Let It Come Down

by Paul Bowles

  “Thami?” he said. Then he realized it had been almost impossible to get the word out, because his mouth was of cardboard. He gasped a little, and thought of moving. “I must remember to tell myself to move my left hand so I can raise myself onto my elbow. It must move back further before I can begin to pull my knees up. But I don’t want to move my knees. Only my hand. So I can raise myself onto my elbow. If I move my knees I can sit up ….”

  He was sitting up.

  (I’m sitting up.) Is this what I wanted? Why did I want to sit up?

  He waited.

  (I didn’t. I only wanted to raise myself on to my elbow.) Why? (I wanted to lie facing the other way. It’s going to be more comfortable that way.)

  He was lying down.

  (… from the gulf of the infinite, Allah looks across with an eye of gold ….) Alef leïlat ou leïla, ya leïla, lia!

  Before the wind had arrived, he heard it coming, stirring stealthily around the sharp pinnacles of rock up there, rolling down through the ravines, whispering as it moved along the surface of the cliffs, coming to wrap itself around the house. He lay a year, dead, listening to it coming.

  There was an explosion in the room. Thami had thrown another log onto the fire. “That gave me designs. Red, purple,” said Dyar without speaking, sitting up again. The room was a red grotto, a theatre, a vast stable with a balcony that hung in the shadows. Up there was a city of little rooms, a city inside a pocket of darkness, but there were windows in the walls you could not see, and beyond these the sun shone down on an outer city built of ice.

  “My God, Thami, water!” he cried thickly. Thami was standing above him.

  “Goodbye,” said Thami. Heavily he sat down and rolled over on to his side, sang no more.

  “Water,” he tried to say again in a very soft voice, and tremblingly he made a supreme effort to get to his feet. “My God, I’ve got to have water,” he whispered to himself; it was easier to whisper. Because he was looking down at his feet from ten thousand feet up, he had to take exquisite care in walking, but he stepped over Thami and got out into the patio to the pail. Sighing with the effort of kneeling down, he put his face into the fire of the cold water and drew it into his throat.

  When it was finished he rose, threw his head up, and looked at the moon. The wind had come, but it had been here before. Now it was necessary to get back into the room, to get all the way across the room to the door. But he must not breathe so heavily. To open the door and go out. Out there the wind would be cold, but he must go anyway.

  The expedition through the magic room was hazardous. There was a fragile silence there which must not be shattered. The fire, shedding its redness on Thami’s masklike face, must not know he was stealing past. At each step he lifted his feet far off the floor into the air, like someone walking through a field of high wet grass. He saw the door ahead of him, but suddenly between him and it a tortuous corridor made of pure time interposed itself. It was going to take endless hours to get down to the end. And a host of invisible people was lined up along its walls, but on the other side of the walls, mutely waiting for him to go by—an impassive chorus, silent and without pity. “Waiting for me,” he thought. The sides of his mind, indistinguishable from the walls of the corridor, were lined with words written in Arabic script. All the time, directly before his eyes was the knobless door sending out its whispered message. It was not sure, it could not be trusted. If it opened when he did not want it to open, by itself, all the horror of existence could crowd in upon him. He stretched his hand out and touched the large cold key. The key explained the heaviness in his overcoat pocket. He put his left hand into the pocket and felt the hammer, and the head and point of the nail. That was work to be done, but later, when he came in. He turned the key, pulled open the door, felt the bewildered wind touch his face. “Keep away from the cliff,” he whispered as he stepped outside. Around him stretched the night’s formless smile. The moon was far out over the empty regions now. Relieving himself against the wall of the house, he heard the wind up here trying to cover the long single note of the water down in the valley. Inside, by the fire, time was slowly dissolving, falling to pieces. But even at the end of the night there would still be an ember of time left, of a subtle, bitter flavour, soft to the touch, glowing from its recess of ashes, before it paled and died, and the heart of the ancient night stopped beating.

  He turned toward the door, his steps short and halting like those of an old man. It was going to require a tremendous effort to get back to the mat, but because the only thing he could conceive of at this instant was to sink down on it and lie out flat by the fire, he felt certain he could make the effort. As he shut the door behind him he murmured to it: “You know I’m here, don’t you?” The idea was hateful to him, but there was something he could do about it. What that thing was he could not recall, yet he knew the situation was not hopeless; he could remedy it later.

  Thami had not stirred. As he looked down from his remote height at the relaxed body, a familiar uneasiness stole over him, only he could connect it with no cause. Partly he knew that what he saw before him was Thami, Thami’s head, trunk, arms and legs. Partly he knew it was an unidentifiable object lying there, immeasurably heavy with its own meaninglessness, a vast imponderable weight that nothing could lighten. As he stood lost in static contemplation of the thing, the wind pushed the door feebly, making a faint rattling. But could nothing lighten it? If the air were let in, the weight might escape of its own accord, into the shadows of the room and the darkness of the night. He looked slowly behind him. The door was silent, staring, baleful. “You know I’m here, all right,” he thought, “but you won’t know long.” He had willed the hammer and nail into existence, and they were there in his pocket. Thinking of their heaviness, he felt his body lean to one side. He had to shift the position of his foot to retain his balance, to keep from being pulled down by their weight. The rattle came again, a series of slight knockings, knowing and insinuating. But now, did they come from the mat below him? “If it opens,” he thought, looking at the solid, inert mass in front of him in the fire’s dying light, his eyes staring, gathering fear from within him. “If it opens.” There was that thing he had to do, he must do it, and he knew what it was but he could not think what it was.

  A mass of words had begun to ferment inside him, and now they bubbled forth. “Many Mabel damn. Molly Daddy lamb. Lolly dibble up-man. Dolly little Dan,” he whispered, and then he giggled. The hammer was in his right hand, the nail in his left. He bent over, swayed, and fell heavily to his knees on the mat, beside the outstretched door. It did not move. The mountain wind rushed through his head. His head was a single seashell full of grottoes, its infinitely smooth pink walls, delicate, paper-thin, caught the light of the embers as he moved along the galleries. “Melly diddle din,” he said, quite loud, putting the point of the nail as far into Thami’s ear as he could. He raised his right arm and hit the head of the nail with all his might. The object relaxed imperceptibly, as if someone had said to it: “It’s all right.” He laid the hammer down, and felt the nail-head, level with the soft lobe of the ear. It had two little ridges on it; he rubbed his thumbnail across the imperfections in the steel. The nail was as firmly embedded as if it had been driven into a coconut. “Merry Mabel dune.” The children were going to make a noise when they came out at recess-time. The fire rattled, the same insistent music that could not be stilled, the same skyrockets that would not hurry to explode. And the floor had fallen over onto him. His hand was bent under him, he could feel it, he wanted to move. “I must remember that I exist,” he told himself; that was clear, like a great rock rising out of the sea around it. “I must remember that I am alive.”

  He did not know whether he was lying still or whether his hands and feet were shaking painfully with the effort of making himself believe he was there and wanted to move his hand. He knew his skin was more tender than the skin of an overripe plum; no matter how softly he touched it, it would break and smear him with the
stickiness beneath. Someone had shut the bureau drawer he was lying in and gone away, forgotten him. The great languor. The great slowness. The night had sections filled with repose, and there were places in time to be visited, faces to forget, words to understand, silences to be studied.

  The fire was out; the inhuman night had come into the room. Once again he wanted water. “I’ve come back,” he thought; his mouth, gullet, stomach ached with dryness. “Thami has stayed behind. I’m the only survivor. That’s the way I wanted it.” That warm, humid, dangerous breeding-place for ideas had been destroyed. “Thank God he hasn’t come back with me,” he told himself. “I never wanted him to know I was alive.” He slipped away again; the water was too distant.

  A maniacal light had fallen into the room and was hopping about. He sat up and frowned. The ear in the head beside him. The little steel disc with the irregular grooves in it. He had known it would be there. He sighed, crept on his hands and knees around the ends of the drawn-up legs, arrived in the cold, blinding patio, and immersed his face in the pail. He was not real, but he knew he was alive. When he lifted his head, he let it fall all the way back against the wall, and he stayed there a long time, the mountains’ morning light pressing brutally into his eyelids.

  Later he rose, went into the room, dragged Thami by his legs through the patio into the kitchen and shut the door. Overpowered by weakness, he lay down on the mat, and still trembling fell into a bottomless sleep. As the day advanced the wind increased, the blue sky grew white, then grey. The door rattled unceasingly, but he heard nothing.

  XXVI

  The pounding on the door had been going on for a long time before, becoming aware of it, he began to scramble up the slippery sides of the basin of sleep where he found himself, in a frantic attempt to escape into consciousness. When finally he opened his eyes and was back in the room, a strange languor remained, like a great, soft cushion beneath him; he did not want to move. Still the fist went on hitting the door insistently, stopping now and then so that when it began again it was louder after the silence that had come in between.

  There were cushions under him and cushions on top of him; he would not move. But he called out, “Who is it?” several times, each time managing to put a little more force into his unruly voice. The knocking ceased. Soon he felt a faint curiosity to know who it was out there. He sat up, then got up and went to the door, saying again, his mouth close to the wood: “Who is it?” Outside there was only the sound of the casual dripping of water from the eaves onto the bare earth. “So it’s been raining again,” he thought with unreasoning anger. “Who is it?” he said, louder, at the same time being startled as he put his hand to his face and felt the three-day beard there.

  He unlocked the door, opened it and looked out. It was a dark day, and, as he had expected, there was no one in sight. Nor was he still any more than vaguely interested in knowing who had been knocking. It was not indifference; he knew it concerned him vitally,—he knew that he should care very much who had stood outside the door a moment ago. But now there was not enough of him left to feel strongly about anything; everything had been spent last night. Today was like an old, worn-out film being run off—dim, jerky, flickering, full of cuts, and with a plot he could not seize. It was hard to pay attention to it.

  As he turned to go back in, for he felt like sleeping again, a voice called: “Hola!” from the direction of the stream. And although he was having difficulty focusing (the valley was a murky grey jumble), he saw a man who a second before had been standing still looking back at the house turn and start walking up toward it. Dyar did not move; he watched; on the top of his head now and then he felt the cold drops that fell singly, unhurriedly, from the sky.

  The man was a Berber in country clothes. As he drew near the house he began to walk more slowly and to look back down the path. Soon he stopped altogether, and stood, obviously waiting for someone behind him. From between the rocks two figures presently emerged and climbed up across the stream, around the curve in the path. Dyar, remaining in the doorway, observing this unannounced arrival, feeling sure that it meant something of great importance to him, was unable to summon the energy necessary for conjecture; he watched. When the two figures had reached the spot where the lone one stood, they stopped and conferred with him; he waved his arm toward the house, and then sat down, while they continued along the path. But now Dyar had begun to stare, for one man was wearing a uniform with jodhpurs and boots, while the other, who seemed to need assistance in climbing, was in a raincoat and a brilliant purple turban. When the two had got about half-way between the seated Berber and the house, he realized with a shock that the second person was a woman in slacks. And an instant later his mouth opened slightly because he had recognized Daisy. Under his breath he said: “Good God!”

  As she came nearer and saw him staring at her she waved, but said nothing. Dyar, behaving like a small child, stood watching her approach, did not even acknowledge her greeting.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, gasping a little as she came on to the level piece of ground where the house stood. She walked toward the door and put her hand out. He took it, still looking at her, unbelieving. “Hello,” he said.

  “Look. Will you please not think I’m a busybody. How are you?” She let go of his hand and directed a piercing glance at his face; unthinkingly he put his hand to his chin. “All right?” Without waiting for an answer she turned to the man in the chauffeur’s uniform. “Me puedes esperar ahí abajo.” She pointed to the native waiting below. The man made a listless salute and walked away.

  “Oh!” said Daisy again, looking about for a place to sit, and seeing nothing but the wet earth. “I must sit down. Do you think we could go in where it’s dry?”

  “Oh, sure,” Dyar came to life. “I’m just surprised to see you. Go on in.” She crossed the room and sat down on the mat in front of the dead fireplace. “What are you doing here?” he said, his voice expressionless.

  She had her knees together out to one side, and she had folded her hands over them. “Obviously, I’ve come to see you.” She looked up at him. “But you want to know why, of course. If you’ll be patient while I catch my breath, I’ll tell you.” She paused, and sighed. “I’ll lay my case before you and you can do as you like.” Now she reached up and seized his arm. “Darling” (the sound of her voice had changed, grown more intense), “you must go back. Sit down. No, here, beside me. You’ve got to go back to Tangier. That’s why I’m here. To help you get back in.”

  She felt his body stiffen as he turned his head quickly to look at her. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Let me say my little piece. It’s late, and it’s going to rain, and we must leave Agla while there’s still daylight. There are twenty-seven kilometres of trail before one gets to the carretera. You don’t know anything about the roads because you didn’t come that way.”

  “How do you know how I came?”

  “You do think I’m an utter fool, don’t you?” She offered him a cigarette from her case and they smoked a moment in silence. “I saw the little business in the garden the other night, and I thought I recognized that drunken brother of the Beidaouis’. And I had no reason to doubt his wife’s word. According to her he brought you here. So that’s that. But all that’s of no importance.”

  He was thinking: “How can I find out how much she knows?” The best idea seemed to be simply to ask her; thus he cut her short, saying: “What have they told you?”

  “Who?” she said drily. “Jack Wilcox and Ronny Ashcombe-Danvers?”

  He did not reply.

  “If you mean them,” she pursued, “they told me everything, naturally. You’re all bloody fools, all three of you, but you’re the biggest bloody fool. What in God’s name did you think you were doing? Of course, I don’t know what Jack was thinking of in the first place to let you fetch Ronny’s money, and he’s so secretive I couldn’t make anything out of his silly tale. It wasn’t until I met Ronny yesterday at the airport that I got any sort of story that hung tog
ether at all. Ronny’s an old friend of mine, you know, and I can tell you he’s more than displeased about the whole thing, as well he may be.”

  “Yes,” he said, completely at a loss for anything else to say.

  “I’ve argued with him until I’m hoarse, trying to persuade him to let me come up here. Of course he was all for coming himself with a band of ruffians from the port and taking his chances on getting the money back by force. Because obviously he can’t do it by legal means. But I think now he understands how childish that idea is. I made him see how much better it would be if I could get you to come back of your own accord.”

  Dyar thought: “So Ashcombe-Danvers is an old friend of hers. He’s promised her a percentage of everything she can get back for him.” And he remembered Madame Werth’s reservation at the hotel in Marrakech; Daisy might as well have been saying to him: “Do come back and be a victim again for my sake.”

  “It’s out of the question,” he said shortly.

  “Oh, is it?” she cried, her eyes blazing. “Because little Mr. Dyar says it is, I suppose?”