ali stepped aside to let him pass.

“We’ll close up,” said his brother. He called to the boy, who began to carry the chairs and tables into the room where they were kept piled. Ali and his brother sat on the mattress and yawned. When the boy had finished he closed the door, snapped the padlock and came into the front part of the room, where he set to fanning the fire with the bellows. Presently he brought them each a glass of tea.

“Go to the house. We’ll eat early,” said his brother. The boy went out.

A crash of thunder directly above them made them look at each other. Ali said: “I’ll close the house. The boy is an idiot.”

The little house was behind the café, built against the low cliff, just beneath the road. When he got to the fig tree he heard his brother talking to someone. Surprised, he stopped and listened. Great drops of rain began to fall here and there onto the dust. It was hard to hear what his brother was saying. He went on to the house.

No one lived there but the two of them and the boy, who slept outside. It was never very clean. If only his brother had been willing to get married, Ali would have had an excuse for going away. Until then, it would be impossible, because his father had told him to stay and help his brother with the café. All he got for staying was a dirty room and the bad food the boy cooked for them.

On the other hand, when his brother walked through the Moulay Abdallah
quartier
he was greeted by the women of every house. The money went on bracelets for them, and on wine and beer for his friends. Besides these women, with whom he spent most of his nights, there was always a young girl of good reputation whom he had hopes of seducing; usually he failed in these endeavors, but his setbacks only increased his interest.

At the moment it was Kinza, the daughter of a shopkeeper from Taza, whose favors he sought. She had granted him short conversations in unfrequented alleys, with a maidservant standing a few feet away; he had met her one twilight outside Bab Segma and put his arm around her (after persuading the servant to stand facing in the other direction), and he even had had a
tête-à-tête
alone with her in a room behind a café, when he had lifted her veil and kissed her. But she had refused any further intimacies, threatening, if he used force, to call the servant who was outside the door. After accepting a good many gifts she had promised him another such rendezvous, so he still had hopes.

Ali knew all about his brother’s life and about Kinza, since, in spite of the fact that such subjects cannot be discussed between brothers, it is perfectly proper to talk about them with anyone and everyone else. He knew all about Kinza and he hoped his brother would have no luck with her.

The rain was falling more heavily now. He closed the windows so it would not come in. Then, out of boredom and because he was curious to know who had arrived at the café, he went across the open space between the two establishments, taking long strides, and re-entered the back room. Behind the partition the fire was being fanned again, this time by his brother.

“I’M VERY FOND
of your tea here in Morocco,” a man’s voice was saying; they were speaking French.

His brother said: “Me, I like beer best.”

“Have another bottle,” said the stranger magnanimously. “Drink to the end of this damned rain. If it keeps up I won’t get back to town before dark.”

Ali tried to look through the cracks to see what sort of person it was who would walk all the way up to the café, but the man was seated in the doorway looking out at the rain and he could see nothing but his back.

“We are glad to have the rain,” said his brother. “Each drop is money. The
fellahin
give thanks.”

“Oui, bien sûr,”
said the stranger without interest.

The thunder had passed over, but the rain was roaring; soon a stream of water burst through the ceiling in a corner of the room and spattered
onto the earthen floor. The added noise made it more difficult to hear their talk. He put his ear close to the reeds.

“Isn’t Belgium near France?” his brother asked.

“Next door.”

“It’s a good country?”

“Oh, yes.”

His brother handed the stranger a glass of tea.

“Have another bottle of beer,” the stranger suggested.

Ali heard the bottle being opened and the cap fall on to the stone door-sill.

“What’s that?” said his brother, his voice bright with interest.

“Just a pill. If I’m nervous I take one. It makes me feel better. If I can’t sleep I take two.”

“And then you sleep?”

“Like a child.”

There was a pause. Then his brother asked: “And would they do that to anyone?”

The stranger laughed. “Of course,” he said. “Some people might have to take three, some only one.”

“And how long does it make you sleep?”

“All night.”

“If someone touched you, you’d wake up?”

“Why, yes.”

“But if you took four or five?”

“
Oh, là, là!
You could ride a horse over me then, and I wouldn’t know it. That’s too many.”

This time there was a long silence, and Ali heard only the noise of the rain all around. The water leaking through the roof had made a channel in the mud to the back door. Now and then a distant growl of thunder came from the hills on the north. The air that moved in through the door was cold and smelled of earth.

Presently his brother said: “It’s getting dark.”

“I suppose you want to close.”

“Oh, ne t’en fais pas!”
said his brother cordially. “Stay until it stops raining.”

The stranger laughed. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m going to get wet anyway, because it’s not going to stop.”

“No, no!” his brother cried, an anxious note creeping into his voice.
“Wait a few minutes. Soon it will stop. Besides, I enjoy talking with you. You aren’t like a Frenchman.”

The man laughed again; he sounded pleased and flattered.

Then Ali heard his brother saying timidly: “Those pills. Where could I buy a bottle?”

“My doctor in Belgium gave them to me, but I imagine you could get a doctor here to prescribe some.”

“No,” said his brother hopelessly.

“Why do you want them? You don’t look as though you had trouble sleeping.”

His brother squatted down beside the stranger. “It’s not that,” he said, almost whispering.

Ali peered intently between the reeds, making an effort to follow the movements of his brother’s lips. “
C’est une fille.
I give her everything. She always says no. I was thinking, if just once I could—”

The man interrupted him. “You give her enough of these and she won’t be able to say anything.” He chuckled maliciously. “Here. Hold out your hand.”

With a few inarticulate phrases of thanks, his brother rose to his feet, probably to get a box or an envelope for the pills.

Quickly Ali went out of the door through the rain to the house, where he changed his shirt and spread the wet one over the pillows, and lighted the lamp. Then he sat reading, with some difficulty, a newspaper that a customer had left behind the day before. A few minutes later his brother came in, looking pleased and a little mysterious.

It rained most of the night. At dawn, however, when they got up, the sky was clear. His brother drank his coffee hurriedly and went out, saying he would be back about noon.

Two couples came to the café during the morning, but since they took beer the boy did not have to light the fire.

Somewhat later than twelve his brother returned. Ali looked up at his face as he came in the door, and said to himself: “Something has happened.” But he pretended to have noticed nothing and turned away unconcernedly after greeting him. Whatever it might be, he knew his brother would never tell him anything.

The afternoon was exceptionally fine. A good many visitors came, as they always did when the weather was clear and the view good. His brother’s face did not change. He carried the trays of tea glasses out to
the tables like a man walking in his sleep, and he kept his eyes averted from the customers’ faces. Each time someone arrived and walked under the arbor onto the terrace, Ali’s brother looked as though he were about to run and jump off the edge of the parapet. Once when Ali saw him smoking, he noticed his hand trembling so violently that he had difficulty in getting the cigarette to his lips, and he looked away quickly so his brother would not see him watching.

When the evening call to prayer was over and the last carriage had rattled away down the road, the boy brought the tables and chairs in and swept the floor of the terrace. Ali stood in the doorway. His brother sat on the parapet, looking down over the olive trees in the dimming light, while the town below sank deeper into the gulf of shadow between the hills. An automobile came along the road, stopped. Against the sky Ali saw his brother’s head jerk upward. There were the two sounds of a car’s doors being shut. His brother rose, took two hesitant steps, and sat down again.

Ali moved backward into the room, away from the door. It was not yet too dark for him to see that the two men walking across the terrace were policemen. Without slipping into his babouches he ran barefoot through the inner room of the café, across the open space to the house. He lay down on his mattress, breathing rapidly. The boy was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal.

For a long time Ali lay there, thinking of nothing, watching the cobwebs that dangled from the ceiling move slowly in the breeze. It seemed so long to him that he thought the two men must have gone away without his having heard them. He tiptoed to the door. The boy was still in the kitchen. Ali stepped outside. The crickets were singing all around and the moonlight looked blue. He heard voices on the terrace. Without making a sound he crept into the café’s back room and lay down on the mat.

The policemen were making fun of his brother, but not pleasantly. Their voices were harsh and they laughed too loud.

“A Belgian, no less!” cried one with mock surprise. “He fell out of the sky like an angel,
bien sûr,
with the Veronal in one hand. But nobody saw him. Only you.”