The Stories of Paul Bowles (54 page)

He shrugged. “Ah, well,
de gustibus. You
know.” To himself he said fervently: “Thank God for Midnight Mass.” Without it they would have stayed indefinitely. The workmen were coming in the morning, the same as on other days, the holiday not being one of theirs.

Vandeventer seized his arm. “I must leave you. Delightful evening. Already I’m drunk, and now I must take my wife to the reveillon at the Minzah.”

He walked with him to the gate, to prevent him from stumbling in the courtyard. Once Vandeventer had managed to get into the car, he had no difficulty in driving it.

And now the remainder of his guests came filing out. The two French couples said good-night, and Mohammed shut the gate after them. As she slowly led her little group across the open space, Madame Dervaux suddenly announced that they must all take a quick glance at the kitchen, which she qualified as “superb.” The others followed her, all but the painter, who lagged behind and walked over to his host.

“I hope you enjoy the service,” his host told him.

“Oh, I’m not going with them. I live near here.”

The wind had risen somewhat. He heard Madame Dervaux’s shrill expletives and Amina’s easy laughter. He stared at the painter. “Good. Stay a minute after they’ve gone. I’d like to talk to you.” His mind was made up. “What difference does it make?” he thought. “Let him use the room. No one else is ever going to use it.”

The young man nodded, his face taking on an air of secrecy. When the others went out through the gate he said nothing. Instead of getting into the car with Madame Dervaux, he slammed the door shut and waved.

Immediately her head emerged.
“Oh, le méchant!”
she scolded.
“Il va avoir unegueule de bois affreuse!”

The painter smiled and waved again.

He watched the scene standing in the open gateway. When the tail lights had disappeared up the dark road, he turned to the young man and said: “I simply wanted to say that I see no objection to letting you use the conservatory.”

The young man’s eyes glowed; he expressed his gratitude at some length. When they had shaken hands and he had gone out through the gate, he looked back and said: “Tonight I won’t have to dream of having a room to paint in.”

His host smiled fleetingly and bolted the door. The wind whipped around the banana plants, slapping their leaves one against the other. He was pleased with his decision. The house seemed more real now that he knew someone would be using even that small part of it. He went from room to room, blowing out the candles and switching off the lights. Then he went upstairs to bed. Amina had set a bowl of Madame Der
vaux’s narcissus on the night table. Their scent reached him, borne on the sea air, as he fell into sleep.

He did not go to Tangier at Easter time, nor yet during the summer. In September he got word that the painter’s very rich and influential family had taken possession of the entire house. His lawyer was unable to evict them. Just before Christmas he received notice that the property, having been certified as agricultural land, no longer belonged to him. He reacted quietly to the loss, but his calm was shattered when, a few months later, he learned that the top floor and the tower had been rented by Madame Dervaux.

(1976)

M
ALIKA NEEDED
no one to tell her she was pretty. From the beginning of her memory people had murmured about her beauty, for even when she was a baby girl the symmetry of her head, neck and shoulders was remarkable. Before she was old enough to go to the spring to fetch water she knew she had eyes like a gazelle and that her head was like a lily on its stalk. At least, these were the things older people said about her.

On a hill above the town stood a large building with palm-shaded walks leading up to it. This belonged to the Hermanas Adoratrices. Certain of these nuns, upon catching sight of Malika, had gone to her father, offering to take her in charge and teach her to speak Spanish and to embroider. Enthusiastically he had agreed. Allah has sent us here to learn, he would say. Malika’s mother, who disapproved of her daughter’s spending her time with Nazarenes, did her utmost to make him change his mind. Nevertheless Malika stayed with the sisters for five years, until her father died.

Malika’s grandmother was fond of saying that when she had been Malika’s age she had looked exactly like her, and that if it were possible for her to become a little girl again and stand beside Malika, no one
would be able to tell them apart. At first Malika found this impossible to believe; she studied the old woman’s ravaged face and straightway rejected the idea. After her grandmother had died, she began to understand what the old woman had meant when she said: Only Allah remains the same. One day she would no longer be pretty, but now she was. Thus, when she was able to go by herself to the spring and carry back two full pails of water, it meant nothing to her if the older boys and the young men called to her and tried to speak with her. They would do better, she thought, to say all those flattering things to girls who needed such reassurance.

A barracks full of soldiers stood just outside the town. The men were rough and brutal. When she caught sight of one of them, even in the distance, Malika would hide until he had disappeared. Fortunately the soldiers seldom strayed into the arroyo that lay between her house and the spring; they preferred to saunter in groups up and down the main road leading through the town.

There came a day when her mother insisted that she go to sell a hen at the market on the main highway. Her older sister always had done this, but she was at a neighbor’s house helping prepare for a wedding. Malika begged her mother to lend her her haïk so she could cover her face.

Your sister’s been a thousand times. She never wears a haïk.

Malika knew this was because no one paid any attention to her sister, but she could not say it to her mother. I’m afraid, she said, and burst into tears. Her mother had no patience with the silly behavior of girls, and refused to let her take the haïk. As Malika ran out of the house, holding the hen by its legs, she snatched up a soiled bathtowel. As soon as she was out of sight, she wrapped it loosely around her head, so that when she got to the highway she could pull it down and cover at least a part of her face.

Several dozen women lined one side of the road, each sitting on the ground with her wares spread out around her. Malika went to the end of the row, which was opposite a small park where the soldiers sat on benches. People wandered past and picked up the hen to squeeze it and shake it, so that it constantly squawked and fluttered. She had pulled the towel down so far over her eyes that she could see only the earth at her feet.

After an hour or so had gone by, a woman came along who began to discuss the price of the hen with her. Eventually she bought it, and Malika, once she had tied the coins up in a piece of cloth, jumped to her
feet. The towel slipped over her face and fell to the ground. She picked it up and started to hurry along the highway.

THE TOWN WAS
derelict; it smelled of the poverty in which its people were accustomed to live. Nor was there any indication that in some past era something more had existed. The wind from the sea raised the dust of the streets high into the air and showered it angrily over the countryside. Even the leaves of the fig trees were coated white. The hot sand flying stung the skin on the backs of her legs as she turned the corner of the side street that led to the lower end of the gully. She draped the towel over her head and held onto it with one hand. It had never occurred to her to hate the town, for she assumed that anywhere else would be more or less the same.

The street was scarcely more than an alley, with walls on either side. All at once she heard the sound of heavy boots pounding the earth behind her. She did not turn around. Then a hard hand seized her arm and pushed her roughly against the wall. It was a soldier, and he was smiling. He braced his arms against the wall on each side of her so she could not escape.

Malika said nothing. The man stood gazing at her. He was breathing deeply, as though he had been running. Finally he said: How old are you?

She looked directly into his eyes. Fifteen.

He smelt of wine, tobacco and sweat.

Let me go, she said, and she tried desperately to duck under the barricade. The pain she felt as he twisted her arm made her open her eyes very wide, but she did not cry out. Two men in djellabas were approaching from the direction of the gully, and she fixed her eyes on them. The soldier turned, saw them, and began to walk quickly back toward the highway.

When she got home, she tossed the bit of cloth with the money in it onto the taifor, and indignantly showed her mother the marks on her arm.

What’s that?

A soldier grabbed me.

Her mother dealt her a stinging blow across the face. Malika had never seen her in such a rage.

You young bitch! she screamed. That’s all you’re good for!

Malika ran out of the house and down into the gully, where she sat on a rock in the shade, wondering if her mother might be going mad. The unexpectedness and injustice of the sudden blow had removed all thought of the soldier from her mind. She felt that she must find an explanation of her mother’s behavior; otherwise she would hate her.

That night at dinner things were not much better; her mother would not look at her, and directed all her remarks to her other daughter. This proved to be the pattern for the days that followed. It was as if she had decided that Malika no longer existed.

Good, thought Malika. If I’m not here, then she’s not here. She’s not my mother and I do hate her.

This silent war between them did not mean that Malika was exempt from having to continue to go to the market. Nearly every week she would be sent off to sell a hen or a basket of vegetables and eggs. She had no further trouble with the soldiers, perhaps because she now stopped on her way down the gully each time and smeared a little mud over her face. It was always dry by the time she reached the highway, and although the women there sometimes stared at her with surprise, the men paid her no attention. On her way home, going up the gully, she would wash her face.

There was always suspicion in her mother’s glance now when she returned to the house. If you get into trouble, she said, I swear I’ll kill you with my own hands. Malika sniffed and left the room. She knew what her mother meant, but it astonished her to see how little she knew about her own daughter.

ONE DAY AS
Malika sat in the front row of women and girls in the market on the highway, a long yellow car without a top drove up silently and stopped. There was only one man in it, and he was a Nazarene. The women began to murmur and cry out, for the man held a camera in his hands and was pointing it at them. A girl sitting next to Malika turned to her and said: You speak Spanish. Tell him to go away.

Malika ran over to the car. The man lowered his camera and stared at her.

Señor, you musn’t take pictures here, she said, looking at him gravely. She pointed back at the row of indignant women.

The Nazarene was big, with light-colored hair. He understood and
smiled.
Muy bien, muy bien,
he said good-naturedly, still looking fixedly at her. She was suddenly conscious of the dirt on her face. Without thinking she rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand. The man’s smile became broader.

Will you let me take your picture?

Malika’s heart began to beat painfully. No! No! she cried, aghast. Then by way of explanation she added: I have to go and sell my eggs.

The Nazarene looked more pleased than ever. You have eggs for sale? Bring them over.

Malika went and fetched the little packet of eggs, tied in a cloth. A group of boys had caught sight of the dazzling yellow car, and now they surrounded it, demanding money. The Nazarene, trying to wave them away, opened the door for Malika and pointed to the empty seat. She laid the bundle on the leather cushion and bent to undo the knot, but the arms of the boys kept pushing in front of her and jostling her. The Nazarene shouted angrily at the urchins in a foreign language, but this deterred them only for an instant. Finally, in a rage, he said to Malika: Get in. She lifted the eggs and obeyed, seating herself with the bundle on her lap. The man reached in front of her and slammed the door shut. Then he raised the window. But two beggars now had joined the boys, and they were able to reach over the top of the window.

Without warning the Nazarene started up the motor with a great roar. The car shot forward. Startled, Malika turned to see some of the boys sprawling in the road. When she looked again, they were almost out of the town. The Nazarene still seemed to be very angry. She decided not to ask him how far he was going before he stopped and bought the eggs. Her emotions hovered between delight at being in the fine car and anxiety about walking back to the town.

The trees were going by very fast. It seemed to her that she had always known something strange like this would happen to her one day. It was a comforting thought, and it kept her from feeling actual fear.

SOON THEY TURNED
onto a dirt road that burrowed deep into a eucalyptus grove. Here in the dubious shade the Nazarene shut off the motor and turned to Malika with a smile. He took the bundle of eggs from her lap and put it into the back of the car. From a basket behind her seat he
brought out a bottle of mineral water and a napkin. He poured a little water onto the napkin and with one hand on her shoulder set to work wiping the streaks of mud from her cheeks. She let him rub, and she let him remove the towel wrapped around her head, so that her hair fell to her shoulders. Why shouldn’t he see me? she thought. He’s a good man. She had already noticed that he did not smell at all, and his gentleness with her gave her a pleasant sensation.

Now shall I take your picture?

She nodded. There was no one to witness the shameful act. He made her sit lower in the seat, and held the camera above her. It clicked so many times, and he looked so peculiar with the big black apparatus in front of his face, that she began to laugh. She thought he might stop then, but he seemed even more pleased, and went on clicking the camera until it would click no more. Then he spread a blanket on the ground and set a basket of food in the center of it. They sat with the basket between them and ate chicken, cheese and olives. Malika was hungry, and she thought this great fun.

When they had finished, he asked her if she wanted him to take her back to the market. It was as if darkness had fallen over the world. She thought of the women there, and of what they would say when they saw her. She shook her head vigorously. The present moment was real; she would not help it to end. No, not yet, she said lightly.

He looked at his watch. Shall we go to Tetuan?

Her eyes brightened. It was less than an hour’s ride from her town, but she had only heard about it. The trees sped by again. Here a stiff breeze blew in from the Mediterranean, and Malika was chilly. The man took out a soft camel’s hair cape and put it around her shoulders.

Tetuan was very exciting with all its traffic. The guards in scarlet and white stood at attention in front of the Khalifa’s palace. But she would not get out of the car and walk with him in the street. They were parked there in the Feddane, where the hot afternoon sun beat down on them. Finally the man shrugged and said: Well, if I’m going to get to Tangier tonight, I’d better take you back home.

Malika made a strange sound. She seemed to have become very small inside the cape.

What’s the matter?

I can’t!

The man stared at her. But you’ve got to go back home.

Malika began to wail. No, no! she cried. The man glanced nervously at the passersby, and tried to comfort her with words. But a possibility had just revealed itself to her, and at that moment the idea was powerful enough to occupy her totally. Seeing her too immersed in inner turmoil even to hear him, he started the car and slowly made his way through the throng of people to the other side of the plaza. Then he drove along the principal street to the outskirts of the city, stopped the car by the side of the road, and lighted a cigarette.

He turned to her. One would almost have said that on the seat beside him there was nothing but the cape. He tugged at it, and heard a sob. Gently slipping his hand inside, he smoothed her hair for a moment. Finally she began to push herself upward into a sitting position, and her head appeared.

I’m going to take you with me to Tangier, he said. She made no reply to this, nor did she look at him.

They sped westward, the late afternoon sun in front of them. Malika was conscious of having made an irrevocable choice. The results, already determined by destiny, would be disclosed to her one by one, in the course of events. It was only slowly that she became aware of the landscape around her and of the summer air rushing past.

They came to a tiny café, alone on the mountainside, and stopped. Come in and we’ll have some tea, he said. Malika shook her head, pulling the cape more tightly around her.

The man went inside and ordered two glasses of tea. A quarter of an hour later a boy carried them to the car on a tray. The tea was very hot, and it took them a while to drink it. Even when the boy had come and taken away the tray, they went on sitting there. Eventually the man switched on the headlights, and they started down the mountainside.