The Stories of Paul Bowles (4 page)

“How are you?” she said, sipping her water.

Aileen stood up.

“We’re all up bright and early this morning,” Prue went on cheerily.

“I’m—leaving. I’ve got to go. Excuse me, it’s late,” mumbled Aileen, glancing about furtively.

“Oh, take your time, gal. You haven’t said good-bye to your mother yet. And José is still saddling the nags. You’ve got a lot of grips with you.”

“Excuse me,” said Aileen, trying to slip past her through the doorway.

“Well, shake,” Prue said, reaching for Aileen’s hand.

“Get away!” cried Aileen, struggling to keep clear of her. “Don’t touch me!” But Prue had succeeded in grasping one frantic arm. She held it fast.

“A dramatic entrance is enough. We don’t have to have the same sort of exit. Say good-bye to me like a human being.” She twisted the arm a bit, in spite of herself. Aileen leaned against the door and turned very white.

“Feel faint?” said Prue. She let go of her arm, and holding up her glass of water, flicked some of it into Aileen’s face with her fingers.

The reaction was instantaneous. Aileen jumped at her with vicious suddenness, kicking, ripping and pounding all at once. The glass fell to the stone floor; Prue was caught off her guard. Mechanically, with rapid, birdlike fury, the girl hammered at the woman’s face and head, as she slowly impelled her away from the doorway and across the terrace.

From Prue’s lips came several times the word “God.” At first she did very little to defend herself; she seemed half asleep as she moved toward the outer edge beneath the onslaught. Then suddenly she threw herself to the floor. Aileen continued to kick her where she lay doubled over, trying to protect her face.

“Nobody! Nobody! Nobody! Nobody can do that to me!” she cried rhythmically as she kicked.

Her voice rose in pitch and volume; she stopped for an instant, and then, raising her head, she uttered the greatest scream of her life. It came back immediately from the black wall of rock across the gorge, straight through the noise of water. The sound of her own voice ended the episode for her, and she began to walk back across the terrace.

Concha and Luz stood frightened in the doorway; it was as if they had come to watch a terrible storm pass over the countryside. They stepped aside as Aileen walked through.

Outside the stable, José was whistling as he finished saddling the horses. The valises were already strapped on the burro.

Still in the midst of her deep dream, Aileen turned her head toward the house as they rode past. For a brief second, between the leaves, she saw the two figures of her mother and Prue standing side by side on the terrace, the wall of the gorge looming behind. Then the horses turned and began to descend the trail.

(1946)

T
HE SEPTEMBER SUNSETS
were at their reddest the week the Professor decided to visit Aïn Tadouirt, which is in the warm country. He came down out of the high, flat region in the evening by bus, with two small overnight bags full of maps, sun lotions and medicines. Ten years ago he had been in the village for three days; long enough, however, to establish a fairly firm friendship with a café-keeper, who had written him several times during the first year after his visit, if never since. “Hassan Ramani,” the Professor said over and over, as the bus bumped downward through ever warmer layers of air. Now facing the flaming sky in the west, and now facing the sharp mountains, the car followed the dusty trail down the canyons into air which began to smell of other things besides the endless ozone of the heights: orange blossoms, pepper, sun-baked excrement, burning olive oil, rotten fruit. He closed his eyes happily and lived for an instant in a purely olfactory world. The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.

The chauffeur, whose seat the Professor shared, spoke to him without taking his eyes from the road.
“Vous êtes géologue?”

“A geologist? Ah, no! I’m a linguist.”

“There are no languages here. Only dialects.”

“Exactly. I’m making a survey of variations on Moghrebi.”

The chauffeur was scornful. “Keep on going south,” he said. “You’ll find some languages you never heard of before.”

As they drove through the town gate, the usual swarm of urchins rose up out of the dust and ran screaming beside the bus. The Professor folded his dark glasses, put them in his pocket; and as soon as the vehicle had come to a standstill he jumped out, pushing his way through the indignant boys who clutched at his luggage in vain, and walked quickly into the Grand Hotel Saharien. Out of its eight rooms there were two available—one facing the market and the other, a smaller and cheaper one, giving onto a tiny yard full of refuse and barrels, where two gazelles wandered about. He took the smaller room, and pouring the entire pitcher of water into the tin basin, began to wash the grit from his face and ears. The afterglow was nearly gone from the sky, and the pinkness in objects was disappearing, almost as he watched. He lit the carbide lamp and winced at its odor.

After dinner the Professor walked slowly through the streets to Hassan Ramani’s café, whose back room hung hazardously out above the river. The entrance was very low, and he had to bend down slightly to get in. A man was tending the fire. There was one guest sipping tea. The
qaouaji
tried to make him take a seat at the other table in the front room, but the Professor walked airily ahead into the back room and sat down. The moon was shining through the reed latticework and there was not a sound outside but the occasional distant bark of a dog. He changed tables so he could see the river. It was dry, but there was a pool here and there that reflected the bright night sky. The
qaouaji
came in and wiped off the table.

“Does this café still belong to Hassan Ramani?” he asked him in the Moghrebi he had taken four years to learn.

The man replied in bad French: “He is deceased.”

“Deceased?” repeated the Professor, without noticing the absurdity of the word. “Really? When?”

“I don’t know,” said the
qaouaji.
“One tea?”

“Yes. But I don’t understand…”

The man was already out of the room, fanning the fire. The Professor sat still, feeling lonely, and arguing with himself that to do so was ridiculous.
Soon the
qaouaji
returned with the tea. He paid him and gave him an enormous tip, for which he received a grave bow.

“Tell me,” he said, as the other started away. “Can one still get those little boxes made from camel udders?”

The man looked angry. “Sometimes the Reguibat bring in those things. We do not buy them here.” Then insolently, in Arabic: “And why a camel-udder box?”

“Because I like them,” retorted the Professor. And then because he was feeling a little exalted, he added, “I like them so much I want to make a collection of them, and I will pay you ten francs for every one you can get me.”

“Khamstache,”
said the
qaouaji,
opening his left hand rapidly three times in succession.

“Never. Ten.”

“Not possible. But wait until later and come with me. You can give me what you like. And you will get camel-udder boxes if there are any.”

He went out into the front room, leaving the Professor to drink his tea and listen to the growing chorus of dogs that barked and howled as the moon rose higher into the sky. A group of customers came into the front room and sat talking for an hour or so. When they had left, the
qaouaji
put out the fire and stood in the doorway putting on his burnous. “Come,” he said.

Outside in the street there was very little movement. The booths were all closed and the only light came from the moon. An occasional pedestrian passed, and grunted a brief greeting to the
qaouaji.

“Everyone knows you,” said the Professor, to cut the silence between them.

“Yes.”

“I wish everyone knew me,” said the Professor, before he realized how infantile such a remark must sound.

“
No
one knows you,” said his companion gruffly.

They had come to the other side of the town, on the promontory above the desert, and through a great rift in the wall the Professor saw the white endlessness, broken in the foreground by dark spots of oasis. They walked through the opening and followed a winding road between rocks, downward toward the nearest small forest of palms. The Professor thought: “He may cut my throat. But his café—he would surely be found out.”

“Is it far?” he asked, casually.

“Are you tired?” countered the
qaouaji.

“They are expecting me back at the Hotel Saharien,” he lied.

“You can’t be there and here,” said the
qaouaji.

The Professor laughed. He wondered if it sounded uneasy to the other.

“Have you owned Ramani’s café long?”

“I work there for a friend.” The reply made the Professor more unhappy than he had imagined it would.

“Oh. Will you work tomorrow?”

“That is impossible to say.”

The Professor stumbled on a stone, and fell, scraping his hand. The
qaouaji
said: “Be careful.”

The sweet black odor of rotten meat hung in the air suddenly.

“Agh!” said the Professor, choking. “What is it?”

The
qaouaji
had covered his face with his burnous and did not answer. Soon the stench had been left behind. They were on flat ground. Ahead the path was bordered on each side by a high mud wall. There was no breeze and the palms were quite still, but behind the walls was the sound of running water. Also, the odor of human excrement was almost constant as they walked between the walls.

The Professor waited until he thought it seemed logical for him to ask with a certain degree of annoyance: “But where are we going?”

“Soon,” said the guide, pausing to gather some stones in the ditch.

“Pick up some stones,” he advised. “Here are bad dogs.”

“Where?” asked the Professor, but he stooped and got three large ones with pointed edges.

They continued very quietly. The walls came to an end and the bright desert lay ahead. Nearby was a ruined marabout, with its tiny dome only half standing, and the front wall entirely destroyed. Behind it were clumps of stunted, useless palms. A dog came running crazily toward them on three legs. Not until it got quite close did the Professor hear its steady low growl. The
qaouaji
let fly a large stone at it, striking it square in the muzzle. There was a strange snapping of jaws and the dog ran sideways in another direction, falling blindly against rocks and scrambling haphazardly about like an injured insect.

Turning off the road, they walked across the earth strewn with sharp stones, past the little ruin, through the trees, until they came to a place where the ground dropped abruptly away in front of them.

“It looks like a quarry,” said the Professor, resorting to French for the word “quarry,” whose Arabic equivalent he could not call to mind at the moment. The
qaouaji
did not answer. Instead he stood still and turned his head, as if listening. And indeed, from somewhere down below, but very far below, came the faint sound of a low flute. The
qaouaji
nodded his head slowly several times. Then he said: “The path begins here. You can see it well all the way. The rock is white and the moon is strong. So you can see well. I am going back now and sleep. It is late. You can give me what you like.”

Standing there at the edge of the abyss which at each moment looked deeper, with the dark face of the
qaouaji
framed in its moonlit burnous close to his own face, the Professor asked himself exactly what he felt. Indignation, curiosity, fear, perhaps, but most of all relief and the hope that this was not a trick, the hope that the
qaouaji
would really leave him alone and turn back without him.

He stepped back a little from the edge, and fumbled in his pocket for a loose note, because he did not want to show his wallet. Fortunately there was a fifty-franc bill there, which he took out and handed to the man. He knew the
qaouaji
was pleased, and so he paid no attention when he heard him saying: “It is not enough. I have to walk a long way home and there are dogs…”

“Thank you and good night,” said the Professor, sitting down with his legs drawn up under him, and lighting a cigarette. He felt almost happy.

“Give me only one cigarette,” pleaded the man.

“Of course,” he said, a bit curtly, and he held up the pack.

The
qaouaji
squatted close beside him. His face was not pleasant to see. “What is it?” thought the Professor, terrified again, as he held out his lighted cigarette toward him.

The man’s eyes were almost closed. It was the most obvious registering of concentrated scheming the Professor had ever seen. When the second cigarette was burning, he ventured to say to the still-squatting Arab:

“What are you thinking about?”

The other drew on his cigarette deliberately, and seemed about to speak. Then his expression changed to one of satisfaction, but he did not speak. A cool wind had risen in the air, and the Professor shivered. The sound of the flute came up from the depths below at intervals, sometimes mingled with the scraping of nearby palm fronds one against the other.
“These people are not primitives,” the Professor found himself saying in his mind.

“Good,” said the
qaouaji,
rising slowly. “Keep your money. Fifty francs is enough. It is an honor.” Then he went back into French: “Ti
n’as qu’à discendre, to’ droit.”
He spat, chuckled (or was the Professor hysterical?), and strode away quickly.

The Professor was in a state of nerves. He lit another cigarette, and found his lips moving automatically. They were saying: “Is this a situation or a predicament? This is ridiculous.” He sat very still for several minutes, waiting for a sense of reality to come to him. He stretched out on the hard, cold ground and looked up at the moon. It was almost like looking straight at the sun. If he shifted his gaze a little at a time, he could make out a string of weaker moons across the sky. “Incredible,” he whispered. Then he sat up quickly and looked about. There was no guarantee that the
qaouaji
really had gone back to town. He got to his feet and looked over the edge of the precipice. In the moonlight the bottom seemed miles away. And there was nothing to give it scale; not a tree, not a house, not a person… He listened for the flute, and heard only the wind going by his ears. A sudden violent desire to run back to the road seized him, and he turned and looked in the direction the
qaouaji
had taken. At the same time he felt softly of his wallet in his breast pocket. Then he spat over the edge of the cliff”. Then he made water over it, and listened intently, like a child. This gave him the impetus to start down the path into the abyss. Curiously enough, he was not dizzy. But prudently he kept from peering to his right, over the edge. It was a steady and steep downward climb. The monotony of it put him into a frame of mind not unlike that which had been induced by the bus ride. He was murmuring “Hassan Ramani” again, repeatedly and in rhythm. He stopped, furious with himself for the sinister overtones the name now suggested to him. He decided he was exhausted from the trip. “And the walk,” he added.

He was now well down the gigantic cliff, but the moon, being directly overhead, gave as much light as ever. Only the wind was left behind, above, to wander among the trees, to blow through the dusty streets of Aïn Tadouirt, into the hall of the Grand Hotel Saharien, and under the door of his little room.

It occurred to him that he ought to ask himself why he was doing this irrational thing, but he was intelligent enough to know that since he
was doing it, it was not so important to probe for explanations at that moment.

Suddenly the earth was flat beneath his feet. He had reached the bottom sooner than he expected. He stepped ahead distrustfully still, as if he expected another treacherous drop. It was so hard to know in this uniform, dim brightness. Before he knew what had happened the dog was upon him, a heavy mass of fur trying to push him backwards, a sharp nail rubbing down his chest, a straining of muscles against him to get the teeth into his neck. The Professor thought: “I refuse to die this way.” The dog fell back; it looked like an Eskimo dog. As it sprang again, he called out, very loud: “Ay!” It fell against him, there was a confusion of sensations and a pain somewhere. There was also the sound of voices very near to him, and he could not understand what they were saying. Something cold and metallic was pushed brutally against his spine as the dog still hung for a second by his teeth from a mass of clothing and perhaps flesh. The Professor knew it was a gun, and he raised his hands, shouting in Moghrebi: “Take away the dog!” But the gun merely pushed him forward, and since the dog, once it was back on the ground, did not leap again, he took a step ahead. The gun kept pushing; he kept taking steps. Again he heard voices, but the person directly behind him said nothing. People seemed to be running about; it sounded that way, at least. For his eyes, he discovered, were still shut tight against the dog’s attack. He opened them. A group of men was advancing toward him. They were dressed in the black clothes of the Reguibat. “The Reguiba is a cloud across the face of the sun.” “When the Reguiba appears the righteous man turns away.” In how many shops and market-places he had heard these maxims uttered banteringly among friends. Never to a Reguiba, to be sure, for these men do not frequent towns. They send a representative in disguise, to arrange with shady elements there for the disposal of captured goods. “An opportunity,” he thought quickly, “of testing the accuracy of such statements.” He did not doubt for a moment that the adventure would prove to be a kind of warning against such foolishness on his part—a warning which in retrospect would be half sinister, half farcical.