Let It Come Down

by Paul Bowles

  “They got nothing to eat at the house because no one is living there since a long time. But not very far is the house of my wife’s family. I’ll get you whatever you want there. They won’t talk about it. They’re good people.”

  “He thinks he’s going to keep me cooped up,” Dyar said to himself. “He’s got another think coming.” Then as he climbed in silence: “But why? Why does he want to keep me hidden?” And so the question was reduced once more to its basic form: “What does he know?” He resolved to ask him tonight, point-blank, when they were sitting quietly face to face and he could observe whatever changes might come into Thami’s expression. “What did you mean when you said your wife’s family wouldn’t talk about it?”

  As the gradient increased, their climb became an exhausting scramble to keep from sliding backward. The heavy fog was like wind-driven smoke; every few seconds they were revealed briefly to each other, and even a sidewall of rock beyond might appear. Then with a swoop the substance of the air changed, became white and visible, and wrapped itself around their faces and bodies, blotting out everything. They went on and on. It was afternoon; to Dyar it seemed to have been afternoon forever. All at once, a little above him Thami grunted with satisfaction, emitted a long: “Aaah!” He had sat down. Dyar struggled ahead for a moment and saw him. He had pulled out his kif pipe and was filling it from the long leather mottoui that was unrolled across his knees. “Now it’s easy,” he said, moving a little along the rock to make room for Dyar. “Now we go down. The town is there.” He pointed straight downward. “The house is there.” He pointed slightly downward, but to the left. Dyar seated himself, accepting the pipe. Between puffs he sniffed the air, which had come alive, smelled now faintly like pine trees and farmyards. When he had finished the pipe he handed it back. The kif was strong; he felt pleasantly dizzy. Thami refilled the pipe, looking down at it lovingly. The stem was covered with tiny coloured designs of fish, water-jars, birds and swords. “I bought this sebsi three years ago. In Marrakech,” he said.

  They sat alone in the whiteness. Dyar waited for him to smoke; the kif was burned in three long vigorous puffs. Thami blew the ball of glowing ash from the little bowl, wound the leather thongs around the mottoui, and gravely put the objects into his pocket.

  They got up and went on. The way was level for only an instant, almost immediately becoming a steep descent. They had been sitting at the top of the pass. After the long hours of breathing in air that smelled only of rain, it was pleasantly disturbing to be able to distinguish signs of vegetable and animal life in the mist that came up from the invisible valley below. Now their progress was quicker; they hurried with drunken movements from one boulder to another, sometimes landing against them with more force than was comfortable. It had stopped raining; Dyar had pulled the briefcase out from under his coat and was carrying it in his left hand, using his free right arm for balance and as a bumper when it was feasible.

  Soon they were below the cloud level, and in the sad fading light Dyar stood a moment looking at the grey panorama of mountains, clouds and shadowy depths. Almost simultaneously too they were out of reach of the wind. The only sound that came up from down there was the soft unvaried one made by a stream following its course over many rocks. Nor could he distinguish any signs of human habitation. “Where’s the house?” he said gruffly. That was the most important detail.

  “Come on,” Thami replied. They continued the downward plunge, and presently they came to a fork in the trail. “This way,” said Thami, choosing the path that led along the side of the mountain, a sheer drop on its right, and on the left above, a succession of cliffs and steep ravines filled with the debris of landslides.

  Then Thami stood still, one eyebrow arched, his hand to his ear. He seized Dyar’s wrist, pulled him back a few paces to a huge slab of rock slightly off the path, pushed him to a squatting position behind it, and bent down himself, peering around every few seconds. “Look,” he said. Half a hundred brown and grey goats came along the path, their hooves making a cluttered sound among the stones. The first ones stopped near the rock, their amber eyes questioning. Then the pressure of those following behind pushed them ahead, and they went on past in disorder, the occasional stones they dislodged bouncing from rock to rock with a curious metallic ring. A youth with a staff, wearing a single woollen cape slung over his shoulders, followed the flock. When he had passed, Thami whispered: “If he sees you, my friend, it would be very bad. Everybody in Agla would know tomorrow.”

  “What difference would that make?” Dyar demanded, not so much because he believed it did not matter, as because he was curious to know exactly what his situation was up here.

  “The Spaniards. They would come to the house.”

  “Well, let ’em come. What difference would it make?” He was determined to see the thing through, and it was a good opportunity. “I haven’t done anything. Why should they take the trouble to come looking for me?” He watched Thami’s face closely.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t hurt you when you show them you got an American passport.” Thami spoke aloud now. “Me, I’d be in the jail right away. You have to have a visa to get here, my friend. And then they’d say: How did you get in? Don’t you worry. They’d know you were coming in by a boat. And then they’d say: Where is the boat? And whose boat? And worst: Why did you come by a boat? Why didn’t you come by the frontera like everybody else? Then they talk on the telephone to Tangier and try to know why from the police there ….” He paused, looking questioningly at Dyar, who said: “So what?” still studying Thami’s eyes intently.

  “So what?” said Thami weakly, smiling. “How do I know so what? I know you said you will give me five thousand pesetas to take you here, and so I do it because I know Americans keep their word. And so you want to get here very much. How do I know why?” He smiled again, a smile he doubtless felt to be disarming, but which to Dyar’s way of thinking was the very essence of Oriental deviousness and cunning.

  Dyar grunted, got up, thinking: “From now on I’m going to watch every move you make.” As Thami rose to his feet he was still explaining about the Spanish police and their insistence upon getting all possible information about foreigners who visited the Protectorate. His words included a warning never to stand outside the house in the daytime, and never—it went without saying—to set foot inside the village at any hour of the day or night. As they went along he embroidered on the probable consequences to Dyar of allowing himself to be seen by anyone at all, in the end making everything sound so absurdly dangerous that a wave of fear swept over his listener—not fear that what Thami said might be true, for he did not believe all these variations on catastrophe for an instant, but a fear born of having asked himself only once: “Why is he saying all this? Why is he so excited about nobody’s seeing me?” For him the answer was to be found, of course, at the limits of Thami’s infamy. It was merely a question of knowing how far the man was prepared to go, or rather, since he was an Arab, how far he would be able to go. And the answer at this point was, thought Dyar: he will go as far as I let him go. So I give him no chance. Vigilance was easy enough; the difficulty lay in disguising it. The other must not suspect that he suspected. Thami was already playing the idiot; he too would be guileless, he would encourage Thami to think himself the cleverer, so that his actions might be less cautious, his decisions less hidden. One excellent protective measure, it seemed to him, would be to go to the village and then tell Thami about it. That would let him know that he was not afraid of being seen, thus depriving Thami of one advantage he seemed to feel he had over him. “And then he’d think twice before pulling anything too rough if he realized people knew I had been up here with him,” he reasoned.

  “Well,” he said reluctantly, “I’m going to have a fine time up here. I can see that. You down in the town all the time and me sitting on my ass up here on the side of a mountain.”

  “What you mean, all the time? How many days do you want to stay? I have to go to Tangier. My boat.
That Jilali’s no good. I know him. He’s going to sell it to somebody else. You don’t care. It’s not your boat——”

  “Don’t start in again,” said Dyar. But Thami launched into a lengthy monologue which ended where it had been meant to end, on the subject of how many pesetas a day Dyar was willing to pay him for his presence at Agla.

  “Maybe I want him here and maybe I don’t,” he thought. It would depend on what he found and learned in the town. Plans had to be made carefully, and they might easily include the necessity of having Thami take him somewhere else. “But the quicker I can get rid of him the better.” That much was certain.

  Was this haggling, genuine enough in appearance, merely a part of the game, intended to dull whatever suspicion he might have, replacing it with a sense of security which would make him careless? He did not know; he thought so. In any case, he must seem to take it very seriously.

  “D’you think I’m made of money?” he said with simulated ill-humour, but in such a tone that Thami might feel that the money eventually would be forthcoming. The other did not answer.

  There was an olive grove covering the steep side hill, that had to be gone through, a rushing stream to cross, and a slight rise to climb before one reached the house. It was built out on a flat shelf of rock whose base curved downward to rest against the mountainside astonishingly far below.

  “There’s the house,” said Thami.

  “It’s a fort,” thought Dyar, seeing the little structure crouching there atop its crazy pillar. Its thick earthen walls once had been partially white-washed, and its steep roof, thatched in terraces, looked like a flounced petticoat of straw. The path led up, around, and out onto the promontory where the ground was bare save for a few overgrown bushes. There were no windows, but there was a patchwork door with a homemade lock, to fit which Thami now pulled from his pocket a heavy key as long as his hand.

  “This is the jumping-off place all right,” said Dyar, stepping to the edge and peering down. Below, the valley had prepared itself for night. He had the feeling that no light could pierce the profound gloom in which the lower mountainside was buried, no sound change the distant, impassive murmur of water, which, although scarcely audible, somehow managed to fill the entire air. After struggling a moment with the lock Thami succeeded in getting the door open. As Dyar walked toward the house he noticed the deep troughs dug in the earth by the rain that had run from the overhanging eaves; it still dripped here and there, an intimate sound in the middle of the encompassing solitude—almost with an overtone of welcome, as if the mere existence of the house offered a possibility of relief from the vast melancholy greyness of the dying afternoon.

  At least, he thought, as he stepped inside into the dark room that smelled like a hayloft, this will give me a chance to catch my breath. It might be only for a day or two, but it provided a place to lie down.

  Thami opened a door on the other side of the room and the daylight came in from a tiny patio filled with broken crates and refuse. “There’s another room there,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “And a kitchen, too.”

  Surprisingly, the earth floor was dry. There was no furniture, but a clean straw mat covered almost half the floor space. Dyar threw himself down and lay with his head propped against the wall. “Don’t say kitchen to me unless you’ve got something in it. When are we going to eat? That’s all I want to know.”

  Thami laughed. “You want to sleep? I’m going now to the house of my wife’s family and get candles and food. You sleep.”

  “The hell with the candles, chum. You get that food.”

  Thami looked slightly scandalized. “Oh, no,” he said with great seriousness and an air of faint reproof. “You can’t eat without candles. That’s no good.”

  “Bring whatever you like.” He could feel himself falling asleep even as he said it. “Just bring food, too.” He slipped his fingers through the handle of the briefcase and laid it over his chest. Thami stepped out, closed the door and locked it behind him. There was the sound of his footsteps, and then only the occasional falling of a drop of water from the roof outside. Then there was nothing.

  XXII

  Even when he was fully conscious of the fact that Thami had returned and was moving about the room making a certain amount of noise, that a candle had been lighted and was shining into his face, his awakening seemed incomplete. He rose from the mat, said: “Hi!” and stretched, but the heaviness of sleep weighed him down. He did not even remember that he was hungry; although the emptiness was there in him, more marked than before he had slept, it seemed to have transformed itself into a simple inability to think or feel. He took a few steps out into the centre of the room, grunting and yawning violently, and immediately wanted to lie down again. With the sensation of being half dead, he staggered back and forth across the floor, stumbling over a large blanket which Thami had ostensibly brought from the other house, and from which he was extracting food and dishes. Then he went back to the mat and sat down. Triumphantly Thami held up a battered teapot. “I got everything,” he announced. “Even mint to put in the tea. You want to sleep again? Go on. Go to sleep.” There was a crackle and sputter from the patio as the charcoal in the brazier took fire. Dyar still said nothing; it would have cost him too great an effort.

  As he watched Thami busying himself with the preparations he was conscious of an element of absurdity in the situation. If it had been Hadija preparing his dinner, perhaps he would have found it more natural. Now he thought he should offer to help. But he said to himself: “I’m paying the bastard,” did not stir, and followed Thami’s comings and goings, feeling nothing but his consuming emptiness inside, which, now that at last he was slowly waking, made itself felt unequivocally as hunger.

  “God, let’s eat!” he exclaimed presently.

  Thami laughed. “Wait. Wait,” he said. “You have to wait a long time still.” He pulled out his kif pipe, filled and lit it, handed it to Dyar, who drew on it deeply, filling his lungs with the burning smoke, as if he might thereby acquire at least a little of the nourishment he so intensely wanted at the moment. At the end of the second pipeful his ears rang, he felt dizzy, and an extraordinary idea had taken possession of him: the certainty that somewhere, subtly blended with the food Thami was going to hand him, poison would be hidden. He saw himself awakening in the dark of the night, an ever-increasing pain spreading through his body, he saw Thami lighting a match, and then a candle, his face and lips expressing sympathy and consternation, he saw himself crawling to the door and opening it, being confronted with the utter impossibility of reaching help, but going out, anyway, to get away from the house. The detailed clarity of the visions, their momentary cogency, electrified him; he felt a great need to confide them immediately. Instead, he handed the pipe back to Thami, his gestures a little uncertain, and, shutting his eyes, leaned back against the wall, from which position he was roused only when Thami kicked the sole of his shoe several times, saying: “You want to eat?”

  He did eat, and in great quantity—not only of the vermicelli soup and the sliced tomatoes and onions, but also of the chopped meat and egg swimming in boiling bright-green olive oil, which, in imitation of Thami, he sopped up with ends of bread. Then they each drank two glasses of sweet mint tea.

  “Well, that’s that,” he finally said, settling back. “Thami, I take my hat off to you.”

  “Your hat?” Thami did not understand.

  “The hat I don’t own.” He was feeling expansive at the moment. Thami, looking politely confused, offered him his pipe which he had just lighted, but Dyar refused. “I’m going to turn in,” he said. If possible he wanted to package the present feeling of being at ease, and carry it with him to sleep, so that it might stay with him all night. A pipe of kif and he could easily be stuck with nightmares.

  Surreptitiously he glanced at his briefcase lying on the mat in the corner near him. In spite of the fact that he had carried it inside his coat whenever it rained, thus drawing at least some attention to
it, he thought this could be accounted for in Thami’s mind by its newness; he would understand his not wanting to spot the light-coloured cowhide and the shining nickel lock and buckles. Thus now he decided to pay no attention to the case, to leave it nonchalantly nearby once he had tossed his toothbrush back into it, near enough on the floor so that if he stretched his arm out he could reach it. Putting it under his head or holding it in his hand would certainly arouse Thami’s curiosity, he argued. Once the light was out, he could reach out and pull it closer to his mat.

  Thami took out an old djellaba from the blanket in which he had brought the food, put it on, and handed the blanket to Dyar. Then he dragged a half-unravelled mat from the room across the patio and spread it along the opposite wall, where he lay continuing to smoke his pipe. Several times Dyar drifted into sleep, but because he knew the other was there wide-awake, with the candle burning, the alarm he had set inside himself brought him back, and he opened his eyes wide and suddenly, and saw the dim ceiling of reeds and the myriad gently fluttering cobwebs above. Finally he turned his head and looked over at the other side of the room. Thami had laid his pipe on the floor and apparently was asleep. The candle had burned down very low; in another five minutes it would be gone. He watched the flame for what seemed to him a half-hour. On the roof there were occasional spatters of rain, and when a squall of wind went past, the door rattled slightly, but in a peremptory fashion, as if someone were trying hurriedly to get in. Even so, he did not witness the candle’s end; when he opened his eyes again it was profoundly dark, and he had the impression that it had been so for a long time. He lay still, displeased with the sudden realization that he was not at all sleepy. The indistinct call of water came up from below, from a place impossibly far away. In the fitful wind the door tapped discreetly, then shook with loud impatience. Silently he cursed it, resolving to make it secure for tomorrow night. Quite awake, he nevertheless let himself dream a little, finding himself walking (or driving a car—he could not tell which) along a narrow mountain road with a sheer drop on the right. The earth was so far below that there was nothing to see but sky when he glanced over the precipice. The road grew narrower. “I’ve got to go on,” he thought. Of course, but it was not enough simply to go on. The road could go on, time could go on, but he was neither time nor the road. He was an extra element between the two, his precarious existence mattering only to him, known only to him, but more important than everything else. The problem was to keep himself there, to seize firmly with his consciousness the entire structure of the reality around him, and engineer his progress accordingly. The structure and the consciousness were there, and so was the knowledge of what he must do. But the effort required to leap across the gap from knowing to doing, that he could not make. “Take hold. Take hold,” he told himself, feeling his muscles twitch even as he lay there in his reverie. Then the door roused him a little, and he smiled in the dark at his own nonsense. He had already gone over the mountain road, he said to himself, insisting on taking his fantasy literally; that was past, and now he was here in the cottage. This was the total reality of the moment, and it was all he needed to consider. He stretched out his arm in the dark toward the centre of the room, and met Thami’s hand lying warm and relaxed, directly on top of the briefcase.