by Paul Bowles
“But, baby, that’s all I’ve got,” the man was protesting. They talked normally now; she could hear them from where she sat.
“No, no,” said Hadija firmly. “More. Give.”
“You don’t care how much you take from a guy, do you? I’m telling you, I haven’t got any more. Look.”
“We go spick you friend in bar. He got.”
“No. You got enough now. That’s damn good money for what you did.”
“Next time I fix——”
“I know! I know!”
They argued. It astonished Eunice to hear an American refusing to part with an extra fifty pesetas under such circumstances. Typically, she decided he must be an extremely vicious man, one who got his true pleasure from just such scenes, to whom it gave a thrill of evil delight to withhold her due from a helpless girl. But it amused her to observe the vigour with which Hadija pursued the discussion. She bet herself drinks for the house that the girl would get the extra money. And after a good deal of pointless talk he agreed to borrow the sum from the friend in the bar. As they opened the door and went out Hadija said: “You good man. I like.” Eunice bit her lip and stood up. More than anything else, that remark made her feel that she was right in suspecting this man of being a particular danger. And now she realized that it was not the possibility of professional relationships on Hadija’s part that distressed her most. It was precisely the fear that things might not remain on that footing. “But I’m an idiot,” she told herself. “Why this man, the very first one I happen to have caught her with?” The important thing was that it be the last; she must take her away. And Madame Papaconstante must not know of it until they were out of the International Zone.
A quarter of an hour later she went out into the hallway; it was grey with the feeble light of dawn which came through the curtain of beads from the bar. There she heard Madame Papaconstante and Hadija arguing bitterly. “You let me go into the very next room!” Hadija was shouting. “You knew she was in there! You wanted her to hear!”
“It’s not my fault she woke up!” cried Madame Papaconstante furiously. “Who do you think you are, yelling at me in my own bar!”
Eunice waited, hoping Madame Papaconstante would go further, say something more drastic, but she remained cautious, obviously not wishing to provoke the girl too deeply—she brought money into the establishment.
Eunice walked quietly down the passageway and stepped into the bar, blinking a little. Her cane was lying across one of the tables. The two ceased speaking and looked at her. She picked up the cane, turned to face them. “Drinks for the house,” she remembered. “Three double gins,” she said to Madame Papaconstante, who went without a word behind the bar and poured them out.
“Take it,” she said to Hadija, holding one of the glasses toward her. With her eyes on Eunice, she obeyed.
“Drink it.”
Hadija did, choking afterward.
Madame Papaconstante hesitated and drank hers, still without speaking.
Eunice placed five hundred pesetas on the bar, and said: “Bonsoir, madame.” To Hadija she said: “Ven.”
Madame Papaconstante stood looking after them as they walked slowly up the street. A large brown rat crept from a doorway opposite and began to make its way along the gutter in the other direction, stopping to sample bits of refuse as it went. The rain fell evenly and quietly.
VI
Wllcox sat on the edge of his bed in his bathrobe. Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was concentrating his attention upon opening a new tin of Gold Flakes; a faint hiss came out as he punctured the top. Rapidly he cut around the edge and removed the light tin disc, which he dropped on the floor beside the table.
“Have one?” he said to Wilcox, holding up the tin to him. The odour of the fresh tobacco was irresistible. Wilcox took a cigarette. Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers did likewise. When both had lights, Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers went on with what he had been saying.
“My dear boy, I don’t want to seem to be asking the impossible, and I think if you try to look at it from my point of view you’ll see soon enough that actually I’m only asking the inevitable. I expect you knew that sooner or later I should require to move sterling here.”
Wilcox looked uncomfortable. He ran his finger along the edge of the ashtray. “Well, yes. I’m not surprised,” he said. Before the other could speak again he went on. “But if you’ll excuse my saying so, I can’t help feeling you’ve chosen a rather crude method of getting it here.”
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers smiled. “Yes. If you like, it’s crude. I don’t think that militates against its success in any way.”
“I wonder,” said Wilcox.
“Why should it?”
“Well, it’s too large a sum to bring in that way.”
“Nonsense!” Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers cried. “Don’t be bound by tradition, my boy. That’s simply superstitious of you. If one can do it that way with a small amount, one can do it in exactly the same way with a larger one. Can’t you see how safe it is? There’s nothing whatever in writing, is there? The number of agents is reduced to a minimum—all I need to be sure of is old Ramlal, his son and you.”
“And all I need to be sure of is that nobody knows it when I go to Ramlal and take out nine thousand pounds in cash. That includes your British currency snoopers as well as the Larbi crowd. And I’d say it’s impossible. They’re bound to know. Somebody’s bound to find out.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers again. “If you’re afraid for your own skin,” he smiled ingratiatingly, fearing that he might be treading on delicate ground, “and you’ve every right to be, of course, why—send someone else to fetch it. You must have somebody around you can trust for a half-hour.”
“Not a soul,” said Wilcox. He had just thought of Dyar. “Let’s have some lunch. We can have it right here in the room. They have some good roast beef downstairs, or had yesterday.” He reached for the telephone.
“Afraid I can’t.” Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was half expecting Wilcox to raise his percentage, and he did not want to do anything which might help put him sufficiently at his ease to make him broach the subject.
“Sure?” said Wilcox.
“No, I can’t,” repeated Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers.
Wilcox took up the telephone. “A whisky?” He lifted the receiver.
“Oh, I think not, thank you.”
“Of course you will,” said Wilcox. “Give me the bar.”
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers rose and stood looking out the window. The wet town below looked freshly built; the harbour and the sky beyond it were a uniform grey. It was raining indifferently. Wilcox was saying: “Manolo? Haig and Haig Pinch, two Perriers and ice for Two Forty Six.” He hung up, and in the same breath went on: “I can do it, but I’ll need another two per cent.”
“Oh, come,” said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers patiently. “I’ve been waiting for you to put it up. But I must say I didn’t expect a two per cent increase. That’s a bit thick. Ramlal ten, and now you want seven.”
“A bit thick? I don’t think so,” said Wilcox. “And I don’t think you’ll think so when you have your nine thousand safely in the Crédit Foncier. It’s all very well for you to keep telling me how easy it is. You’ll be safe in Paris——”
“My dear boy, you probably will think I’m exaggerating when I say I can think of six persons at this moment who I know would be delighted to do it for three per cent.”
Wilcox laughed. “Perfectly true. I can think of plenty who’d do it for one per cent, too, if it comes to that. But you won’t use them.” To himself he was saying that Dyar was the ideal one to use in this connection: he was quite unknown in the town, his innocence of the nature of the transaction was a great advantage, and he could be given the errand as a casual part of his daily work and thus would not have to be paid any commission at all; the entire seven per cent could be kept intact. “You’ll have to meet the man I have in mind, of course, and take him around to young Ramlal yourself. He’s an American.”
“Aha
!” said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, impressed.
Wilcox saw that he would have his way about the percentage. “Commission figures between ourselves, you understand,” he went on.
“Obviously,” said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers in a flat voice, staring at him coldly. He supposed Wilcox intended to keep five and give the man two, which was just what Wilcox intended him to think.
“You can come around to my office this afternoon and size him up, if you like.”
“My dear boy, don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly confident in anyone you suggest. But I still think seven per cent is a bit steep.”
“Well, you come and talk with him,” said Wilcox blandly, feeling certain his client had no desire to discuss the matter with anyone, “and if you don’t like his looks we’ll try and think up someone else. But I’m afraid the seven will have to stand.”
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter came in with the drinks.
•••••
Dyar awoke feeling that he had not really slept at all. He had a confused memory of the morning’s having been divided into many episodes of varying sorts of noise. There had been the gurgling of the plumbing as the early risers bathed and he tried to drop off to sleep, the train that shunted back and forth on the siding between his window and the beach, the chattering of the scrubwomen in the corridor, the Frenchman in the next room who had sung La Vie en Rose over and over while he shaved, showered and dressed. And through it all, like an arhythmical percussive accompaniment, there had been the constant metallic slamming of doors throughout the hotel, each one of which shook the flimsy edifice and resounded through it like a small blast.
He looked at his watch: it was twenty-five past twelve. He groaned; his heart seemed to have moved into his neck and to be beating there. He felt breathless, tense and exhausted. In retrospect the night before seemed a week long. Going to bed by daylight always made him sleep badly. And he was bothered by two things, two ideas that he felt lodged in the pit of his stomach like unwanted food. He had spent twenty dollars during the evening, which meant that he now had four hundred and sixty dollars left, and he had borrowed a hundred pesetas from an Arab, which meant that he had to see the Arab again.
“Goddam idiot!” he said as he got out of bed to look in his bags for the aspirin. He took three, had a quick shower, and lay down again to relax. A chambermaid, having heard the shower running, knocked on the door to see when she could make up the room. “Who is it?” he yelled, and not understanding her reply, did not get up to let her in. Presently he opened his eyes again and discovered that it was twenty minutes past two. Still not feeling too well, he dressed and went down into the lobby. The boy at the desk handed him a slip that read: Llamar a la Sra. Debalberde 28–01. He looked at it apathetically, thinking it must be for someone else. Stepping outside, he began to walk along the street without paying attention to where he was going. It was good to be in the air. The rain dripped out of the low sky in a desultory fashion, as if it were falling from invisible eaves overhead.
Suddenly he realized he was extremely hungry. He raised his head and looked around, decided there would be no restaurant in the vicinity. A half-mile or so ahead of him, sprawling over a hill that jutted into the harbour, was the native town. At his right the small waves broke quietly along the deserted beach. He turned to his left up one of the many steep streets that led over the hill. Like the others, it was lined with large new apartment houses, some of which were still under construction but inhabited, none the less. Near the top of the hill he came to a modest-looking hotel with the word Restaurant printed over the doorway. In the dining-room, where a radio roared, several people were eating. The tables were small. He sat down and looked at the typewritten card at his place. It was headed Menu à 30 p. He counted his money and grinned a little to see that he still had thirty-five pesetas. As he ate his hors-d’œuvre he found his hunger growing rapidly; he began to feel much better. During the merlans frits he pulled out the piece of paper the boy at the desk had given him and studied it absently. The name conveyed nothing to him; suddenly he saw that it was a message from Daisy de Valverde. “Radio Internacional”, boomed the imbecilic girl’s voice. A harp glissando followed. He had no particular desire to see his hostess of last night, or to see anyone, for that matter. At the moment he felt like being alone, having an opportunity to accustom himself to the strangeness of the town. But for fear she might be waiting for his call he went out into the lobby and asked the desk clerk to make the call for him. “Veinteyochocerouno,” he heard him shout several times, and he wondered if he would ever be able even to make a telephone call by himself. After the man handed the instrument to him he had to wait a long time for her to come to the phone.
“Dear Mr. Dyar! How kind of you to ring me! Did you get back safely last night? What vile weather! You’re seeing the place at its very worst. But keep a stiff upper lip. One of these days the sun will be out and dry up all this fearful damp. I can’t wait. Jack is very naughty. He hasn’t telephoned me. Are you there? If you see him, tell him I’m rather put out with him. Oh, I wanted to tell you, Tambang is better. He drank a little milk. Isn’t that wonderful news? So you see, our little excursion to his room did some good.” (He tried to dismiss the memory of the airless room, the needles and the smell of ether.) “Mr. Dyar, I want very much to see you.” For the first time she paused to let him speak. He said: “Today?” and heard her laugh. “Yes, of course today. Naturally. I’m insatiable, yes?” As he stammered protests she continued. “But I don’t want to go to Jack’s office for a particular reason I shall have to tell you when I see you. I was thinking, we might meet at the Faro Bar on the Place de France. It’s just around the corner from the tourist bureau. Darling old snobbish Jack wouldn’t be caught dead in the place, so we shall be running no risk of seeing him. You can’t miss it. Just ask anyone.” She spelled out the name for him. “It’s sweet of you to come. Shall we say about seven? Jack closes that establishment of his at half-past six. I have so much to talk to you about. And one enormous favour to ask you, which you don’t have to grant if you don’t want.” She laughed. “The Faro at seven.” And as he was trying to decide quickly how to word his bread-and-butter phrase for last night’s hospitality, he realized that she had hung up. He felt the blood rush to his face; he should have got the sentence in somehow at the beginning of the call. The man at the desk asked him for one peseta fifty. He went back to his table annoyed with himself, and wondering what she thought of him.
The bill was for thirty-three pesetas, including the service. He had fifty centimos left, which he certainly could not leave as a tip. He left nothing, and walked out whistling innocently in the face of the waiter’s accusing stare. But after he had gone a short way he stopped under the awning of a tobacco-shop and took out his two little folders of American Express cheques. There was a book of fifties and one of twenties. On the ship he had counted the cheques every few days; it made him feel a little less poor to see them and reckon their aggregate. He would have to stop into a bank now and get some money, but the examination of his fortune was to be done in the privacy of the street. Whatever one wants to do in a bank, there are always too many people there watching. There would be six left in the first book (he counted them and snapped the cover shut) which meant eight in the other. He shuffled them almost carelessly, and then immediately went through them again, to be certain. His expression became intense, he now counted them with caution, pushing his thumb against the edge of each sheet to separate a possible two. He still found only seven. Now he looked at the serial numbers: it was undeniable that he had only seven twenty-dollar cheques—not eight. Four hundred and forty dollars. His face assumed an expression of consternation as he continued to recount the cheques uselessly, automatically, as though it were still an instant before he had made the discovery, as though it were still possible for something different to happen. In his mind he was trying to recall the time and place of the cashing of each cheque. And now he remembered: he had needed an extr
a twenty dollars on board the ship, for tips. The remembering, however, did not make the new figure emotionally acceptable; he put his cheques away profoundly troubled, and began to walk along looking down at the pavement.
There were many banks, and each one he came to was closed.
“Too late,” he thought, grimly. “Of course.”
He went on, found Wilcox’s office easily. It was upstairs over a large tea-room, and the entire building smelled appetizingly of pastries and coffee. Wilcox was there, and made him feel a little better by saying with a wide gesture: “Well, here’s your cage.” He had half expected him to make some sort of drastic announcement like: “Listen, old man, I guess it’s up to me to make a confession. I’m not going to be able to use you here. You can see for yourself why it’s out of the question.” And then he might have offered to pay his fare back to New York, or perhaps not even that. Certainly Dyar would not have been extremely astonished; such behaviour would have been in keeping with his own feeling about the whole undertaking. He was prepared for just such a bitter blow. But Wilcox said: “Sit down. Take the load off your feet. Nobody’s been in yet today, so there’s no reason to think they’ll come in now.” Dyar sat down in the chair facing Wilcox at his desk, and looked around. The two rooms were uncomfortably small. In the antechamber, which had no window, there were a couch and a low table, piled with travel booklets. The office room had a window which gave on to a narrow court; besides the desk and the two chairs there was a green filing cabinet. The room’s inhospitable bareness was tempered by the coloured maps covering the walls, drawing the eye inevitably to their irregular contours.