by Paul Bowles
Chapter VI
KIT AWOKE IN A SWEAT with the hot morning sun pouring over her. She stumbled up, closed the curtains, and fell back into bed. The sheets were wet where she had lain. The thought of breakfast turned her stomach. There were days when from the moment she came out of sleep, she could feel doom hanging over her head like a low rain cloud. Those were difficult days to live through, not so much because of the sensation of suspended disaster of which she was acutely conscious then, but because the customary smooth functioning of her system of omens was wholly upset. If on ordinary days on her way out to go shopping she turned her ankle or scraped her shin on the furniture, it was easy to conclude that the shopping expedition would be a failure for one reason or another, or that it might be actually dangerous for her to persist in making it. At least on those days she knew a good omen from a bad one. But the other days were treacherous, for the feeling of doom was so strong that it became a hostile consciousness just behind or beside her, foreseeing her attempts to avoid flying in the face of the evil omens, and thus all too able to set traps for her. In this way what at first sight might seem a propitious sign could easily be nothing more than a kind of bait to lure her into danger. Then, too, the turned ankle could be a thing to disregard in such cases, since it had been brought upon her so that she might abandon her intention of going out, and thus might be at home when the furnace boiler exploded, the house caught on fire, or someone she particularly wanted to avoid stopped by to see her. And in her personal life, in her relationships with her friends, these considerations reached monstrous proportions. She was capable of sitting all morning long, attempting to recall the details of a brief scene or conversation, in order to be able to try out in her mind every possible interpretation of each gesture or sentence, each facial expression or vocal inflection, together with their juxtapositions. A great part of her life was dedicated to the categorizing of omens. And so it is not surprising that when she found it impossible to exercise that function, because of her doubt, her ability to go through the motions of everyday existence was reduced to a minimum. It was as if she had been stricken by a strange paralysis. She had no reactions at all; her entire personality withdrew from sight; she had a haunted look. On these days of doom friends who knew her well would say: “Oh, this is one of Kit’s days.” If on these days she was subdued and seemed most reasonable, it was only because she was imitating mechanically what she considered rational behavior. One reason she had such a strong dislike of hearing dreams recounted was that the telling of them brought straightaway to her attention the struggle that raged in her—the war between reason and atavism. In intellectual discussions she was always the proponent of scientific method; at the same time it was inevitable that she should regard the dream as an omen.
A further complexity was brought to the situation by the fact that also she lived through still other days when vengeance from above seemed the remotest of possibilities. Every sign was good; an unearthly aura of beneficence glowed from behind each person, object and circumstance. On those days, if she permitted herself to act as she felt, Kit could be quite happy. But of late she had begun to believe that such days, which were rare enough, to be sure, were given her only to throw her off her guard, so that she would not be able to deal with her omens. A natural euphoria was then transformed into a nervous and slightly hysterical peevishness. In conversation repeatedly she would catch herself up, trying to pretend that her remarks had been made in wilful jest, when actually they had been uttered with all the venom of which a foul humor is capable.
She was no more disturbed by other people as such, than the marble statue is by the flies that crawl on it; however, as possible harbingers of undesirable events and wielders of unfavorable influence in her own life, she accorded other people supreme importance. She would say: “Other people rule my life,” and it was true. But she allowed them to do it only because her superstitious fancy had invested them with magical importance regarding her own destiny, and never because their personalities awoke any profound sympathy or understanding in her.
A good part of the night she had lain awake, thinking. Her intuition generally let her know when Port was up to something. She told herself always that it did not matter what he did, but she had repeated the statement so often in her mind that long ago she had become suspicious of its truth. It had not been an easy thing to accept the fact that she did care. Against her will she forced herself to admit that she still belonged to Port, even though he did not come to claim her—and that she still lived in a world illumined by the distant light of a possible miracle: he might yet return to her. It made her feel abject, and therefore, of course, furious with herself, to realize that everything depended on him, that she was merely waiting for some unlikely caprice on his part, something which might in some unforeseen manner bring him back. She was far too intelligent to make the slightest effort in that direction herself; even the subtlest means would have failed, and to fail would be far worse than never to have tried. It was merely a question of sitting tight, of being there. Perhaps some day he would see her. But in the meantime so many precious months were going past, unused!
Tunner annoyed her because although his presence and his interest in her provided a classical situation which, if exploited, actually might give results where nothing else could, she was for some reason incapable of playing up to him. He bored her; she involuntarily compared him with Port, and always to Port’s advantage. As she had been lying thinking in the night she had tried again and again to direct her fantasies in such a way as to make Tunner an object of excitement. Naturally this had been a failure. Nevertheless she had resolved to attempt the building of a more intimate relationship with him, despite the fact that even as she had made the decision she was quite aware that not only would it be a thoroughly unsavory chore for her, but also that she would be doing it, as she always did everything that required a conscious effort, for Port.
There was a knock at the door into the hall.
“Oh, God, who is it?” Kit said aloud.
“Me.” It was Tunner’s voice. As usual, he sounded offensively chipper. “Are you awake?”
She scrambled about in the bed, making a loud noise that mingled sighs, flapping sheet, and creaking bedspring. “Not very,” she groaned, at last.
“This is the best time of day. You shouldn’t miss it!” he shouted.
There was a pointed silence, during which she remembered her resolution. In a martyred voice she called: “Just a minute, Tunner.”
“Right!” A minute, an hour—he would wait, and show the same good-natured (and false, she thought) smile when he finally was let in. She dashed cold water into her face, rubbed it with a flimsy turkish towel, put on some lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. Suddenly frantic, she began to look about the room for the right bathrobe. Through the partially open door into Port’s room she caught sight of his big white terry-cloth robe hanging on the wall. She knocked rapidly on the door as she went in, saw that he was not there, and snatched up the robe. As she pulled the belt about her waist in front of her mirror she reflected with satisfaction that no one ever could accuse her of coquetry in having chosen this particular garment. It came to the floor on her, and she had to roll the sleeves back twice to uncover her hands.
She opened the door.
“Hi!”
There was the smile.
“Hello, Tunner,” she said apathetically. “Come in.”
He rumpled her hair with his left hand as he walked past her on his way to the window, where he pulled the curtains aside. “You holding a séance in here? Ah, now I can see you.” The sharp morning light filled the room, the polished floor-tiles reflecting the sun on the ceiling as if they had been water.
“How are you?” she said vacantly as she stood beside the mirror again, combing her hair where he had tousled it.
“Wonderful.” He beamed at her image in the mirror, making his eyes sparkle, and even, she noted with great distaste, moving a certain facial muscle that
emphasized the dimples in his cheeks. “He’s such a fake,” she thought. “What in God’s name’s he doing here with us? Of course, it’s Port’s fault. He’s the one who encouraged him to drag along.”
“What happened to Port last night?” Tunner was saying. “I sort of waited up for him, but he didn’t show up.”
Kit looked at him. “Waited up for him?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Well, we more or less had a date at our café, you know the one. For a nightcap. But no hide, no hair. I got in bed and read until pretty late. He hadn’t come in by three.” This was completely false. Actually Tunner had said: “If you go out, look into the Eckmühl; I’ll probably be in there.” He had gone out shortly after Port, had picked up a French girl and stayed with her at her hotel until five. When he had come back at dawn he had managed to look through the low glass transoms into their rooms, and had seen the empty bed in one and Kit asleep in the other.
“Really?” she said, turning back to the mirror. “He can’t have had much sleep, then, because he’s already gone out.”
“You mean he hasn’t come in yet,” said Tunner, staring at her intently.
She did not answer. “Will you push that button there, please?” she said presently. “I think I’ll have a cup of their chicory and one of those plaster croissants.”
When she thought enough time had passed, she wandered into Port’s room and glanced at the bed. It had been turned down for the night and not touched since. Without knowing precisely why, she pulled the sheet all the way down and sat on the bed for a moment, pushing dents in the pillows with her hands. Then she unfolded the laid-out pajamas and dropped them in a heap at the foot. The servant knocked at her door; she went back into her room and ordered breakfast. When the servant had left she shut the door and sat in the armchair by the window, not looking out.
“You know,” Tunner said musingly, “I’ve thought a lot about it lately. You’re a very curious person. It’s hard to understand you.”
Kit clicked her tongue with exasperation. “Oh, Tunner! Stop trying to be interesting.” Immediately she blamed herself for showing her impatience, and added, smiling: “On you it looks terrible.”
His hurt expression quickly changed into a grin. “No, I mean it. You’re a fascinating case.”
She pursed her lips angrily; she was furious, not so much because of what he was saying, although she considered it all idiotic, but because the idea of having to converse with him at all right now seemed almost more than she could bear. “Probably,” she said.
Breakfast arrived. He sat with her while she drank her coffee and ate her croissant. Her eyes had assumed a dreamy expression, and he had the feeling that she had completely forgotten his presence. When she had nearly finished her breakfast, she turned to him and said politely: “Will you excuse me if I eat?”
He began to laugh. She looked startled.
“Hurry up!” he said. “I want to take you out for a walk before it gets too hot. You had a lot of stuff on your list anyway.”
“Oh!” she moaned. “I don’t feel—” But he cut her short. “Come on, come on. You dress. I’ll wait in Port’s room. I’ll even shut the door.”
She could think of nothing to say. Port never gave her orders; he hung back, hoping thereby to discover what she really wanted. He made it more difficult for her, since she seldom acted on her own desires, behaving instead according to her complex system of balancing those omens to be observed against those to be disregarded.
Tunner had already gone into the adjacent room and closed the door. It gratified Kit to think that he would see the disheveled bedclothes. As she dressed she heard him whistling. “A bore, a bore, a bore!” she said under her breath. At that moment the other door opened; Port stood there in the hall, running his left hand through his hair.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She was staring at him.
“Well, obviously. What’s the matter with you?”
He still stood there.
“What in God’s name’s wrong with you?” she said impatiently.
“Nothing.” His voice rasped. He strode to the center of the room and pointed to the closed connecting door. “Who’s in there?”
“Tunner,” she said with unfeigned innocence, as if it were a most natural occurrence. “He’s waiting for me while I get dressed.”
“What the hell goes on here?”
Kit flushed and turned away vehemently. “Nothing. Nothing,” she said quickly. “Don’t be crazy. What do you think goes on, anyway?”
He did not lower his voice. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
She pushed him in the chest with her outspread hands and walked toward the door to open it, but he caught her arm and pulled her around.
“Please stop it!” she whispered furiously.
“All right, all right. I’ll open the door myself,” he said, as if by allowing her to do it he might be running too great a risk.
He went into his room. Tunner was leaning out the window, looking down. He swung around, smiling broadly. “Well, well!” he began.
Port was staring at the bed. “What is this? What’s the matter with your room that you have to be in here?” he demanded.
But Tunner appeared not to take in the situation at all, or else he refused to admit that there was any. “So! Back from the wars!” he cried. “And do you look it! Kit and I are going for a walk. You probably want some sleep.” He dragged Port over in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself!” he commanded. At the sight of his smeared face and red-rimmed eyes, Port wilted.
“I want some black coffee,” he grumbled. “And I want to go down and get a shave.” Now he raised his voice. “And I wish to hell you’d both get out of here and take your walk.” He pushed the wall button savagely.
Tunner gave him a fraternal pat on the back. “See you later, old man. Get some sleep.”
Port glared at him as he went out, and sat down on the bed when he had gone. A large ship had just steamed into the harbor; its deep whistle sounded below the street noises. He lay back on the bed, gasping a little. When the knocking came at the door, he never heard it. The servant stuck his head in, said: “Monsieur,” waited a few seconds, quietly shut the door and went away.
Chapter VII
HE SLEPT ALL DAY. Kit came back at lunch time; she went in softly, and having coughed once to see if he would wake, went to eat without him. Before twilight he awoke, feeling greatly cleansed. He rose and undressed slowly. In the bathroom he drew a hot tub, bathed at length, shaved, and searched for his white bathrobe. He found it in Kit’s room, but she was not there. On her table was a variety of groceries she had bought to take on the trip. Most of the items were black-market goods from England, and according to the labels they had been manufactured by appointment to H.M. King George VI. He opened a package of biscuits and began to eat one after another, voraciously. Framed by the window, the town below was growing dim. It was that moment of twilight when light objects seem unnaturally bright, and the others are restfully dark. The town’s electricity had not yet been turned on, so that the only lights were those on the few ships anchored in the harbor, itself neither light nor dark—merely an empty area between the buildings and the sky. And to the right were the mountains. The first one coming up out of the sea looked to him like two knees drawn up under a huge sheet. For a fraction of a second, but with such force that he felt the change’s impact as a physical sensation, he was somewhere else, it was long ago. Then he saw the mountains again. He wandered downstairs.