The Stories of Paul Bowles (78 page)

From her side of the road Anita stepped forth to face them. “If we’re
going to talk about who might be killed by your impossible apparatus, I’m first on the list. You came straight at me. Isn’t that what’s known as sowing panic? Does it make you feel better to frighten people?”

“Sorry we scared you, ma’am. That wasn’t what we had in mind.”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t.” Now being startled had turned to being indignant. “I’ll bet what you had in mind was one big zero.” She had not heard the apology. “You’ve gone too far from home, my friends, and you’re going to have trouble.”

A leer. “Oh yeah?”

She could feel her anger pushing up inside her. “Yeah!” she cried. “Trouble! And I hope I’ll have a chance to see it.” A moment later she spat: “Monsters.”

Sekou, who had not even glanced at them once, now stopped and turned to see if she were coming. As she caught up with him, he remarked without looking at her that tourists were always ignorant.

When they got to the shop that sold films, she was surprised to find it being run by a middle-aged French woman. If Anita had not been breathless with rage and excitement, she would have liked to engage the woman in conversation: to ask how long she had been living here and what her life was like. The moment was not propitious for such a move.

As they walked back toward the house in the increasing heat, there was no sign or sound of the hellish machine. She noticed that Sekou was limping a bit, and looked carefully at him. There was blood on the lower part of his white robe, and she realized that the motorcycle had collided with his leg. Her appraisal seemed to annoy him; she could not bring herself to ask to see the injury, or even to speak of it.

AT LUNCH
she avoided all mention of the motorcycle accident.

“It wasn’t too far, was it?”

“It was hot,” she replied.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tom said at length. “This house would be so cheap to buy. It would be worthwhile. I wouldn’t mind coming here regularly.”

“I think you’d be out of your mind!” she cried. “You could never really live here. It’s an uncomfortable temporary campsite, nothing more.
Anyway, whatever property you buy in a third-world country is lost before you even pay for it. You know that. Renting makes sense. Then when things go crazy, you’re free.”

Johara stood beside her, offering her more creamed onions. She served herself.

“Things don’t always go crazy,” Tom said.

“Oh, yes they do!” she cried. “In these countries? It’s inescapable.”

After a bit, she went on. “Well, of course. You’ll do as you please. I don’t suppose you’d lose much.”

While they were having fruit, Anita volunteered: “I dreamed of Mother last night.”

“You did?” said Tom without interest. “What was she doing?”

“Oh, I can’t even remember. But when I woke up I began thinking about her. You know she had absolutely no sense of humor, and yet she could be very funny. I remember she was giving a rather fancy dinner one night, and suddenly she turned to you and said: ‘How old are you, Tom?’ And you said: ‘Twenty-six.’ She waited a little, and then said: ‘When William the Silent was your age he had conquered half of Europe.’ And she sounded so disgusted that everyone at the table burst out laughing. Do you remember? I still think that’s funny, although I’m sure she didn’t mean it to be.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. I think she was playing to the gallery. She couldn’t laugh herself, naturally. Too dignified. But she wasn’t above making others laugh.”

ANOTHER DAY
they sat on the floor having breakfast in Tom’s room. The cook had just brought them more toast.

“I’d like to drive a few miles down the river and have a look at the next village,” said Tom, signalling to the cook to wait. “How about it? I can rent. Bessier’s old truck. How does that strike you?”

“I’m game,” she said. “The road’s straight and flat, isn’t it?”

“We won’t get lost. Or stuck in the sand.”

“Is there something special you want to see?”

“I just need to see something else. The smallest change gives me all sorts of new ideas.”

They agreed to go the following day. When he asked Johara to prepare
them a
casse-croûte,
she became excited upon hearing that they planned to go to Gargouna. Her sister lived there, she said, and she gave Tom instructions as to how to find her house, along with messages she hoped he would deliver.

The little truck had no cabin. They were cooled by the breeze they created. It was stimulating to be driving along the edge of the river in the early morning air. The road was completely flat, with no potholes or obstacles.

“It’s fine now,” said Tom, “but it won’t be so good coming back, with nothing between us and the sun.”

“We’ve got our topis,” she reminded him, glancing at the two helmets on the seat between them. She had with her a pair of powerful field glasses, bought in Kobe the previous year, and in spite of the movement she kept them trained on the river where men fished and women bathed.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Tom.

“It’s certainly a lot prettier with the black bodies than it would be if they were all whites.”

This was only moderate enthusiasm, but it seemed to please him. He was very eager for her to appreciate the Niger Valley. But at the moment he was intent on not passing the road on the left that led to Gargouna. “Fifty kilometres, more or less,” he murmured. Soon he said: “Here it is, but I’m not going to risk that sand.” He stopped the truck and shut off the motor. The silence was overpowering. They sat without moving. Occasionally there was a cry from the river, but the open and wide landscape made the voices sound like birdcries.

“One of us has to stay with the car, and that’s you.”

Tom jumped down. “I’m going to do it on foot, find the village and Johara’s sister. It ought to take ten minutes, not much more. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?” They had not seen another vehicle since setting out. “We’re right in the middle of the road,” she told him.

“I know, but if I move off to the right, I’ll be in the sand. That’s the one thing I don’t want. If it makes you nervous, get out and walk around. It’s not hot yet.”

She was not afraid to have been left alone, but she was nervous. This was one occasion when Tom could have brought along one of the several men who spent their days sitting in the kitchen. It suddenly occurred to her that she had not seen Sekou since the day of the motorcycle incident,
and this made her wonder how badly his leg or foot had been hurt. Thinking of him, she got down and began to walk along the same path Tom had taken. She could not see him ahead, because the region was one of low dunes with occasional thorn bushes. She wondered why it was impossible for the sky here to be really blue, why instead it always had a gray tinge.

Thinking that she might get a glimpse of Gargouna, she climbed one of the small hills of sand, but had a view only of rather larger thorn bushes ahead. She was particularly eager to see the village; she could imagine it: a group of circular huts lying fairly far apart, each with a cleared space around it, where poultry pecked in the sand. She turned to the right, where the dunes appeared to be somewhat higher, and followed a kind of path which led over and around them. There were little valleys between the dunes, some of them quite deep. The crests of the dunes all seemed to run parallel to each other, so that it was difficult to get from one dune to the next without going down and then climbing immediately. There was one dune not far ahead which dominated the others, and from which she felt certain she could see the truck waiting in the road. She reached it and stood atop it, a bit breathless. With the aid of the field glasses she saw that the truck was there, and to the left in the distance there were a few leafless trees. The village was in that direction, she supposed. Then, looking across into the depression between two dunes, she saw something that accelerated the beating of her heart, a senseless sculpture in vermillion enamel and chromium. There were large boulders down there; the cycle had skidded, hurling the suntanned torsos against the rocks. The machine was twisted grotesquely and the two bodies were jumbled together and uniformly spattered with blood. They were not in a condition to call for help; they lay motionless there in the declivity, invisible to all save to one who might stand exactly where she was standing. She turned and ran quickly down the side of the dune. “Monsters,” she muttered, but without in dignation.

She was sitting in the truck when Tom returned. “Did you find her, Johara’s sister?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a tiny village. Everybody knows everybody, of course. Let’s eat. Here or down the shore?”

Her heart was still beating rapidly and with force. She said: “Let’s go down to the river. There might be a little breeze down there.” She was
surprised now to recall that her first feeling upon seeing the wreck of the motorcycle had been one of elation. She could still induce the little chill of pleasure that had run through her at that instant. As they walked along the shore, she was thankful once again that she had never mentioned to Tom the confrontation with the two Americans.

“ARE YOU SLEEPING
better now?” Tom asked her.

She hesitated. “Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“I have a problem,” she sighed.

“A problem?”

“Oh, I might as well tell you.”

“Of course.”

“Tom, I think Sekou comes to my room at night.”

“What?” he cried. “You’re crazy. What do you mean, he comes to your room?”

“Just that.”

“What does he do? Does he say anything?”

“No, no. He just stands beside my bed in the dark.”

“That’s insane.”

“I know.”

“You’ve never seen him?”

“How could I? It’s pitch dark.”

“You’ve got a flashlight.”

“Oh, that terrifies me more than anything. To turn it on and actually see him. Who knows what he’d do then, once he knew I’d seen him.”

“He’s not a criminal. God, why are you so damned nervous? You’re safer here than you would be anywhere back in New York.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But that’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point?You think he comes and stands by your bed. Why do you think he does that?”

“That’s the worst part of all. I can’t tell you. It’s too frightening.”

“Why? Do you think he’s planning to rape you?”

“Oh, no! It’s nothing like that. What I feel is that he’s
willing
me to dream. He’s willing me to dream a dream I can’t bear.”

“A dream about him?”

“No. He’s not even in the dream.”

Tom was exasperated. “But what is this? What are we talking about, finally? You say Sekou wants you to have a certain dream, and you have it. So then he comes the next night, and you’re afraid you’ll have it again. According to you, why does he do this? I mean, what interest would he have in doing it?”

“I don’t know. That makes it more horrible. I know you think it’s ridiculous. Or you think I’m imagining it all.”

“No, I don’t say that. But since you’ve never seen anything, how can you be sure it’s Sekou and not somebody else?”

Later in the day he said to her, “Anita, are you taking vitamins?”

She laughed. “Lord, yes. Dr. Kirk gave me all kinds. Vitamins and minerals. He said the soil here probably was deficient in mineral salts. Oh, I’m sure you think I have some sort of chemical imbalance that causes the dreaming. That could be. But it isn’t the dream itself that scares me. Although God knows it’s too repulsive to talk about.”

He interrupted. “Is it sexual?”

“If it were,” she said, “it would be a lot easier to describe. The thing is, I
can’t
describe it.” She shuddered. “It’s too confusing. And it makes me feel sick to think of it.”

“Maybe you should let me be your analyst. What happens during the dream?”

“Nothing happens. I only know something terrible is on its way. But as I say, it’s not the dream that bothers me. It’s knowing I’m being obliged to have it, knowing that black man is standing there inventing it and forcing me into it. That’s too much.”

A WOODEN SIGN
,
nailed above a wooden door, with the words
Yindall & Fambers, Apothecaries
painted on it. Inside, a counter, an athletic young man standing behind it. At first glance he looks naked, but he is wearing red and blue shorts. Instead of saying: “Hi, I’m Bud,” he says: “I’m Mr. Yindall. May I help you?” The voice is dry and gray.

“I want a small bottle of Sweet Spirits of Nitre and a box of Slippery Elm lozenges.”

“Right away.” But something is wrong with his face. He turns to go
into the back room, hesitates. “You haven’t come to see Mr. Yindall, have you?”

“But you said you were Mr. Yindall.”

“He gets mixed up sometimes. As a rule he doesn’t admit people.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to see him.”

“But you do.” He reaches across the counter, and a hand of steel takes hold. “He’s waiting in the basement. Fambers speaking.”

“I don’t want to see Mr. Yindall, thank you.”

“It’s too late to say that.”

A portion of the counter is on hinges. He lifts it up to allow passage, still pressing with a hand of steel.

Protestations all the way to the cellar. A chromium throne against one wall shining in the glare of spotlights trained upon it. Two muscular thighs growing from a man’s shoulders, the legs bent at the knees. Between the thighs a thick neck from which the head has been severed. The arms, attached to the hips, hang loosely, the fingers twitching.

“This is Mr. Fambers. He can’t see you, of course. His head had to be removed. It got in the way. But his neck is filled with highly sensitive protoplasm. If you bite it or even nibble it, you establish instant communication. Just lean over and push your mouth into his neck.”

The hand of steel guides. The substance inside the neck feels like water-soaked bread, its slightly sulfurous odor is like that of turnips.

“Push with your tongue. Don’t gag.”

At the first pressure of the tongue, the substance in the neck pulses, bubbles, splashes warm liquid upward.