The Stories of Paul Bowles

by Paul Bowles

  She received the news quietly; indeed, she seemed to have been expecting it. In the hope of persuading her that he was not being arbitrary, was not merely getting rid of her, he added: You see what your foolishness has done.

  Then she faced him and looked into his eyes. You have no right to blame me for anything, she told him. It’s not my fault if you’re still living in this little house.

  At the time the remark meant nothing to him; it was merely a senile non-sequitur. Later, when he had returned from the tchar in the valley and was living quietly with Fatoma, he recalled it. After that, he often thought about it.

  (1981)

  The Empty Amulet

  HABIBA’S FATHER, who was the concierge at the principal hotel of the city, provided a comfortable life for his family, but he was unusually strict. Some of Habiba’s friends among girls of her age had been to school and even passed their examinations, so that they could become secretaries and bookkeepers and dentists’ assistants. Habiba’s father, however, considered all this highly immoral, and would not hear of allowing her to attend school. Instead, she learned embroidery and knitting, which she accomplished using modern German machines he bought for her.

  When Moumen, a young man of the neighborhood, came to ask for Habiba’s hand in marriage, her father accepted because he knew that the young man worked at a nearby hospital as interne, and thus had permanent employment. Habiba was not consulted. She was delighted to escape from the parental home and the everlasting embroidery.

  Since Moumen was a young man with modern ideas, he did not lock his bride into the house when he went out to work. On the contrary, he urged her to get to know the young married women of the quarter. Soon she was part of a group whose members met each day, first at one house and then another.

  Habiba was not long in discovering that the principal topic of conversation among these ladies was the state of their health. Every one of them claimed to suffer from some affliction or indisposition. This discountenanced Habiba, for, always having been in the best of health, she could only sit and listen when the subject of ailments arose.

  One day she awoke with a headache. When her friends arrived that morning to see her, she complained of the pain. Immediately she was the center of attention. The following day when they inquired about her health, she told them she still had the pain in her head. And indeed, as she thought about it, it seemed to her that she could feel an occasional throb. Each woman was ready with a different remedy, but they all agreed that a visit to the tomb of Sidi Larbi would provide the surest relief.

  There were three other women in the group who were eager to make the pilgrimage. Accordingly, a few days later Habiba went off with them in a large taxi to Sidi Larbi. They took along a picnic lunch, which Habiba, following their advice, washed down with a glass of water containing a large pinch of black earth from outside the mausoleum. Each of them gathered a pile of this dirt to take home for future use. At the end of the day in the open air, Habiba was unable to feel even a trace of headache. Drink the dirt five nights in a row, they told her.

  When she got home she hid the packet of earth, knowing that Moumen disapproved of Moroccan medicine. His objections to it were so vehement that she suspected him of being afraid of it, in the same way that she was frightened of entering the hospital where he worked. The nauseating medicinal odors, the bins of bloody bandages, the shining syringes, all filled her with dread.

  Scarcely a week passed that some one of the young women among her friends did not make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Sidi Hussein or Sidi Larbi or some other not too distant shrine. It seemed to Moumen that Habiba was always on the verge of visiting one saint or another; either she had pains in her back, or cramps, or a stiff neck. Whatever trouble she named, there was always a saint who could cure it.

  One evening Moumen went unexpectedly into the kitchen and found Habiba stirring some earth into a glass of water.

  Habiba! You can’t do that! he cried. It’s what they did a hundred years ago.

  And two hundred and five hundred, she retorted, her eyes on the glass.

  You’re a savage! It makes me sick to look at you!

  Habiba was unperturbed. She knew he considered the pills and injections used by the Nazarenes superior to the baraka of the saints. This had nothing to do with her, she decided; she was not going to be influenced by him.

  I have pains in my side, she said. Rahma had the same pains, and the mud from Sidi Yamani got rid of them in twenty-four hours.

  If you’ll come to the hospital tomorrow morning, I’ll give you some pills, he told her, intending, if she agreed, to hand her some sugar-coated pills containing nothing at all, since he knew her to be in perfect health.

  This is my medicine, she said, moving the glass in a circular fashion, to dissolve all the mud.

  It cost him an effort not to wrest the glass away from her and dash it to the floor. He shook his head. A beautiful girl like you swallowing dirt!

  Habiba leaned back against the sink and calmly drank the contents of the glass.

  The day Moumen learned that Habiba was carrying a child, he sat for a long time in a café, trying to think of a way to keep her from going on any more of her absurd pilgrimages. At one point he looked up and noticed a book of cigarette papers that someone had left on the table next to him. He reached over for it. Idly he pulled out two of the little sheets of rice-paper and crumpled them between his fingers. As he glanced down at the tiny ball of paper, the idea came to him.

  He paid the qahouaji, and taking the book of cigarette papers with him, he made his way down into the Medina to see a friend who worked as a goldsmith. He wanted him to make a tiny gold cage just big enough to hold a baraka. While they were discussing the size and price of the piece of jewelry, Moumen surreptitiously reached into his pocket and pulled out two cigarette papers, which he rolled into a ball. When they had come to an agreement, he asked the goldsmith for a bit of silk thread, and wound a short length of it around the ball of paper.

  Here’s the baraka, he told the man, who dropped it into an envelope on which Moumen wrote his name, and promised to have the chain and pendant ready the following afternoon.

  The small gold cage on its slender chain made a pretty necklace. When he took it home and fastened it around Habiba’s neck, he told her: This baraka is from a very great fqih. It’s to protect the baby.

  He was a bit ashamed, but greatly relieved, to see how much the gift meant to her. During the months that followed, when she might have been expected to suffer discomfort, she was uncomplaining and happy. She told her friends that her husband did not want her to ride in taxis on country roads because it might be bad for the baby, and they nodded their heads sagely. Besides, said Habiba, I don’t need to go any more.

  Hamdoul’lah, they said.

  The baby was born: a robust little creature who passed through his infancy unscathed by illness. Habiba herself was radiantly healthy; since the day she had begun to wear the cage over her heart she had not once complained of a symptom. It was the possession she valued above all others. The days of making pilgrimages and swallowing mud were far behind; Moumen was pleased with himself for having found such a simple solution to a difficult problem.

  One summer afternoon when Habiba rose from her siesta, she took the necklace from the table to fasten it around her neck, for she did not like to be without it. For some reason the chain snapped, and the cage slid to the floor, where it rolled out of sight. As she moved around the room looking for it, she felt a light crunch beneath her foot, and realized that she had stepped on it. The lid had broken off and the ball of paper had tumbled out. She gathered up the broken cage and the baraka that had been inside. The silk thread slipped off and the cigarette papers sprang open.

  Habiba uncreased them both. Nothing was written on either paper. She held them up to the light and saw the watermarks; then she understood what they were. She sat perfectly still for a long time, while her sense of injury was slowly replaced by fury with Moumen fo
r having deceived her, and for so long a period of time. When Moumen got home that evening and saw her face, he knew that the hour of reckoning had come. Habiba shouted at him, she wept, she sulked, she said she would never believe him again as long as she lived.

  For several days she would not speak to Moumen; when finally one morning she did, it was to announce that she felt dizzy and had pains in her stomach. To his dismay he saw that for the first time she did look ill.

  Thanks to your lies I went all that time without any baraka, she said bitterly.

  Yes, but you were well all that time, he reminded her.

  And that’s why I’m sick now! she screamed. It’s your fault!

  Moumen did not attempt to answer her; he had learned the futility of expecting her to follow a logical train of thought.

  Before the week was out, Habiba was on her way to Sidi Larbi with two of her friends. From that time onward Moumen heard nothing from her but an unvarying stream of complaints, cut short only on the day they were divorced.

  (1981)

  Rumor and a Ladder

  I

  ALONE IN PARIS, Monsieur Ducros sat in his spacious hotel room, preparing to write a letter to his daughter in Kuala Lumpur. He frowned at the hotel stationery, which now was merely printed, instead of being embossed as it had been on his last visit. A symbol of the times, he thought automatically. The slow encroachment of poverty on all sides. Then he glanced down at the cast encasing his leg, smiled briefly at it, and started to write.

  My dear Clotilde:

  I hope my unwonted silence hasn’t disturbed you. Ordinarily I’m a good correspondent; admit it. I can’t believe Kuala Lumpur has altered much since 1965. As you know, it was my last post. I was pleased to hear that Abd er Rahman and his wife are still there; one never knows. I passed my eighty-fifth birthday quietly in Tangier. In a moment you will see what I mean by “quietly.”

  The incredible irony of certain situations in which life insists upon involving us! What was I doing, standing at the top of a stepladder in the library on a Sunday morning? You may well ask. I also asked myself that, but a good deal too late.

  When I felt the ladder tilting (for this is the way it all began) and knew I was going to fall, I was aware of several things simultaneously: that everything was unfinished; that I had been an idiot to climb up there; that people would believe I had been drunk or the victim of an assault (suppositions equally damaging to one’s posthumous reputation in that vicious city where, as you’re aware, no one thinks well of anyone); and above all the conviction that everything would go wrong, with the result that you and Pierrot somehow would not be able to inherit El Hafa. Because, my girl, I was certain that it was the end. Then the leg got involved with the ladder as we went down, there was a crash, and I lay there, my head pounding, and quite aware that my leg was broken above the knee. Fortunately the big Chichaoua rug was underneath, or I should have hit marble. I called endlessly for Annamaria. When she finally appeared, she claimed the wind was rattling the shutters so hard that she hadn’t heard me at first. It’s true that her room faces northeast, and there was a gale blowing outside. Still—

  I had her send Abdeslam on foot to Dr. Rinaldi’s clinic. (The telephone had been out of order for more than three weeks.) Rinaldi arrived. The femur was fractured. He saw the stepladder by the bookshelves, and looked at me reprovingly. Off I went to the clinic; in traction for what seemed an eternity. Actually it was something less than a month and a half…

  II

  IT’S ESSENTIAL THAT I go to Paris, said Monsieur Ducros, surveying his leg, still in its cast. As you can see, I manage perfectly well now with the cane.

  Dr. Rinaldi shrugged. Luck has been with you so far, he said. Why shouldn’t we expect it to continue?

  They sat sipping whiskey in the library where the accident had taken place. After a certain hesitation Dr. Rinaldi inquired if the rumor were true that his host planned to sell El Hafa.

  Monsieur Ducros bristled. But what an idea! Certainly not! I haven’t the slightest intention of selling. I know, that Saudi is interested, and the offer would be generous. I intend my daughter and her husband to have the property after my death. I’ve spent all my retired years in this house, and everything I own in the world is in it.

  Dr. Rinaldi looked around the room approvingly. There are many treasures, yes. Astonishing how Japanese, Tibetan, Khmer and Persian can blend in a room.

  Not really, if you think about it, said Monsieur Ducros, without elaborating. The point is, I don’t want to give up anything. You understand. With my things around me, it’s as though I were still out there in the Far East. I enjoy my little life, and I can assure you I have no intention of interrupting it by selling El Hafa.

  There’s one thing I’m curious about, Dr. Rinaldi said after a moment. Those paintings at the far end of the hall. I couldn’t help noticing them.

  Monsieur Ducros chuckled. Yes, it’s a jarring note, I know. But they’re not really much in evidence. I keep it fairly dark at that end, purposely. Madame Ducros bought those things shortly after the First World War. They say less than nothing to me, I confess. I’ve been told they have a certain value, but I don’t take that too seriously. I’ve kept them because my wife was so fond of them.

  A Moroccan in a white jacket announced that dinner was served. Dr. Rinaldi handed Monsieur Ducros his cane, and they rose from their chairs.

  At the table Monsieur Ducros pointed to the carafes in the center, saying: The white is simply Valpierre. The red is a fairly good Bordeaux. You’ve taken Mademoiselle Herzler’s tray up. Abdeslam?

  When they were alone in the dining-room, he spoke confidentially: My secretary insists upon eating by herself in her room. I think she’s not entirely happy here. She objects very much to the wind. Swiss, he added, as if by way of explanation.

  Dr. Rinaldi, busying himself with his sole meunière, did not reply. Presently he looked up and said with great seriousness: I suspect you of grossly underestimating the worth of those canvases. May I ask what you imagine they’d fetch on the market today?

  Monsieur Ducros stopped eating, and thought for a moment. I have no idea, he said.

  For the five Soutines alone I can get you two million French francs tomorrow. As he made the statement he stared fixedly at his host, as if to measure his reaction. He saw a flash of interest, followed immediately by disbelief.

  Ridiculous. They’re not Titians, after all.

  I’m entirely serious.

  Monsieur Ducros was quiet. Then he sighed. Even if your estimate is not dramatically exaggerated, and even if I wanted to dispose of them, what would be the point? The money would be of no use here, and it couldn’t be taken out of Morocco.

  Oh, come, said Dr. Rinaldi. There are ways.

  No, thank you, Monsieur Ducros said firmly. The law is generally illogical and often unjust, but I’m not one to flout it.

  My friend, you function according to the ethos of a bygone era. But I approve, I approve.

  In my experience the rational man is the one who obeys the law.

  But alas! sighed Dr. Rinaldi. How human it is to be irrational!

  Monsieur Ducros glanced furtively at his guest: he suspected these last words to be a veiled reference to his accident. The doctor already had upbraided him severely for allowing the absurd thing to happen. What were servants for, if not to climb stepladders? He had not mentioned Monsieur Ducros’ age, but this show of discretion counted for little because of the stern manner in which he had voiced his opinion. Monsieur Ducros recognized the minatory tone; since he had passed his eightieth birthday all his doctors had used it with him.

  They spoke of other things. But later, over coffee and Armagnac in the den, Monsieur Ducros turned with a puzzled expression to his guest.

  To return for a moment to the subject of those paintings. How would your buyer have arranged to get them out of the country? I’m curious.

  The question wouldn’t have arisen, the doctor told him. An American col
lector is building a house in Marrakech. Why? Are you tempted?

  Monsieur Ducros shook his head. No, no! Not in the least.

  III

  THEIR NEXT ENCOUNTER, less than a week later, was unexpected and tempestuous. In the middle of a weekday afternoon Monsieur Ducros was brought by a taxi-driver to Dr. Rinaldi’s clinic in a state bordering on apoplexy. The cast on his leg had been split open, and tatters of gauze trailed out from inside it.

  Seeing that Monsieur Ducros was not in a state to speak coherently, Dr. Rinaldi questioned the taxi-driver. He was struck by a car?

  The driver did not know. He had been summoned by an official at the airport and instructed to take the passenger home, but on the way the old man had demanded to be brought to the clinic.

  Monsieur Ducros was put to bed and given an injection. Later that evening, after an enforced sleep of several hours, he was sufficiently rested to tell his tale to Dr. Rinaldi.

  Abdeslam had driven him to the airport, given his luggage to a porter, and left. The plane for Paris arrived. As his passport was being examined, a man had appeared from nowhere, and asked him to go with him into an inner office, where he and two others had made him undress. Not content with that, they had refused to believe that his leg was broken, and had held him by force while they smashed open the cast and pulled the inside to pieces in their search for money.

  It’s that rumor! They had the effrontery to tell me they were acting on secret information that I’d sold El Hafa.

  Dr. Rinaldi was deeply shocked. Unheard-of! Herbier must be informed immediately at the consulate.

  I shall sue for damages! Monsieur Ducros cried feebly.

  My poor friend, that would produce an enormous zero. You’ve lived here long enough to realize that. All you can do is accept what has happened, be sure the leg is all right, put on a new cast, and start out again.

  Monsieur Ducros shut his eyes for a moment, and opened them again. You can help me, he said.