Let It Come Down

by Paul Bowles

  “They’re rather sweeter than goldfish,” said Daisy, but in such a way that Dyar suspected she loathed them. He had never met anyone like her; she gave the impression of remaining uninvolved in whatever she said or did. It was as if she were playing an intricate game whose rules she had devised herself.

  During salad there was a commotion somewhere back in the house: muffled female voices and hurrying footsteps. Daisy set down her fork and looked around the table at the three men.

  “God! I know what that is. I’m sure of it. This storm has brought in the ants.” She turned to Dyar. “Every year they come in by the millions, the tiniest ones. When you first see them on the wall you’d swear it was an enormous crack. When you go nearer it looks more like a rope. Positively seething. They all stick together. Millions. It’s terrifying.” She rose. “Do forgive me; I must go and see what’s happening.”

  Dyar said: “Is there anything I can do?” and got a fleeting glance of disapproval from Wilcox.

  She smiled. “No, darling. Eat your salad.”

  Daisy was gone nearly ten minutes. When she returned she was laughing. “Ah, the joys of living in Morocco!” she said blithely. “The ants again?” asked the Marqués. “Oh, yes. This time it’s the maids’ sewing-room. Last year it was the pantry. That was much worse. And they had to shovel the corpses out.” She resumed eating her salad and her face grew serious. “Luis, I’m afraid poor old Tambang isn’t long for this world. I looked in on him. It seemed to me he was worse.”

  The Marqués nodded his head. “Give him more penicillin.”

  Daisy turned to Dyar. “It’s an old Siamese I’m trying to save. He’s awfully ill. We’ll go and see him after dinner. Luis refuses to go near him. He hates cats. I’m sure you don’t hate cats, do you, Mr. Dyar?”

  “Oh, I like all kinds of animals.” He turned his head and saw the octopus. It had not moved, but a second one had appeared and was swaying loosely along the floor of the tank. It looked like something floating in a jar of formaldehyde—a stomach, perhaps, or a pancreas. The sight of it made him feel vaguely ill, or else it was the mixture of sidecars and champagne.

  “Then you won’t mind helping me with him, will you?” pursued Daisy.

  “Be delighted.”

  “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” said Wilcox, laughing unpleasantly.

  “Nonsense!” Daisy exclaimed. “He’ll wear enormous thick gloves. Even Tambang can’t claw through those.”

  “The hell he can’t! And he’s got teeth too, hasn’t he?”

  “Just for this,” said the Marqués, “we must make Jack go and be the attendant.”

  “No,” Daisy said firmly. “Mr. Dyar is coming with me. Does anyone want fruit? I suggest we go in and have coffee immediately. We’ll have our brandy afterward when we come down.” She rose from the table.

  “You’ll need it,” said Wilcox.

  From the drawing-room now they could hear the storm blowing louder than before. Daisy gulped her coffee standing up, lit a cigarette, and went toward the door.

  “Tell Mario to keep the fire blazing, Luis, or it’ll begin to smoke. It’s already begun, in fact. Shall we go up, Mr. Dyar?”

  She went ahead of him up the stairs. As she passed each candelabrum the highlights of her satin flashed.

  From a small cloakroom at the head of the stairs she took two pairs of thick gardening gloves and gave one to Dyar.

  “We don’t really need these,” she said, “but it’s better to be protected.”

  The walls of the little room were lined with old French prints of tropical birds. On an antique bed with a torn canopy over it lay a large Siamese cat. An enamel pan containing lumps of raw liver had been pushed against its head, but it looked wearily in the other direction. The room smelled like a zoo. “God, what a fug!” Daisy exclaimed. “But we can’t open the window.” The storm raged outside. From time to time the house trembled. A branch beat repeatedly against the window like a person asking to be let in. The cat paid no attention while Daisy filed off the ends of an ampoule, filled the syringe, and felt along its haunches for the right spot.

  “He’s got to have four different injections,” she said, “but I can give the first two together. Now, stand above, and be ready to push down on his neck, but don’t push unless you have to. Scratch him under the chin.”

  The old cat’s fur was matted, its eyes were huge and empty. Once as the needle flashed above its head Dyar thought he saw an expression of alertness, even of fear, cross its face, but he scratched harder, with both hands, under the ears and along the jowls. Even when the needle went in tentatively, and then further in, it did not move.

  “Now we have only two more,” said Daisy. Dyar watched the sureness of her gestures. No veterinarian could have been more deft. He said as much. She snorted. “The only good vets are amateurs. I wouldn’t let a professional touch an animal of mine.” The odour of ether was very strong. “Is that ether?” Dyar asked; he was feeling alarmingly ill. “Yes, for sterilizing.” She had filled the syringe again. “Now, hold him.” The wind roared; it seemed as though the branch would crack the windowpane. “This may burn. He may feel it.” Dyar looked up at the window; he could see his own head reflected vaguely against the night beyond. He thought he might throw up if he had to watch the needle go into the fur again. Only when Daisy stepped away from the bed did he dare lower his gaze. The cat’s eyes were half shut. He bent down: it was purring.

  “Poor old beast,” said Daisy. “Now for the last. This will be easy. Tambang, sweet boy, what is it?”

  “He’s purring,” said Dyar, hoping she would not look at his face. His lips felt icy, and he knew he must be very pale.

  “You see how right I was to bring you? He likes you. Jack would have antagonized him in some way.”

  She did look at him, and he thought her eyes stayed an instant too long. But she said nothing.

  “Don’t tell me he’s going to faint,” she thought. “The wretched man is completely out of contact with life.” But he was making a great effort.

  “The cat doesn’t seem to feel anything,” he said.

  “No, I’m afraid he won’t live.”

  “But he’s purring.”

  “Will you hold him, please? This is the last.”

  He wanted to talk, to take his mind off his dizziness, away from what was going on just below his face on the bed. He could think of nothing to say, so he kept silent. The cat stirred slightly. Daisy straightened up, and at the same moment there was a splitting sound and a heavy crash somewhere outside in the darkness. They looked at each other. Daisy set the syringe on the table.

  “I know what that was. One of our eucalyptus trees. God, what a night!” she said admiringly.

  They shut the door and went downstairs. In the drawing-room there was no one. “I daresay they’ve gone out to look. Let’s go into the library. The fireplace draws better in there. This one’s smoking.”

  The library was small and pleasant; the fire crackled. She pushed a wall button and they sat down on the divan. She looked at him, musing.

  “Jack told me you were coming, but somehow I never thought you’d actually arrive.”

  “Why not?” He felt a little better now.

  “Oh, you know. Such things have a way of not coming off. Frightfully good idea that misses fire. And then, of course, I can’t see really why Jack needs anyone there in that little office.”

  “You mean it’s not doing well?” He tried to keep his voice even.

  She laid a hand on his arm and laughed. As though she were imparting a rather shameful secret, she said in a low voice: “My dear, if you think he makes even his luncheon money there, you’re gravely mistaken.”

  She was studying him too carefully, trying to see the effect of her words. He would refuse to react. He felt hot all over but did not speak. Hugo entered carrying a tray of bottles and glasses. They both took brandy, and he set the tray down on a table at Dyar’s elbow and went out.
/>   She was still looking at him.

  “Oh, it’s not going well,” he said. He would not say what he was sure she was waiting for him to say: “How does he keep going?”

  “Not at all. It never has.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dyar.

  “There’s no need to be. If it had gone well I daresay he wouldn’t have sent for you. He’d have had just about all he could manage by himself. As it is, I expect he needs you far more.”

  Dyar made a puzzled face. “I don’t follow that.”

  Daisy looked pleased. “Tangier, Tangier,” she said. “You’ll follow soon enough, my pet.”

  They heard voices in the hall.

  “You’ll be wanting a good many books to read, I should think,” she said. “Do feel free to borrow anything here that interests you. Of course there’s a circulating library run by the American Legation that’s far better than the English library. But they take ages to get the new books.”

  “I don’t read much,” said Dyar.

  “But my dear lamb, whatever are you going to do all day? You’ll be bored to distraction.”

  “Oh, well. Jack——”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “I think you’ll be alone from morning to night every day.”

  The voices were no longer audible. “They’ve gone into the kitchen,” she said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, held it up to her.

  “No, thank you. I have some. But seriously, I can’t think what you’ll do all day, you know.” She felt in her bag and withdrew a small gold case.

  “I’ll probably have work to do,” he replied, getting a match to the end of her cigarette before she could lift her lighter.

  She laughed shortly, blew out the flame, and seized his hand, the match still between his fingers. “Let me see that hand,” she said, puffing on her cigarette. Dyar smiled and held his palm out stiffly for her to examine. “Relax it,” she said, drawing the hand nearer to her face.

  “Work!” she scoffed. “I see no sign of it here, my dear Mr. Dyar.”

  He was incensed. “Well, it’s a liar, then. Work is all I’ve ever done.”

  “Oh, standing in a bank, perhaps, but that’s so light it wouldn’t show.” She looked carefully, pushing the flesh of the hand with her fingers. “No. I see no sign of work. No sign of anything, to be quite honest. I’ve never seen such an empty hand. It’s terrifying.” She looked up at him.

  Again he laughed. “You’re stumped, are you?”

  “Not at all. I’ve lived in America long enough to have seen a good many American hands. All I can say is that this is the worst.”

  He pretended great indignation, withdrawing his hand forcibly. “What do you mean, worst?” he cried.

  She looked at him with infinite concern in her eyes. “I mean,” she said, “that you have an empty life. No pattern. And nothing in you to give you any purpose. Most people can’t help following some kind of design. They do it automatically because it’s in their nature. It’s that that saves them, pulls them up short. They can’t help themselves. But you’re safe from being saved.”

  “A unique specimen. Is that it?”

  “In a way.” She searched his face questioningly for a moment. “How odd,” she murmured presently. This empty quality in him pleased her. It was rather as if he were naked—not defenceless, exactly—merely unclothed, ready to react, and she found it attractive; men should be like that. But it struck her as strange that she should think so.

  “How odd what?” he inquired. “That I should be unique?” He could see that she believed all she was saying, and since it was flattering to have the attention being paid him, he was ready to argue with her, if necessary, just to prolong it.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never been able to believe all this astrology and palmistry business,” he said. “It doesn’t hold water.”

  She did not answer, and so he continued. “Let’s leave hands for a minute and get down to personalities.” The brandy was warming him; he felt far from ill now. “You mean you think each individual man’s life is different and has its own pattern, as you call it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But that’s impossible!” he cried. “It stands to reason. Just look around you. There never was any mass production to compare with the one that turns out human beings—all the same model, year after year, century after century, all alike, always the same person.” He felt a little exalted at the sound of his own voice. “You might say there’s only one person in the world, and we’re all it.”

  She was silent for a moment; then she said: “Rubbish.” What he was saying made her vaguely angry. She wondered if it were because she resented his daring to express his ideas at all, but she did not think it was that.

  “Look, my pet,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “just what do you want in life?”

  “That’s a hard question,” he said slowly. She had taken the wind out of his sails. “I suppose I want to feel I’m getting something out of it.”

  She was impatient. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I want to feel I’m alive, I guess. That’s about all.”

  “Great God in heaven! Give me some more brandy.”

  They let the subject drop, turning to the storm and the climate in general. He was thinking that he should have answered anything that came to mind: money, happiness, health, rather than trying to say what he really meant. As an accompaniment to these thoughts there recurred the image of his room back at the Hotel de la Playa, with its spotted bedspread, its washstand that gurgled.

  “He has nothing, he wants nothing, he is nothing,” thought Daisy. She felt she ought to be sorry for him, but somehow he did not evoke pity in her—rather, a slight rancour which neutralized her other emotions. Finally she stood up. “We must see what has happened to Luis and Jack.”

  They found them in the drawing-room talking.

  “Which eucalyptus was it?” said Daisy. “I know it was one of them.”

  The Marqués frowned. “The great one by the gate. It’s not the whole tree. Only one branch, but a big one, the one overhanging the road. The road is blocked.”

  “Why do they always manage to fall into the road?” demanded Daisy.

  “I don’t know,” said Wilcox. “But it screws me up fine. How am I going to get out of here?”

  She laughed merrily. “You and Mr. Dyar,” she said, with very clear enunciation, “will spend the night, and in the morning you’ll call for a taxi. It’s that simple.”

  “Out of the question,” said Wilcox irritably.

  “I assure you no taxi will come now, in this weather. That goes without saying. And it’s eight kilometres to walk.”

  He had no answer to this.

  “There are plenty of rooms for just such emergencies. Now, stop fretting and make me a whisky and soda.” She turned to Dyar and beamed.

  When she had been served, Wilcox said shortly: “What about it, Dyar? Same for you?” Dyar looked quickly at him, saw that he seemed annoyed. “Please.” Wilcox handed him his drink without turning to face him. “That’s easy,” Dyar thought. “He’s afraid I’m getting on too well with her.”

  They talked about the house. “You must come back sometime during the daylight and see the rose garden,” said Daisy. “We have the most divine rose garden.”

  “But what you’ve really got to see is that glass bedroom,” said Wilcox, leaning back in his chair and yawning toward the ceiling. “Have you seen that?”

  The Marqués laughed uncomfortably.

  “No, he hasn’t,” Daisy said. She rose, took Dyar’s arm. “Come along and see it. It’s a perfect opportunity. Jack and Luis will discuss the week’s bankruptcies.”

  The bedroom reminded Dyar of a vast round greenhouse. He scuffed at the zebra skins scattered about on the shining black marble floor. The bed was very wide and low; its heavy white satin spread had been partially pulled back and the sheets were turned down. The place was a gesture of defiance against
the elements that clamoured outside the glass walls; it made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Anybody could see in, I should think,” he ventured.

  “If they can see all the way from Spain.” She stood staring down toward the invisible waves that broke on the rocks below. “This is my favourite room in the world,” she declared. “I’ve never been able to abide being away from the sea. I’m like a sailor, really. I take it for granted that salt water is the earth’s natural covering. I must be able to see it. Always.” She breathed deeply.

  “What’s this act all about?” he thought.

  “It’s a wonderful room,” he said.

  “There are orange trees down in the garden. I call the place Hesperides because it’s here to this mountain that Hercules is supposed to have come to steal the golden apples.”

  “Is that right?” He tried to sound interested and impressed. Since he had started on the whisky he had been sleepy. He had the impression that Wilcox and the Marqués would be coming upstairs any minute; when they came he felt that Daisy and he ought not to be found standing here in her bedroom in this tentative, absurd attitude. He saw her stifle a yawn; she had no desire to be showing him the room, anyway. It was merely to irk Wilcox, a game they were in together. It occurred to him then that it might be fun to play around a little with her, to see which way the wind was blowing. But he was not sure how to begin; she was a little overwhelming. Something like: “That’s a big bed for one small person.” She would probably reply: “But Luis and I sleep here, my dear.” Whatever he said or did she would probably laugh.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. He started a bit. “You’re sleepy, poor man. You’d like to go to bed.”

  B

  “Oh,” he said. “Well——”

  A youngish woman hurried into the room, calling: “On peut entrer?” Her clothes were very wet, her face glistened with rain. She and Daisy began a lively conversation in French, scraps of which were thrown to Dyar now and then. She was Daisy’s secretary, she was just returning from a dance, the taxi had been obliged to stop below the fallen tree, but the driver had been kind enough to walk with her to the house and was downstairs now having a cognac, she was soaked through, and did anyone want the cab?