The Stories of Paul Bowles

  “A very bad thing,” thought Salam as he hurried home with the kif. No policeman had bothered him before this. When he reached his room he wondered if he should hide the package under a tile in the floor, but he decided that if he did that, he himself would be living like a Jew, who each time there is a knock at the door ducks his head and trembles. He spread the kif out on the table defiantly and left it there. During the afternoon he and Bou Ralem cut it. He did not mention the policeman, but he was thinking of him all the time they were working. When the sun had gone down behind the plain and the soft breeze began to come in through the windows he took off his shirt and lay back on the pillows to smoke. Bou Ralem filled his mottoui with the fresh kif and went out to a café. “I’m staying here,” said Salam.

  He smoked for an hour or more. It was a hot night. The dogs had begun to bark in the canebrake. A woman and a man in one of the huts below were cursing one another. Sometimes the woman stopped shouting and merely screamed. The sound bothered Salam. He could not be happy. He got up and dressed, took his sebsi and his mottoui, and went out. Instead of turning toward the town when he left the alley, he walked toward the highway. He wanted to sit in a quiet place in order to find out what to do. If the policeman had not suspected him, he would not have stopped him. Since he had stopped him once, he might do it again, and the next time he might search him. “That’s not freedom,” he said to himself. A few cars went by. Their headlights made the tree-trunks yellow as they passed. After each car had gone, there was only the blue light of the moon and the sky. When he got to the bridge over the river, he climbed down the bank under the girders, and went along a path to a rock that hung out high above the water. There he sat and looked over the edge at the deep muddy river that was moving below in the moonlight. He felt the kif in his head, and he knew he was going to make it work for him.

  He put the plan together slowly. It was going to cost a thousand francs, but he had that, and he was willing to spend it. After six pipes, when he had everything arranged in his mind, he stuffed his sebsi into his pocket, jumped up, and climbed the path to the highway. He walked back to the town quickly, going into the Medina by a dirt road where the houses had gardens, and where behind the walls all along the way there were dogs barking at the moon. Not many people walked at night in this part of town. He went to the house of his cousin Abdallah, who was married to a woman from Sidi Kacem. The house was never empty. Two or three of her brothers were always there with their families. Salam spoke privately with Abdallah in the street outside the door, asking for one of the brothers whose face was not known in the town. Abdallah went in and quickly came out again with someone. The man had a beard, wore a country djellaba, and carried his shoes in his hand. They spoke together for a few minutes. “Go with him,” said Abdallah, when they had finished talking. Salam and the bearded man said goodnight and went away.

  At Salam’s house that night the man slept on a mat in the kitchen. When morning came, they washed and had coffee and pastries. While they were eating Salam took out his thousand-franc note and put it into an envelope. On the outside of it Bou Ralem had printed the word GRACIAS in pencil. Soon Salam and the man from the country got up and went out through the town until they came to a side street opposite the back entrance of the police station. There they stood against the wall and talked. “You don’t know his name,” said the man. “We don’t have to,” Salam told him. “When he comes out and gets into one of the cars and drives away, you run over to the officer and give them the envelope, and say you tried to catch him before he left.” He waved the envelope in his hand. “Ask them to give this to him when he comes back. They’ll take it.”

  “He may walk,” said the man. “Then what will I do?”

  “The police never walk,” Salam said. “You’ll see. Then you run out again. This street is the best one. Keep going, that’s all. I won’t be here. I’ll see you at Abdallah’s.”

  They waited a long time. The sun grew hotter and they moved into the shade of a fig tree, always watching the door of the comisaría from where they stood. Several policemen came out, and for each one the man from the country was ready to run, but Salam held on to him and said: “No, no, no!” When the policeman they were waiting for finally did stand in the doorway, Salam drew in his breath and whispered: “There he is. Wait till he drives off, then run.” He turned away and walked very fast down the street into the Medina.

  When the man from the country had explained clearly who the envelope was for, he handed it to the policeman at the desk, said, “Thank you,” and ran out quickly. The policeman looked at the envelope, then tried to call him back, but he had gone. Since all messages which came for any of the policemen had to be put on the captain’s desk first he sent the envelope in to his office. The captain held it up to the light. When the policeman came back he called him in and made him open it in front of him. “Who is it from?” said the captain. The policeman scratched his head. He could not answer. “I see,” said the captain. The next week he had the man transferred. Word came from the capital that he was to be sent to Rissani. “See how many friends you can make in the desert,” the captain told him. He would not listen to anything the policeman tried to say.

  Salam went to Tangier. When he returned he heard that the policeman had been sent to the Sahara. This made him laugh a great deal. He went to the market and bought a half-grown goat. Then he invited Fatma Daifa and Abdallah and his wife and two of the brothers with their wives and children, and they killed the goat and ate it. It was nearly dawn by the time they all went home. Fatma Daifa did not want to go through the streets alone, and since Salam and Bou Ralem were too drunk to take her, she slept in the kitchen on the floor. When she woke up it was late, but Salam and Bou Ralem were still asleep. She got her things together, put her haïk on and went out. As she came to the house of the woman with the little girl, she stood still and looked in. The woman saw her and was frightened. “What do you want?” she cried. Fatma Daifa knew she was meddling, but she thought this was the right thing to do for Salam. She pretended not to see the woman’s frightened face, and she shook her fist back at the terrace, crying into the air: “Now I see what sort of man you are! You think you can cheat me? Listen to me! None of it’s going to work, do you hear?” She walked on down the alley shouting: “None of it!” The other Jewish women came and stood around the door and sat on the curb in front of it. They agreed that if the old woman had fought with the two men there was no more danger from the magic, because only the old woman had the power to make it work. The mother of the little girl was happy, and the next day the child was playing in the mud with the others.

  Salam went in and out of the alley as always, not noticing the children or the people. It was half a month before he said one day to Bou Ralem: “I think the Jews are feeling better. I saw the wrong Mimí out loose this morning.” He was free again now that the policeman was gone, and he could carry his kif in his pocket without worrying when he went out through the streets to the café. The next time he saw Fatma Daifa she asked him about the Jews in his alley. “It’s finished. They’ve forgotten,” he said. “Good,” she replied. Then she went to her house and got out the porcupine quill powder and the crow’s wing and the seeds and all the rest of the packages. She put them into her basket, carried them to the market, and sold them there, and with the money she bought bread, oil, and eggs. She went home and cooked her dinner.

  (1961)

  The Hyena

  A STORK WAS PASSING over desert country on his way north. He was thirsty, and he began to look for water. When he came to the mountains of Khang el Ghar, he saw a pool at the bottom of a ravine. He flew down between the rocks and lighted at the edge of the water. Then he walked in and drank.

  At that moment a hyena limped up and, seeing the stork standing in the water, said: “Have you come a long way?” The stork had never seen a hyena before. “So this is what a hyena is like,” he thought. And he stood looking at the hyena because he had been told that if the hyena can
put a little of his urine on someone, that one will have to walk after the hyena to whatever place the hyena wants him to go.

  “It will be summer soon,” said the stork. “I am on my way north.” At the same time, he walked further out into the pool, so as not to be so near the hyena. The water here was deeper, and he almost lost his balance and had to flap his wings to keep upright. The hyena walked to the other side of the pool and looked at him from there.

  “I know what is in your head,” said the hyena. “You believe the story about me. You think I have that power? Perhaps long ago hyenas were like that. But now they are the same as everyone else. I could wet you from here with my urine if I wanted to. But what for? If you want to be unfriendly, go to the middle of the pool and stay there.”

  The stork looked around at the pool and saw that there was no spot in it where he could stand and be out of reach of the hyena.

  “I have finished drinking,” said the stork. He spread his wings and flapped out of the pool. At the edge he ran quickly ahead and rose into the air. He circled above the pool, looking down at the hyena.

  “So you are the one they call the ogre,” he said. “The world is full of strange things.”

  The hyena looked up. His eyes were narrow and crooked. “Allah brought us all here,” he said. “You know that. You are the one who knows about Allah.”

  The stork flew a little lower. “That is true,” he said. “But I am surprised to hear you say it. You have a very bad name, as you yourself just said. Magic is against the will of Allah.”

  The hyena tilted his head. “So you still believe the lies!” he cried.

  “I have not seen the inside of your bladder,” said the stork. “But why does everyone say you can make magic with it?”

  “Why did Allah give you a head, I wonder? You have not learned how to use it.” But the hyena spoke in so low a voice that the stork could not hear him.

  “Your words got lost,” said the stork, and he let himself drop lower.

  The hyena looked up again. “I said: ‘Don’t come too near me. I might lift my leg and cover you with magic!’” He laughed, and the stork was near enough to see that his teeth were brown.

  “Still, there must be some reason,” the stork began. Then he looked for a rock high above the hyena, and settled himself on it. The hyena sat and stared up at him. “Why do they call you an ogre? What have you done?”

  The hyena squinted. “You are lucky,” he told the stork. “Men never try to kill you, because they think you are holy. They call you a saint and a sage. And yet you seem like neither a saint nor a sage.”

  “What do you mean?” said the stork quickly.

  “If you really understood, you would know that magic is a grain of dust in the wind, and that Allah has power over everything. You would not be afraid.”

  The stork stood for a long time, thinking. He lifted one leg and held it bent in front of him. The ravine grew red as the sun went lower. And the hyena sat quietly looking up at the stork, waiting for him to speak.

  Finally the stork put his leg down, opened his bill, and said: “You mean that if there is no magic, the one who sins is the one who believes there is.”

  The hyena laughed. “I said nothing about sin. But you did, and you are the sage. I am not in the world to tell anyone what is right or wrong. Living from night to night is enough. Everyone hopes to see me dead.”

  The stork lifted his leg again and stood thinking. The last daylight rose into the sky and was gone. The cliffs at the sides of the ravine were lost in the darkness.

  At length the stork said: “You have given me something to think about. That is good. But now night has come. I must go on my way.” He raised his wings and started to fly straight out from the boulder where he had stood. The hyena listened. He heard the stork’s wings beating the air slowly, and then he heard the sound of the stork’s body as it hit the cliff on the other side of the ravine. He climbed up over the rocks and found the stork. “Your wing is broken,” he said. “It would have been better for you to go while there was still daylight.”

  “Yes,” said the stork. He was unhappy and afraid.

  “Come home with me,” the hyena told him. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes,” said the stork. Together they made their way down the valley. Soon they came to a cave in the side of the mountain. The hyena went in first and called out: “Bend your head.” When they were well inside, he said: “Now you can put your head up. The cave is high here.”

  There was only darkness inside. The stork stood still. “Where are you?” he said.

  “I am here,” the hyena answered, and he laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” asked the stork.

  “I was thinking that the world is strange,” the hyena told him. “The saint has come into my cave because he believed in magic.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the stork.

  “You are confused. But at least now you can believe that I have no magic. I am like anyone else in the world.”

  The stork did not answer right away. He smelled the stench of the hyena very near him. Then he said, with a sigh: “You are right, of course. There is no power beyond the power of Allah.”

  “I am happy,” said the hyena, breathing into his face. “At last you understand.” Quickly he seized the stork’s neck and tore it open. The stork flapped and fell on his side.

  “Allah gave me something better than magic,” the hyena said under his breath. “He gave me a brain.”

  The stork lay still. He tried to say once more: “There is no power beyond the power of Allah.” But his bill merely opened very wide in the dark.

  The hyena turned away. “You will be dead in a minute,” he said over his shoulder. “In ten days I shall come back. By then you will be ready.”

  Ten days later the hyena went to cave and found the stork where he had left him. The ants had not been there. “Good,” he said. He devoured what he wanted and went outside to a large flat rock above the entrance to the cave. There in the moonlight he stood a while, vomiting.

  He ate some of his vomit and rolled for a long time in the rest of it, rubbing it deep into his coat. Then he thanked Allah for eyes that could see the valley in the moonlight, and for a nose that could smell carrion on the wind. He rolled some more and licked the rock under him. For a while he lay there panting. Soon he got up and limped on his way.

  (1962)

  The Wind at Beni Midar

  AT BENI MIDAR there is a barracks. It has many rows of

  small buildings, whitewashed, and everything is in the middle of big rocks, on the side of the mountain behind the town. A quite place when the wind is not blowing. A few Spanish still live in the houses along the road. They run the shops. But now the people in the streets are Moslems, mountain men with goats and sheep, or soldiers from the cuartel looking for wine. The Spanish sell wine to men they know. One Jew sells it to almost anybody. But there never is enough wine in the town for everybody who wants it. Beni Midar has only one street, that comes down out of the mountains, curves back and forth like a snake between the houses for a while, and goes on, back into the mountains. Sunday is a bad day, the one free time the soldiers have, when they can walk back and forth all day between the shops and houses. A few Spaniards in black clothes go into the church at the hour when the Rhmara ride their donkeys out of the souk. Later the Spaniards come out of the church and go home. Nothing else happens because all the shops are shut. There is nothing the soldiers can buy.

  Driss had been stationed for eight months in Beni Midar. Because the cabran in charge of his unit had been a neighbor of his in Tetuan, he was not unhappy. The cabran had a friend with a motorcycle. Together they went each month to Tetuan. There the cabran always saw Driss’s sister, who made a big bundle of food to send back to the barracks for him. She sent him chickens and cakes, cigarettes and figs, and always many hard-boiled eggs. He shared the eggs with two or three friends, and did not complain about being in Beni Midar.

  No
t even the brothels were open on Sunday. It was the day when everyone walked from one end of the town to the other, back and forth, many times. Sometimes Driss walked like this with his friends. Usually he took his gun and went down into the valley to hunt for hares. When he came back at twilight he stopped in a small café at the edge of town and had a glass of tea and a few pipes of kif. If it had not been the only café he would never have gone into it. Shameful things happened there. Several times he had seen men from the mountains get up from the mat and do dances that left blood on the floor. These men were Jilala, and no one thought of stopping them, not even Driss. They did not dance because they wanted to dance, and it was this that made him angry and ashamed. It seemed to him that the world should be made in such a way that a man is free to dance or not as he feels. A Jilali can do only what the music tells him to do. When the musicians, who are Jilala too, play the music that has the power, his eyes shut and he falls on the floor. And until the man has shown the proof and drunk his own blood, the musicians do not begin the music that will bring him back to the world. They should do something about it, Driss said to the other soldiers who went with him to the café, and they agreed.

  He had talked about it with his cabran in the public garden. The cabran said that when all the children in the land were going to school every day there would be no more djenoun. Women would no longer be able to put spells on their husbands. And the Jilala and the Hamatcha and all the others would stop cutting their legs and arms and chests. Driss thought about this for a long time. He was glad to hear that the government knew about these bad things. “But if they know,” he thought, “why don’t they do something now? The day they get every one of the children in school I’ll be lying beside Sidi Ali el Mandri.” He was thinking of the cemetery at Bab Sebta in Tetuan. When he saw the cabran again he said: “If they can do something about it, they ought to do it now.” The cabran did not seem interested. “Yes,” he said.