The Stories of Paul Bowles

by Paul Bowles

  Let me know about that. I think it might be pleasant for you both. She’s charming, lively, and very attractive. Talkative, but intelligently so, and can be turned off with ease. (I’m describing her as she was at the age of fifteen; I haven’t seen her since.)

  If you have crowds of people scheduled to arrive, and Suky would be in the way, that’s of course another story. But let me know when you can, so I can plan her summer.

  What happened to those people from California who lived only six miles from you? Don’t they like picnics?

  See enclosed sheet with Sue’s address and phone number at Mount Holyoke, in case.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  It was good of you to write so soon, even if I wasn’t exactly pleased to hear you’d sold the caftan. And without ever wearing it! I admit that you got an unbelievable price for it. Your friend Myra must be wallowing in dollars. But that wasn’t why I sent it to you, so that you could sell it to have spending money. I was hoping it would be a very special item of your wardrobe. You say that one has to get used to doing without things when one becomes poor, and that you couldn’t face asking me for money when I was paying for the hospital. All that I appreciate completely. Still, I’m sorry you didn’t bring the subject up before getting rid of the garment. I’d have tried to dissuade you, even though I couldn’t have sent you the twelve hundred you got for it—at least, not all at once, which is obviously the way you wanted it.

  Have you thought of how you’ll spend the summer? Much as I’d like to see you, I wouldn’t advise your coming here. There’s nothing much here to interest you, I’m afraid. Hotels are relatively inexpensive, yes, but not cheap enough for my purse. And the friends with guest houses where you might have stayed gratis have died or moved away.

  It has occurred to me that you might like to visit Hawaii. I know the suggestion sounds absurd, coming directly after the song of poverty. But there I do know someone who might put you up, and probably would be delighted to do so. You’ve never met her, but you may have heard me speak of her when you were a child. More likely not. Your summer would cost me only the round-trip fare, and what’s more, I shouldn’t be worrying that you might have sneaked off to Mexico or Jamaica, or, God forbid, Haiti. You, of course, know what you want and how you feel like spending your vacation. This is just one suggestion; others may appear in the course of time.

  I should add that I do appreciate your concern about money, and understand that you sold the caftan to help me, so I’m not too chagrined that you never wore it, and that I haven’t a photo of you modeling it. The postal system, incidentally, is worse than ever.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  I can’t help wondering why you’re so eager to know how much I paid for that caftan. It’s clear that you hope it was very little, as if that would somehow justify your having sold it. But your logic is ailing. It’s not a question of how much I paid for it; it’s a question rather of how much you paid for it, and the answer is nothing. Therefore you cleared your twelve hundred and ought not to bother your head with what it cost me. I can see how your mind is working, and I suppose it shows family solidarity: that is, what’s mine is ours. Since you write about practically nothing else in your short letter, I have to assume that it’s important to you to know how much more your selling price was than my purchase price. You want to know how much “we” made on the deal. So in spite of your not seeming to be aware that it’s unheard-of to inquire the price of a gift, I think you deserve an answer, since you made “us” a profit of an even thousand, minus the mailing charges. Does that please you?

  You don’t seem to take my suggestion about Hawaii very seriously. I can see why, with all our talk about scarce money. Nevertheless I meant it in all seriousness, as a way of solving the vacation problem. I can see that you may not be eager to be the guest of a woman you don’t know, or of anyone else, for that matter. But Pamela is what’s called easygoing—tolerant and gregarious. She gives the impression of being twenty years younger than she really is. (She’s in her late fifties, and may have had cosmetic surgery, but I somehow doubt it. That sort of thing she’d be secretive about.) Do I make her sound like someone to be avoided? I hope not, as I’d be delighted to see you established there for the summer. Besides solving the vacation problem, your sojourn there could prove advantageous in other ways.

  Or perhaps I’m crazy, in which case nothing I’ve said makes sense.

  Anyway, let me hear.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  Your friend McCall sounds like a real slob. Why would he drive you to Hartford knowing you were going to have to take the bus back, and not mention it to you beforehand? You didn’t seem to find that unusual; I suppose this sort of irresponsible rudeness is part of today’s etiquette. I don’t find it appealing, but then, young people go out of their way to be as unattractive as possible, both in their persons and their behavior. So your date from Amherst is probably no worse than the rest.

  I can see you’re beginning to give the Hawaiian idea a little thought. You’re wrong, however, to use the word directive, and to suggest that I’ve been “pressuring” you, as you put it. To issue a directive is one thing, and to request a favor is something else. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear in the last letter. Staying with Pamela out there you would be in a position, if you were clever enough, to receive financial assistance for the coming year. That wouldn’t have occurred to you in your youthful innocence. But it occurred to me, and I see it as a distinct possibility. Pamela has more money than she can spend, and she’s generous. She and I are old friends as you know, and if she took a fancy to you and offered to help you, she’d know she was also helping me. Obviously, once you were there it would be up to you to decide how to play it. A question of choosing the right moment in which to be perfectly truthful. Clearly it’s in my interest that you go (and even more in your own, I suspect).

  Meditate some more, and when you come up with an answer, let me know. But don’t wait too long.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  Pamela has risen to the occasion. She’s asked me to tell you that she’d be delighted to have you stay with her for as long as it suits you—the entire summer if you like. As soon as she knows what you’ve decided she’ll be in touch directly with you. But if you make up your mind to go, wire or phone her immediately, even before you let me know. Because if you accept her invitation through me, it will take the rest of the spring. Massachusetts-Morocco, Morocco-Hawaii.

  If I had access to a telephone I’d call you. And if sending a telegram didn’t involve standing in line for an hour first, I’d wire you, and save that much more time. But I’m not up to that.

  In any case, the machinery has been set in motion. Let me hear.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  Your letter was the best sort of news. Thank God for Lucy Piper! Knowing that you had a friend who lived in Hawaii, I went out on a limb and lied a bit to Pamela, telling her that you’d been asked by this girl’s family for a visit. I needed a pretext on which to hang my suggestion that Pamela invite you to Maui. (Since you were going to be in Hawaii, etc.) Now it turns out not to be a lie, after all. The two weeks in Honolulu ought to be fun, particularly if her parents aren’t going to be there. The Pipers may be paragons of charm for all I know, but things are generally better when families are not around.

  I’ll have the New York bank send you fifteen hundred. With what you have, that should be enough for fare both ways. Send me a wire when you get to San Francisco before the Hawaii flight. I shan’t write more now. I only wanted to let you know how delighted I am that you decided to go.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  The wire Pamela sent you is essentially the same as the one she sent me. She’ll pick you up at the Pipers’ June twentieth and fly you on to Maui. It’s an ideal solution. Providential. She wanted to be in Honolulu anyway that week, so she’s not putting herself out for you. It just happened to fall right.

  In spite of your trepidation, I’d say the possib
ility that Pamela will be bored by your presence is nil. You by her, who knows? But very unlikely.

  What do you mean, “procedure” to follow with Pamela? Of course there is none. You simply play everything by ear. How can I advise you from here, or dictate a course of behavior? Or foresee the complex choreography of subterfuges and dissimulations which will make up your conversations? Women know how to handle each other, and need no man’s advice.

  Don’t think about these things now. It will just interfere with your studying. Time enough for that later. Finish up your work and go with Lucy Piper. I hope she’s fun to travel with.

  Postscriptum: Destroy my letters once you’ve read them. There won’t be all that many, in any case. The summer’s too short.

  (sent to Pamela Loeffler)

  So everything meshed, grace à Dieu. And now Suky’s with you. Could you gauge her immediate reaction to the new environment? I ask you because I don’t expect her to tell me accurately in her letters, if she ever decides to write me. I’m a little surprised that she hasn’t sent me even a few words. I suppose she thought a letter from you would be enough.

  While we’re still talking about Suky, I’m so glad you find her companionable. One never knows with the very young; their moods are mercurial. She’s been alone far too much. Her parents both died when she was twelve, and I’ve seen her only once, and briefly, since then. She will have changed.

  There never was such a thing as hashish in Morocco; it was the Americans who first manufactured it here. Kif is volatile, and they were looking for a more compact and durable form of it, so they used a vise. This made an ersatz sort of hashish. The Moroccans, not knowing hashish, good or bad, followed suit, and found the product salable abroad. They’ve been pressing this inferior merchandise ever since, and are still making great fortunes exporting it. There’s a direct relationship between the commerce in hashish and the prevalence of corruption. A. huge sum can silence anyone. I take it the situation is very different where you are; do you know anything about it? That is, more than you can read in the press?

  Suggest to Sue that she write me a note at least, if she can find the time between dates. Two boyfriends? Who are they? I imagined you as fairly isolated. Apparently you’re not.

  What makes you say I’m “obsessed” by the girl? If you’ve even suggested such an idea to her, inevitably she’ll see it in a Freudian light. This would give her a perfect pretext for not writing. In what other way could she take it? And in what way did you mean it, for that matter? “Obsessed” is a word used too often.

  (sent to Pamela Loeffler)

  I can’t help feeling some anxiety over not having had some word from Sue. I know you say she’s fine, but I’m not convinced. If she were her usual self, she’d write. It’s clear that something is troubling her that she shrinks from telling me, something more than this nonsense she’s been feeding you about being “terrified” of me. She knows that’s laughable. How can she speak of me as “authoritarian”? We haven’t seen each other in several years, and no one can terrify by mail.

  What’s got into her? The difficulty is that you don’t know her, so you can’t notice any little changes that might have come over her recently. Have you tried to persuade her to sit down and scribble a few words?

  It goes without saying that I don’t expect you to choose her friends for her. I have no objection to her seeing a Japanese mechanic three nights a week, or every night, so you needn’t feel uneasy on my account. Please understand that I don’t consider you in any way responsible for her behavior. She’s old enough to account for it herself. As she undoubtedly has told you, she’s a partisan of feminine “liberation.”

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  I saw something this morning that amused me. Two little boys about five years old were playing at bullfighting. The bull was a perambulator containing a strapped-in baby under blankets, and the one pushing the pram was making frantic attempts to gore the torero, who dodged and side-stepped the attacks. At one point the bull made an all-out desperate attempt and charged with such force that it banged into a telephone pole. Torero delighted. Baby jolted but impervious.

  Do write a few lines about the place, about the general setup. Remember, I’ve never been there, and am curious. A few sentences in a personal report mean more than pages of a travel article. I’m not asking for an essay; you can tell it all in two paragraphs. One on the place and the other on Pamela. Finis.

  (sent to Susan Choate)

  And now you write me, when you’re just about ready to leave, so that I can’t even be sure this will reach you in time. At least you gave what is probably an honest reason for your silence: you were having too good a time. That is of course the best reason, and I’m glad it turned out that way. It would have been awful if you’d hated the place and been bored by Pamela. But what a peculiar creature you are, to keep me waiting all summer for a sheet of paper it would have taken five minutes to cover.

  The last message I had from you was the wire you sent from San Francisco, so I have no idea of your present finances, or even whether you bought a round-trip passage. One can only worry so much, however; then one becomes philosophical. I suppose philosophy is merely sublimated worry. If this were a telephone conversation I could say: Let me speak to Pamela. So I shall speak to her, in a letter I’ll write as soon as I get this one into its envelope. I’m very happy you’ve loved your vacation.

  (sent to Pamela Loeffler)

  I just finished a note to the culprit. As you probably know, she finally decided to write me before she returned to college. She describes everything and all in glowing terms—particularly you, about whom she made some highly astute observations, all favorable. I think she has seen the entire spectrum of your personality, complex though it is, and for that I give her good marks. I can see from your last letter that you loved having her there with you.

  Does she seem at all preoccupied by the thought of money? If she’s been sensible, she should have more than enough to get her back to Massachusetts. Nevertheless, if you get this in time, and think she should have a bit more, please let her have it. I’ll repay you immediately.

  I’ll try to write an actual letter soon, which this is not. What I’d call a true letter ought to be an amalgam of personal conversation, diary (what happened) and journal (what one thinks about what happened). But anyway.

  (sent to Pamela Loeffler)

  Your letter was indeed bad news. Are you really satisfied with the doctor? I ask because I’m surprised that he didn’t seem to be sure whether it was a return of the hepatitis she caught in Haiti, or simple dysentery (nonamoebic, I mean).

  Poor Suky! Tell her to relax, and not to worry about being late in getting back to classes. She can make up the work easily.

  I wonder if it occurred to your doctor that she might have sunstroke. You spoke of her long hours at the beach. Her symptoms sound a little like my own when I was struck by the sun in Cuba. It’s at times like this that I wish I had a telephone. Wire me if there’s any sudden change for the worse in her condition.

  I saw something incredible in a French magazine last week. A friend of de Gaulle was being interviewed. One question: “Then de Gaulle was not anti-Semitic?” The reply: “Well, in 1940, I remember that André Maurois came and asked to speak to de Gaulle privately. The general turned to someone beside him and said: ‘What’s that kike doing here?’ But that was just his way of speaking. De Gaulle was never anti-Semitic.” Little things like that make life worth living.

  The dog may be man’s best friend, but only if he has a master who feeds him. Here the dogs with no human ties are a menace. They hunt in packs of fifteen or twenty, and have formed the habit of attacking tethered donkeys when night comes. They crowd around the donkey’s head, trying to reach its neck. It backs up, and slowly winds its chain tightly around the tree. When it can no longer move, it belongs to the dogs, which devour it. In Tangier there used to be a dogcatcher, who piled ownerless dogs into his little truck and took them to the
pound. Now there’s neither catcher nor pound. The dogs are considered a natural hazard, like wild boars and snakes.

  I hope it doesn’t make too much extra bother for you to have Suky laid up in bed. I’m sorry I was instrumental in bringing this on you. You’re an angel, as always. Write me soon.

  (sent to Pamela Loeffler)

  You don’t sound very sanguine about Sue’s improvement. Of course she hasn’t written me, but I can scarcely expect her to if she feels miserable. She knows you keep in touch.

  So now Florence pays her visit, and unannounced. And naturally she defends herself with the story of the letter she sent from Santa Barbara, even though she saw that it hadn’t arrived until three days after her own arrival. And of course she appears just when you’ve got Suky in bed sick. I know you say guests never bother you, but it always takes a lot of one’s time to care for a sick person, I hope by now that sick person is on her feet. It’s almost a month since she came down with whatever she has.