by Пол Боулз
It was at the Palm Beach in Cannes that she had first met Luis, a thin and dramatically dark Spaniard who wore an opera cape and handled it as arrogantly as a matador his muleta, who was rude to everyone without being actually offensive, who used incredibly obscene language and yet managed to remain very much a gentleman. He was the owner of several vast estates in Andalucia which he had very little hope of recovering, even assuming that Franco were able to put an end to the Republican resistance. «They are all eediot!» he would bellow to the entire casino. «All thee Spaniard can eat sheet!» Little by little Daisy found herself thinking with admiration of this strange man who bragged that he had never read a book and was unable to write more than his own signature. He managed horses as well as the most seasoned gaucho, was as good a marksman as she, and had not a trace of sentimentality or condescension in his character. He was as dry, hard and impersonal as a rock, and she once told him that he reminded her of certain Andalucian landscapes. She was scarcely prepared, however, for his reaction, which came immediately and with astonishing force. Turning to her with the violence of one who has just been insulted, he shouted: «That is a declaration of love!» seized her in his arms, and began to make love to her with such brutality that she cried out and struck him in the face. The incident had taken place in the bar of the Carlton, in front of several people, and after a few moments of shame and fury in the ladies’ room, to which she had retired when he had released her, she had come out and apologized to him for her behavior, expecting him, naturally enough, to do likewise. But he had laughed, paid the barman, and walked out.
Afterward, each time they met (since meetings were unavoidable in Cannes) he inquired if she still admired the Andalucian landscape as much as ever. It would have been a violation of her code to do anything but admit that she did. Her answers gave him immense satisfaction. «Aaah!» he would cry delightedly, «Ya ves?» for they had fallen into the habit of speaking Spanish together. He had a small villa at Le Cannet, packed with furniture and paintings he had succeeded in getting out of Spain, and she used to drive down sometimes in the late afternoon and visit him. Since it was well known that he sold a picture from time to time in order to go on living, she did not hesitate, when one day she saw a Goya she particularly admired, to ask him its price. The Marques de Valverde went into a rare fury. «Andalucia is not for sale!» he yelled. «Don’t be absurd,» said Daisy. «I’ll give you a good price for it. You need the money». But her host continued to rail, saying that he would rather put his foot through the Goya than let her have it, whatever sum she might be prepared to give him for it. Understanding that all this vehemence, although perfectly sincere, was merely a part of the abnormally developed pride which governs the behavior of the Spanish peasant or aristocrat, Daisy made an audacious suggestion. «I like that picture,» she said, «and if you won’t sell it to me you must give it to me». The Marques had smiled with delight. «Anything in my house is yours for the asking,» he had replied. Their friendship had begun at that moment. The man was magnificent, she decided, and it was not surprising that from being inseparable friends they soon turned to being passionate lovers. Daisy was slightly over thirty, her face radiant with a healthy, strident kind of beauty that perfectly suited her statuesque figure. It was inevitable that a man like Luis should fall in love with her, that having done so he should perceive much more in her character than he had suspected, and thus determine to marry her, in order to own her completely. It was also inevitable that once having added her to his list of possessions he should cease to be in love with her, but Daisy knew this beforehand and did not care, because she also knew that she would never cease to admire him, whatever he might do, and she was sure she would be able to keep him, which for her, an eminently practical woman, was after all the main consideration.
And so to Daisy there was nothing surprising about Luis’s first infidelities. After a very small wedding in the church at Saint Paul du Var they had closed their respective houses and shipped Luis’ more valuable belongings to Rio, on the advice of Daisy’s banker. «Jewish bankers always know when there’s going to be a war,» said Daisy. «You can trust them implicitly». They went off to Brazil, the war came, and they stayed there until it was over. Luis had begun with a nightclub dancer, had continued with chambermaids, and eventually had moved on to one of Daisy’s own friends, a certain Senhora da Cunha, and Daisy never had said a word to show that she knew. Luis was perceptive enough to realize that she could not help being aware of his indiscretions, but whether she minded or not, he was bound to continue them, and they both knew this, so that the matter remained forever unmentioned, as if by mutual agreement. For a while, when they had first come to Tangier at the end of the war, there had been no one. Daisy knew this was merely a quiet interval; soon enough it would end. When his business trips to Casablanca had begun, she understood. Even now she had no idea who it was, nor, she kept telling herself, did she care too much. Still, somehow she always found herself making an effort to find out who the woman was, and if possible to meet her, because she felt each time that the knowledge gave her the key to yet another chamber of Luis’ mysterious personality. The more she could learn about his mistress, the more she would know about him. Having been brought up in a world of Latins, Daisy believed that promiscuity was as proper for men as it was improper for women. She would have thought it shocking for her even to consider the idea of having a lover. For a decent woman there was no possibility of anyone but her husband, and since she was so firmly decided on this score, she allowed herself to follow a pattern of behavior which to women of less resolute character often seemed highly questionable. Her reputation among the feminine members of the English colony was not all that it might have been, precisely because she knew where she stood and could allow herself liberties that would have proven disastrous in the case of most of the others. Knowing herself, she had respect for herself; knowing the others, she had none for them, and thus it was of little importance to her what they whispered about her. What, she wondered, could they think but the very worst, if they heard that she had invited this young American to the Villa Hesperides during Luis’ absence? And now as she lay in her bed and methodically searched to unearth her motives, she felt a tiny chill of apprehension. Was she completely safe from herself with regard to this young man? He was harmless enough; (she smiled as she remembered his ingenuousness, his apparent innocence of the world, and the impression she had of his utter helplessness in the face of it.) But even the most innocuous element by itself could prove to be dangerous in its meeting with a different element. She thought about it, and felt small doubts rising. «Or am I really hoping that something will happen, and is this just my way of punishing myself?» It was hard to say. She reached for the bell button that lay on the table among a welter of perfume bottles and medicines, and pushed it. A maid knocked at the door. «Have Hugo come up,» she told her.
«Ah, Hugo,» she said when he appeared. «If the telephone rings this evening while Mr. Dyar is here, I’ve gone out to dinner and you don’t know where, or what time I’ll be back». After he had closed the door she got out of bed, wincing a little, more in anticipation of pain than because she felt it, and walked across the room to the window. It was a little before six and almost dark, the water down there was black and choppy, and the fading colorless sky made it look cold. Spain had disappeared, there were only the rocks and the sea, and soon there would be less than that: only the roar of the waves in the darkness. She pulled the curtains across all the windows carefully and turned on an electric heater by her dressing table. The little spotlights came on. She seated herself in front of the mirror and set to work on her face. It would be quicker than usual tonight because she knew exactly what light she would be in all during the evening. As she worked she found herself wondering exactly what this rather strange Mr. Dyar thought of her. «An aging nymphomaniac, most likely,» she suggested, determining to be as realistic and ruthless with herself as she could. But then she asked herself why she was being so violent
; it could only be in order to kill whatever hope might be lurking within — hope that somehow he might find her attractive. «But that’s nonsense,» she objected. «What do I want of a callow, dull man like that? He’s a definite bore». However, she could not convince herself. He did not bore her; he was like an unanswered riddle, a painting seen in semi-darkness, its subject only guessed at, which could prove to be of something quite different once one looked at it in the light. When she reminded herself that he could not possibly turn out to be anything worthwhile or interesting, even if she did manage to understand him, the fact that he was mysterious remained, and that, for her, was the important thing about him. But why should she find any mystery in a person like that? Again she experienced a feeling of misgiving, a pleasurable little shudder of fear. «I can manage him,» she said to the half-finished face in the blinding mirror, «but can I manage you?»
The distant, multiple sounds of domestic activity came through the thick walls of the house, a series of muted, scarcely audible thuds rather than as noises actually distinguishable from one another; she, nevertheless, had learned through the years to interpret them. The pantry door swinging to, Mario’s evening tour of the lower floor, closing the shutters and drawing the curtains, Inez climbing the staircase, Paco going out to the kennels with the dogs’ dinner, she knew without question when each was happening, as the usher in a theatre knows from the dialogue exactly how the stage looks at any given moment, without needing to glance at it. Above these muffled sounds now emerged another, heard through the window: an automobile coming up the main road, turning into the driveway, stopping somewhere between the gate and the front door. Unconsciously she waited to hear it continue, to hear the car doors slam shut, the faint buzz of the bell in the kitchen, and the business of Hugo’s getting to the front entrance. But nothing happened. The silence outside went on for so long that she began to doubt she had really heard any car come into the driveway; it must have continued up the mountain.
When she had finished she turned off the spots, slipped into a new black and white négligée that Balenciaga had made for her in Madrid, rearranged the pillows, and got back into bed, thinking that perhaps it had been a very bad idea, after all, to invite Mr. Dyar alone for dinner. He might easily be made shy by the absence of other guests, and particularly by the fact that Luis was not there. «If he’s tongue-tied, what in God’s name shall I talk to him about?» she thought. With drinks enough he might be more at ease, but there was the worse danger of his having too many. Spurred on by her nervousness to speculations of disaster, she began to wish she had not acted so quickly on her impulse to invite him. But he would arrive at any moment now. She shut her eyes and tried to relax in the way a Yogi at Benares had taught her to do. It was only partially successful; nevertheless, the effort made time pass.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Hugo entered, announcing Mr. Dyar.
XVIII
Daisy struggled to a sitting position, a little resentful at having been caught unawares. Dyar held a brief case in his hand; he looked more wide-awake than she remembered him. She wondered in passing why Hugo had not taken the brief case from him along with his coat, and even more fleetingly she wondered why she had not heard the taxi arrive, but he was advancing toward the bed, and Hugo was going out and closing the door.
«Hi!» he said, shaking her hand vigorously. «I hope you’re sicker than you look, because you look fine,» He bent over and pushed the brief case under the table beside the bed.
«I’m not really sick at all. It’s just a twinge of sciatica that comes now and then. Nothing at all, darling. But I’m such a God-damned crybaby and I loathe pain so, that I simply pamper myself. And here I am. Sit down». She indicated the foot of the bed.
He obeyed, and she looked at him attentively. It seemed to her that his eyes were unusually bright, that his whole face shone with an unaccustomed physical glow. At the same time he struck her as being nervous and preoccupied. None of these things tallied with what she remembered about him; he had been restless at the Beidaoui party, but it was a restlessness that came from boredom or apathy, whereas at the moment he looked uneasy, intense, almost apprehensive. They talked a bit; his remarks were not the sort she would have expected from him; neither more intelligent nor more stupid, they nevertheless seemed to come from a different person. «But then, how do I know what he’s like? I scarcely know him at all,» she reflected.
«It feels good to get inside where it’s warm,» he said. «It’s chilly out».
«I take it your taxi wasn’t heated. Unless the car was delivered last week the heater would be broken by now. The Arabs have an absolute genius for smashing things. If you want to get rid of anything, just let an Arab touch it, and it’ll fall to pieces as he hands it back to you. They’re fantastic! What destructive people! God! Drinks will be along any minute. Tell me about yourself in the meantime». She pushed herself further back into the mound of pillows behind her and peered out at him with the expression of one about to be told a long story.
Dyar glanced at her sharply. «About myself,» he said, looking away again. «Nothing much to tell. More of the same. I think you know most of it». Now that everything was arranged, with Thami waiting in the mimosa scrub below the garden, and the Jilali dispatched to fetch the boat and bring it to the beach at Oued el Ihud at the foot of the cliffs, he was eager to be off, anxious lest some unforeseen event occur which could be a snag in his plans. The arrival of Wilcox, for instance, to pay an unexpected after-dinner call — that was one idea whose infinite possibilities of calamity paralyzed him; he forced himself to think of something else.
«Have you seen our silly Jack since night before last?» asked Daisy suddenly, as if she were inside Dyar’s mind. He felt such acute alarm that he made a great effort to turn his head slowly and look at her with a carefully feigned expression of preoccupation turning to casual interest. «I’m worried about him,» she was saying. «And I was certainly not reassured by your little description of his behavior».
But he thought: «Night before last? Why night before last? What happened then?» In his mind the party at the Beidaoui Palace had been weeks ago; it did not occur to him that she was referring to that. «No, I haven’t seen him,» he said, forgetting even that he had had breakfast with him that very morning. Hugo entered, wheeling a table covered with bottles and glasses. «I’ve learned one thing in my life, if nothing else,» Daisy said. «And that is, that it’s utterly useless to give anyone advice. Otherwise I’d ask Luis to talk with him. He might be able to worm something out of him. Because I have a distinct feeling he’s up to something, and whatever it is, he won’t get away with it. I’ll wager you ten pounds he doesn’t. Ten pounds! Why have you brought just these few pieces of ice? Bring a whole bowl of it,» she called after Hugo as he closed the door behind him.
«I don’t know,» Dyar said. «Don’t know what?» he thought, suppressing a tickling desire to laugh aloud. «Jack’s pretty careful. He’s nobody’s fool, you know. I can’t see him getting into any serious trouble, somehow». He felt that he must put a stop to this conversation or it would bring him bad luck. The mere fact that he was in a position for the moment to be offhand about the subject, even though his nonchalance was being forced upon him, seemed to indicate likely disaster. «Pride before a fall,» he thought. It was a moment for humility, a moment to touch wood. The expression get away with it bothered him. «I don’t know,» he said again.
«Ten pounds!» Daisy reiterated, handing him a whiskey-soda. He sipped it slowly, telling himself that above all things he must not get drunk. At the end of ten minutes or so she noticed that he was not drinking.
«Something’s wrong with your drink!» she exclaimed. «What have I done? Give it to me. What does it need?» She reached out for the glass.
«No, no, no!» he objected, hanging on to it. «It’s fine. I just don’t feel like drinking, somehow. I don’t know why».
«Aha!» she cried, as though she had made a great discovery. «I see! Your
system’s hyperacid, darling. It’s just the moment for a little majoun. I don’t feel much like whiskey myself tonight». She made a place for her glass among the bottles and tubes on the night-table, opened the drawer and took out a small silver box which she handed him.
«Have a piece,» she said. «Just don’t tell anyone about it. All the little people in Tangier’d be scandalized, all but the Arabs, of course. They eat it all the time. It’s the only thing allowed the poor darlings, with alcohol forbidden. But a European, a Nazarene? Shocking! Unforgivable! Depths of depravity! Tangier, sink-hole of iniquity, as your American journalists say. ‘Your correspondent has it on reliable authority that certain members of the English colony begin their evening meal with a dish of majoun, otherwise known as hashish.’ Good God!»
He was looking with interest at the six cubes of greenish black candy which exactly filled the box. «What is it?» he said.
«Majoun, darling. Majoun». She reached out, took a square and bit it in half. «Have a piece. It’s not very good, but it’s the best in Tangier. My sweet old Ali gets it for me». She rang the bell.
The candy was gritty, its flavor a combination of figs, ginger, cinnamon and licorice; there was also a pungent herbal taste which he could not identify. «What’s it supposed to do?» he asked with curiosity.
She put the box back onto its shelf. «The servants would be horrified. Isn’t it ghastly, living in fear of one’s own domestics? But I’ve never known a place like Tangier for wagging tongues. God! The place is incredible». She paused and looked at him. «What does it do?» she said. «It’s miraculous. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for all these years. If you’ve never had it, you can’t possibly understand. But I call it the key to a forbidden way of thought». She leaned down and patted his arm. «I’m not going mystical on you, darling, although I easily could if I let myself go. J’ai de quoi, God knows. There’s nothing mystical about majoun. It’s all very down to earth and real». A maid knocked. Daisy spoke to her briefly in Spanish. «I’ve ordered tea,» she explained, as the girl wheeled the table of drinks away.