Let It Come Down

by Paul Bowles

  Under the trees of the Zoco de Fuera the chestnut vendors’ fires made a fog of heavy, rich smoke. From time to time a rough gust of wind reached down and scooped the top layer out into the air above the trees, where it dissolved. He looked suspiciously at the objects offered for sale, spread out in patterns and mounds on the stone slabs of the market. There were little truncated bamboo tubes filled with kohl, an infinite variety of roots, resins and powders, rams’ horns and porcupine skins, heavy with quills, and an impressive assortment of claws, bones, beaks and feathers. As the rain fell with more determination, those women whose wares were not protected by umbrellas began to gather them up preparatory to moving off toward more sheltered places. He still felt coreless; he was no one, and he was standing here in the middle of no country. The place was counterfeit, a waiting-room between connections, a transition from one way of being to another, which for the moment was neither way, no way. The Arabs loped by in their rehabilitated European footgear which made it impossible for them to walk in a natural fashion, jostled him, stared at him, and tried to speak with him, but he paid them no attention. The new municipal buses moved into the square, unloaded, loaded, moved out, on their way to the edges of the city. A little way beyond the edges of the city was the border of the International Zone, and beyond that were the mountains. He said to himself that he was like a prisoner who had broken through the first bar of his cell, but was still inside. And freedom was not on sale for three hundred and ninety dollars.

  He decided it would do no harm to stop in and see Wilcox. A week or so, he had said, and this was the seventh day. He approached the entrance of the building with a rapidly increasing sensation of dread, although a moment ago he had not been conscious of any at all. Suddenly he found himself inside the pastry shop, sitting down at a table, ordering coffee. Then he asked himself what was worrying him. It was not so much that he realized Wilcox would be annoyed to see him come around without waiting to be telephoned, but that he knew the time had come to bring up the subject of money. And he knew that Wilcox knew it, would be expecting it, and so he was worried. He lit a cigarette to accompany his coffee; the hot liquid reinforced the savour of the smoke. When he had finished the coffee he slapped his knee and rose with determination. “We’ve got to have a showdown,” he thought. But the Europe-Africa Tourist Service might as well have been a dentist’s office for the reluctance with which he climbed the stairs and drew near its door.

  He knocked. “Si!” cried Wilcox. He turned the knob; the door was locked. “Quien?” Wilcox called, with an edge of vexation or nervousness to his voice. Dyar hesitated, and was about to say: “Jack?” when the door was flung open.

  As Dyar looked into Wilcox’s face, he saw the expression in his eyes change swiftly to one of annoyance. But the first emotion he had caught there had been one of unalloyed fear. Involuntarily Wilcox made a loud clicking sound of exasperation. Then he stepped back a little.

  “Come in.”

  They remained standing in the ante-room, one on each side of the low table.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got all that stuff you gave me down pat, pretty much. I thought I’d drop around and say hello.”

  “Yeah.” Wilcox paused. “I thought we said I’d call you. I thought you understood that.”

  “I did, but you didn’t call.”

  “Any objection to waiting a few days? I’ve still got a lot of stuff here I’ve got to clear up. There’s no room for you here now.”

  Dyar laughed; Wilcox broke in on his laughter, his voice a bit higher in pitch. “I don’t want you here. Can’t you get that through your head? I’ve got special reasons for that.”

  Dyar took a deep breath. “I’ve got special reasons for coming here. I need some cash.”

  Wilcox narrowed his eyes. “What happened to all those express cheques you had last week? Damn it, I told you you were working for me. Do I have to sign a contract? I owe you a week’s wages, right? Well, I’d planned to pay you by the month, but if you want, I can make it twice a month. I know you’re short. It’s a nuisance to me, but I can do it that way if you like.”

  “But Jesus Christ, I need it now.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t give it to you now. I haven’t got it.”

  “What do you mean, you haven’t got it? It’s not that much.” Dyar leered a bit as he said this.

  “Listen, Nelson,” began Wilcox, his face taking on a long-suffering look (“Fake,” thought Dyar), “I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t got it to give you. I’ve got a back bill at the Atlantide that would sink a ship. Whatever comes in goes to them now. If it didn’t I’d be in the street. You can see for yourself how much business I’m doing in here.”

  There were footsteps in the corridor. Wilcox stepped to the door and tried it; it was locked, but a vestige of alarm flickered across his face. Dyar said nothing.

  “Look,” he went on, “I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m stalling or anything. You’re working for me. It may just be a crazy idea of mine, but I think things are going to open up very soon, and I want you to be broken in and ready for the big day when it comes.”

  “I didn’t say you were stalling. I just said I needed money. But if you haven’t got one week’s pay now, how the hell do you expect to have twice as much next week?”

  “That’s a chance we both have to take.”

  “Both!” He looked derisively at Wilcox.

  “Unless you’re a bigger goddam fool than I think you are you’ve still got a few express cheques left that’ll last you at least till next week.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m trying to save those for an emergency.”

  “Well, this is your emergency.”

  “That’s what you think.” Dyar turned toward the door, opened it and stepped out into the corridor.

  “Come here,” said Wilcox, following him quickly. He stood in the doorway and held out a five-hundred-peseta note. “You’ve got me all wrong. Jesus! They don’t make ’em stubborner! You really think I’m trying to gyp you, don’t you?” He glanced nervously up and down the corridor.

  “I don’t think anything,” Dyar said. He was trying to decide whether or not to take the money; his first impulse had been to refuse it, but then that seemed like a gesture of childish petulance. He reached for it, and said: “Thanks.” Immediately afterward he was furious with himself. This anger was not assuaged by Wilcox’s next words.

  “And now, for God’s sake, keep out of here until I call you, will you? Please!” The last word was more a shout of relief than of entreaty.

  Again he cast a worried glance along the hall, and, stepping inside the office, shut the door.

  Slowly Dyar went down the stairs, still raging against himself for his blundering behaviour. The money had been handed him as though he were a blackmailer come to exact more than the usual figure. Now it would be more difficult than ever to put the affair on a normal business basis.

  As he stepped out into the street he realized that the rain was pouring down now. The sidewalks were empty; everyone had taken shelter under awnings, in doorways and arcades. Only an occasional Arab splashed along, seemingly oblivious of the storm. The pastry shop was crowded with people peering out into the street, most of them standing near the door so that if they were approached by a waitress they could move outside. He pushed through their ranks, sat down again and ordered another coffee. It was only then that he began to consider the aspect of Wilcox’s behaviour which was not concerned with him—the much more interesting fact that he seemed to be expecting an imminent unwelcome arrival. “Daisy’s probably right,” he thought. Jack had incurred the displeasure of some local hooligan and was awaiting reprisal. Either that or he was trying to avoid a creditor or two. Yet neither supposition quite explained his reluctance to have Dyar visit the office.

  “No money!” he thought savagely. “Then why does he stay at the Atlantide?” But he knew the answer. Even if it were true that Wilcox was broke, w
hich seemed unlikely, he would have felt obliged, and would have managed, to go on staying at the best hotel, because the town had agreed with his decision that he was one of the big shots, one of those who automatically get the best whether or not they can pay for it. But why? Every day in Tangier several new companies were formed, most of them with the intention of evading the laws of one country or another, and every day approximately the same number failed. And the reasons for their failure or success had very little to do with the business acumen of those connected with them. If you were really a winner you found ways of intercepting your competitors’ correspondence, even his telegrams; you persuaded the employees at the French post office to let you have the first look at letters you were interested in seeing, which was how you got your mailing lists; you hired Arabs to break into other companies’ offices and steal their stationery and examples of their directors’ signatures for you; and when you sent your forged replies regretting your inability to supply the merchandise you prudently went all the way to Tetuan in the Spanish Zone to post them—only no customs official at the frontier got them away from you because somehow you were not stripped naked like the others, and the seams of your clothing were not ripped open. Not that you paid bribes in order to escape being molested—but everyone knew a winner on sight; he was the respected citizen of the International Zone. If one was not a winner one was a victim, and there seemed to be no way to change that. No pretence was of any avail. It was not a question of looking or acting like a winner—that could always be managed, although no one was taken in by it—it was a matter of conviction, of feeling like one, of knowing you belonged to the caste, of recognizing and being sure of your genius. For a long time he reflected confusedly upon these things; then he paid, got up, and went out into the rain, which now fell less heavily.

  •••••

  “I knew you would come,” said Madame Jouvenon. This was her way of saying that she had not been at all sure of it.

  Dyar was more truthful. “I didn’t,” he said with a wry smile. And as he said it, he wondered why indeed he had come. Partly out of courtesy, perhaps, although he would not have wanted to admit that. He had found himself outside the restaurant three times during the late morning, but it had been too early for the rendezvous. However, he had seen the bright displays of hors-d’œuvres through the window, and probably it was they more than anything else that had induced him finally to keep the appointment. It was the sort of place he never would have thought of eating in alone.

  Madame Jouvenon was much calmer today—even rather pleasant, he thought—and certainly she was nobody’s fool. She held the reins of the conversation firmly, but directed it with gentleness so that there was no feeling of strain. When they had reached the salad course, with all the naturalness in the world she began to discuss the subject that interested her, and he found it difficult to see anything offensive in what she said or in the way she said it. He understood, she supposed, that most people in Tangier had to live as best they could, doing one thing and another, and precisely because there were so many governments represented in the Administration, there was a great need for a practical system of checking and counter-checking between each power and the others. This ought to have been worked out beforehand officially, but it had not been, and the old formula of private tallying had still to be adhered to. He nodded gravely, smiling to himself, wondering just how long it would take her to make her offer, and under what guise it would come.

  He was aware, she said, that practically every Englishman in the Zone, even those with titles, was constrained by his government to furnish whatever information he could gather, and that far from being a shameful pursuit, on the contrary this was considered to be a completely honourable activity.

  “More than most others you could find here, I guess,” Dyar laughed.

  She did not know about the English, she said, but many people she knew managed to make the thing lucrative by supplying data to two or more offices simultaneously. At the moment her government (she did not specify which it was) had no representation on the Board of Administrators, which made adequate reports an even greater necessity. Inasmuch as it was common knowledge that the unseen power behind the Administration was the United States, it was particularly with regard to American activities that her government wished to be documented. The difficulty was that the American milieu in Tangier was peculiarly hermetic, not inclined to mix with the other diplomatic groups. And then of course Americans were especially unsusceptible to financial offers, simply because it was difficult to put the price high enough to make it worth the trouble to most of them.

  “—But she makes the proposition to me,” he thought grimly, “because I’m not a big shot.”

  And the proposition came out. She was empowered to offer him five hundred dollars a month, beginning with a month’s advance immediately, in return for small bits of information which he might glean from conversations with his American friends, plus one or two specific facts about the Voice of America’s set-up at Sidi Kacem—things which Dyar need not even understand himself, she hastened to assure him, since her husband was a very good electrical engineer and would have no difficulty in interpreting them.

  “But I don’t know anything or anybody in Tangier!”

  They would even provide introductions—indirectly, of course—to the necessary people, she explained. As an American he had entrée to certain places (such as the Voice of America, for instance) from which other nationals were excluded.

  “R-r-really we ask very little,” she smiled. “You must not have r-r-romantic idea this is spying. There is nothing to spy in Tangier. Tangier has no interest for anyone. Diplomatic, per-r-rhaps, yes. Military, no.”

  “How many months would you want me for?”

  “Ah! How are we know how good you are to us?” She looked archly across the table at him. “Maybe infor-r-rmation you give us is not accur-r-rate. We should not continue with you.”

  “Or if I couldn’t get any dope for you at all?”

  “Oh, I am not wor-r-ried about that.”

  From her handbag she pulled a folded cheque and handed it to him. It was a cheque on the Banco Salvador Hassan e Hijos, and was already carefully made out to the order of Nelson Dyar, and signed in a neat handwriting by Nadia Jouvenon. It shocked him to see his name spelled correctly there on that slip of paper, the work of this intense little woman with blue hair; it was ridiculous that she should have known his name, but he was not really surprised, nor did he dare ask her how she had discovered it.

  They ordered coffee. “Tomorr-row evening you will take dinner at our home,” she said. “My husband will be delighted to meet you.”

  A waiter came and asked for Madame Jouvenon, saying she was wanted on the telephone. She excused herself and went through a small door behind the bar. Dyar sat alone, toying with his coffee spoon, smothered by an oppressive feeling of unreality. He had put the cheque into his pocket, nevertheless at the moment he had a strong impulse to pull it out and set a match to it in the ashtray in front of him, so that when she reappeared it would no longer exist. They would go out into the street and he would be free of her. Distractedly he took a sip of coffee and glanced around the room. At the next table sat four people chattering in Spanish: a young couple, an older woman who was obviously the mother of the girl, and a small boy who slouched low in his chair pouting, refusing to eat. The girl, heavily made-up and decked with what seemed like several pounds of costume jewellery, kept glancing surreptitiously in his direction, always looking rapidly at her mother and husband first to be sure they were occupied. This must have been going on since the family group had sat down, but now was the first he had noticed it. He watched her, not taking his gaze from her face; there was no doubt about it—she was giving him the eye. He tried to see what the husband looked like, but he was facing the other way. He was fat; that was all he could tell.

  When Madame Jouvenon returned to the table she seemed out of sorts about something. She called for the
bill, and occupied herself with pulling on her kid gloves, which were skin-tight.

  The call had been from Eunice Goode, who, although she had not mentioned this fact to Madame Jouvenon, had waked up early and, finding Hadija missing, had immediately suspected she was with Dyar. Thus she had first wanted to know if Dyar had kept the appointment, to which Madame Jouvenon had replied shortly that he had, and made as if to draw the conversation to a close. But Eunice had not been satisfied; she wanted further to know if they had come to terms. Madame Jouvenon had remarked that she appreciated her interest, but that she did not feel under any obligation to tender Mademoiselle Goode a report on the results of the luncheon interview. Eunice’s voice had risen dangerously. “Ecoutez, madame! I advise you to tell me!” she had squealed. “Je dois absolument savoir!” Madame Jouvenon had informed her that she did not intend to be intimidated by anyone, but then it had occurred to her that since after all it was Eunice who had supplied the introduction to Mr. Dyar, it might be just as well to retain her goodwill, at least for a little while. So she had laughed lamely and told her that yes, an understanding had been reached. “But has he accepted money?” insisted Eunice. “Mais enfin!” cried the exasperated Madame Jouvenon. “You are incredible! Yes! He has taken money! Yes! Yes! I shall see you in a few days. Oui! C’est ça! Au revoir!” And she had added a few words in Russian under her breath as she had put the receiver back on the hook.

  The Spanish family straggled to its feet, making a great scraping of chairs on the tile floor. As she fumbled for her coat and furpiece the young wife managed to throw a final desperate glance in Dyar’s direction. “She’s not only nympho but nuts,” he said to himself, annoyed because he would not have minded being with her for an hour in a hotel room, and it was so manifestly impossible. He watched them as they went out of the door, the girl pushing her small son impatiently ahead of her. “Typical Spanish nouveaux-r-r-riches,” said Madame Jouvenon disgustedly. “The sort Fr-r-ranco has put to r-r-run the nation.”