The Stories of Paul Bowles (77 page)

AT FIRST
there would be memories—small, precise images complete with the sounds and odors of a certain incident in a certain summer. They had not meant anything to her at the time of experiencing them, but now she strove desperately to stay with them, to relive them and not let them fade into the enveloping darkness where a memory lost its contours and was replaced by something else. The formless entities which followed on the memories were menacing because indecipherable, and her heartbeat and breathing accelerated at this point. “As though I’d had coffee,” she thought, although she never drank it. Whereas a few moments earlier she had been living in the past, she was now fully surrounded by the present instant, face to face with a senseless fear. Her eyes would fly open, to fix on what was not there in the blackness.

She was not fond of the food, claiming that it was much too hot with red pepper and at the same time without flavor.

“And you realize,” he said, “that we’ve got the most famous cook in these parts.”

She remarked that it was hard to believe.

They were eating lunch on the roof, not in the sun, but in the vicious glare of a white sheet stretched above them. There was an expression of distaste on her face.

“I feel sorry for the girl who marries you,” she said presently.

“It’s an abstraction,” he told her. “Don’t even think about it. Let her pity herself once she’s married to me.”

“Oh, she will, all right. I can promise you that.”

After a fairly long silence he looked at her.

“What’s making you so belligerent all of a sudden?”

“Belligerent? I was just thinking how hard it is for you to show sympathy. You know I haven’t been feeling too well lately. But have I ever noticed a shred of sympathy?” (She wondered, too late, if she ought to have made this admission.)

“You’re perfectly well,” he said, adopting his gruff manner.

Dear Peg:

It’s evident that Tom is doing everything in his power to keep any day from being exactly like the preceding one. He arranges a walk down to the river or a jaunt into “town,” as he calls the nondescript collection of shacks around the market. No matter where we go, I’m expected to snap pictures. Some of it can be fun. The rest is tiring. It’s quite clear that he does all this to keep me from boredom, which means it’s a kind of therapy, which in turn means that he believes I might become a mental case and is afraid. This I find very troubling. It means that there is something between us that can’t be mentioned. It’s embarrassing and makes for tension. I’d like to be able to turn to him and say: “Relax. I’m not about to crack up.” But I can pretty well imagine the disastrous effect such a straightforward statement would have. For him it would only be proof that I was not certain of my mental stability, and of course, all he needs to ruin his year is a jittery sister. Why should there be any question of my being in anything but the best of health? I suppose it’s simply because I’m terrified that he’ll suspect I’m not. I can’t bear the idea of being a spoilsport, or of his thinking that I am.

We were walking, Tom and I, along the edge of the river yesterday. A wide beach of hard dirt. He tries to get me to walk nearer the water
where the ground is softer, saying it’s easier on the bare feet. God knows what parasites live in this water. It seems dangerous enough to me to go barefoot anywhere around here, without going into the water. Tom has very little patience with me when I take care of myself. He claims it’s just part of my generally negative approach to life. Being used to his critical remarks, I let them slide off my duck’s back. He did say one thing which stuck in my mind, which was that extreme self-centeredness invariably caused dissatisfaction and poor health. It’s clear he considers me a paragon of egocentricity. So today when I went up onto the roof I faced him with it. The dialogue went something like this:

“You seem to be under the impression that I’m incapable of being interested in anything besides myself.”

“Yes. That’s the impression I’m under.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so cavalier about it.”

“As long as we’ve started this conversation we might as well push ahead with it. Tell me then; what are you interested in?”

“When you’re asked point-blank like that, it’s hard to pluck something out of the air, you know.”

“But don’t you see that that means you can’t think of anything? And that’s because you have no interests. Apparently you don’t realize feigning interest, kindles interest. Like the old French saying about love being born through making the gestures of love.”

“So you think salvation lies in pretending?”

“Yes, and I’m serious. You’ve never yet looked at my work, much less thought about it.”

“I’ve looked at everything you’ve done here.”

“Looked at. But seen?”

“How do you expect me to appreciate your paintings? I have a poor visual sense. You know that.”

“I don’t care whether you appreciate them, or even like them. We’re not talking about my paintings. We’re talking about you. That’s just a small example. You could take an interest in the servants and their families. Or how the architecture in the town fits the exigencies of the climate. I realize that’s a pretty ridiculous suggestion, but there are a thousand things to care about.”

“Yes, if you care in the first place. Hard to do if you don’t.”

I knew (or felt pretty certain) when I agreed to come here that I was letting myself in for something unpleasant. I realize that I’m writing
now as though there had been some dreadful occurrence, when as a matter of fact nothing whatever has happened. And let’s hope it doesn’t.

Lots of love.

Anita

Hi, Ross! The enclosed shows the view looking south from the roof. It certainly is a lot of nothing. Yet it’s strange how one lone man in such a vast landscape takes on importance. It’s not a place I’d recommend to anybody. I didn’t recommend it even to Anita; she just came. I think she’s happy here—that is, as much as she’s ever happy. Some days she’s crankier than usual, but I disregard that. I don’t think she enjoys celibate life. Too bad she didn’t think of that before she came. Myself, I do very little besides work. I can feel it’s going well. It would take a major act of God to stop me at this point.

Tom

ONE MORNING WHEN
she had finished her breakfast and set her tray on the floor beside her bed, she ran up onto the roof for a little sunlight and fresh air. Normally she was careful not to climb up because Tom sat there most of the day, generally not working, merely sitting. When she once had been thoughtless enough to inquire what he was doing, instead of answering “Communing with nature” or “meditating” as more pretentious painters might have replied, he said: “Getting ideas.” This directness was tantamount to expressing a desire for privacy; so she respected that privacy and seldom went up onto the roof. This morning he gave no sign of minding. “I heard the call to prayer this morning for the first time,” she told him. “It was still dark.”

“Yes, you can sometimes hear that one,” he said, “when there’s no other sound to cover it.”

“It was sort of comforting. Made me feel that things were under control.”

He did not seem to be paying attention. “Listen, Nita, you could do me a great favor, if you will. Yes?”

“Well, sure,” she said, with no idea of what was coming next. It
was something she was not expecting, given his unusual manner of prefacing it.

“Could you go into town and get some films? I want to take a lot more pictures. You know Mother’s been asking for shots of you and me together. I’ve got plenty of photos, but not of us. I’d go myself, but I can’t spare the time. It’s not nine yet. The shop that sells films is on the other side of the market. They don’t shut until ten.”

“But Tom, you seem to forget that I don’t know my way anywhere.”

“Well, Sekou’ll go with you. You won’t get lost. Tell them you want black and white.”

“I know Mother’d rather have them in color.”

“You’re right. Old people and kids like color better. Get two rolls of color and two black and white. Sekou’s waiting for you by the front door.”

She was sorry she needed a guide to show her the shop, and even more sorry that the guide had to be the black man she had already decided was hostile toward her. But it was still early and the air in the street would feel relatively fresh.

“Don’t wear those sandals,” Tom told her, continuing to work, not looking up. “Wear thick socks and regular shoes. God knows what germs are in the dust.”

So she stood at the door in the prescribed footgear, and Sekou came across the courtyard and greeted her in French. His wide smile made her think that perhaps she had been mistaken, that he did not resent her presence in the house after all. And suppose he does? she thought defiantly. There was a limit to the depth at which one could decently bury one’s ego. Beyond that depth the whole game of selflessness became abject. She knew it was in her nature to refuse to admit being a “person.” It was so much simpler to hide in the shadow of neutrality, even when there was no possibility of a confrontation. One could scarcely care about the reactions of an African servant. For in spite of what Tom had told her, she still thought of Sekou as a kind of servant—a factotum, perhaps with the stature of a jester.

It was an insane thing to be doing, walking along the main street of the town, side by side with this tall black man. An unlikely couple, God knows. The idea of being photographed at the moment made her smile. If she were to send a copy of such a picture to her mother she knew
more or less what the reply would be. “The ultimate in exoticism.” She certainly did not feel that this street was exotic or picturesque: it was dirty and squalid.

“He may try to make conversation,” she thought, and determined to pretend not to understand. Then she would have only to smile and shake her head. Presently he did say something which, since she had already decided that there were to be no words between them, she failed to understand. An instant later she heard his phrase with its interrogatory inflection, and realized that he had said:
“Tu n’as pas chaud?”
He had slowed his gait; he was waiting for her reply.

“The hell with it,” she thought, and so she answered his question, but indirectly. Rather than saying: “Yes, I am hot,” she said: “It’s hot.”

Now he stopped walking altogether, and indicated, on their left, an improvised nook between piles of crates, where a table and two chairs had been placed. A large sign was laid across the entire space, creating an inviting area of shade, which quickly grew to be irresistible once one had even entertained the possibility of stepping in and sitting down.

Obsessively, her thoughts turned to her mother. What would be her reaction if she could see her only daughter sitting beside a black man in this dark little refuge? “If he takes advantage of you, remember that you asked for it. It’s just tempting Providence. You can’t treat people like that as equals. They don’t understand it.”

The drink was Pepsi-Cola, surprisingly cold, but unusually sweet. “Ah,” she said, appreciative.

Sekou’s fluent French put her to shame. “How can this be?” she thought, with a certain indignation. Being conscious of her own halting French made it more difficult to engage in conversation. These empty moments when neither of them had anything to say made the silence more apparent, and for her more embarrassing. The sounds of the street—footsteps on the sand, children running and now and then a dog’s bark, were curiously muted by the piles of crates and the covering overhead. It was an astonishingly quiet town, she reflected. Since they had left the house she had not heard the sound of one automobile, even in the distance. But now, as she became aware of listening, she could discern the far-off alternative whining and braying of a motorcycle, sounds she particularly disliked.

Sekou rose and went to pay the owner. She had meant to do that, but
now it seemed quite impossible. She thanked him. Then they were back in the street, and the air was hotter than ever. This was the moment to ask herself why she had allowed Tom to send her off on this absurd errand. It would have been better, she thought, if she had gone to the kitchen and asked the cook not to serve fried potatoes. The woman seemed to consider potatoes, no matter how prepared, a succulent dish, but those available here did not lend themselves to any mode of cooking save perhaps mashing. She had mentioned this to Tom on various occasions, but his opinion was that mashing would be more work for Johara, and that most likely she would not know how to perform the operation properly, so that the result would be less tasty than what she served now.

The insane noise of the motorcycle in imitation of a siren came from a good deal nearer at present. “It’s coming this way,” she thought. If only we could get to the market before it arrives. She had been once with Tom to buy food, and she remembered the colonnades and pillars. No motorcycle could roar through there. “Where is the market?” she demanded suddenly. Sekou gestured. “Ahead.”

Now the dragonlike machine was visible, far up the long street, bouncing and raising a cloud of dust which seemed partly to precede it. Even that far away she could see pedestrians bolting and scurrying to keep out of its way.

The noise was growing unbelievably loud. She had an impulse to cover her ears, like a child. The thing was coming. It was coming straight at them. She jumped to the side of the road just as the motorcyclist braked to avoid hitting Sekou straight on. He had refused to duck and escape its impact. The flamboyant vehicle lay in the dust, partially covering the bare legs and arms of the riders. Two nearly naked youths pulled themselves up, holding their red and yellow helmets in their hands. They glared and shouted at Sekou. She was not surprised to hear American speech.

“You blind?”

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch. We could have killed you.”

As Sekou paid no attention to them, but continued to walk, they became abusive.

“A real downhome uppity nigger.”

Sekou ignored the two with supreme aplomb.