The Stories of Paul Bowles

  Naturally. As your doctor I can attest to the authenticity of the fracture. Perhaps they’d like to see the X-ray, too, he added acidly.

  Monsieur Ducros did not seem to be listening. He was looking at the ceiling. Yes, you can help me, he repeated.

  Dr. Rinaldi decided that the time had come for his patient to rest. You can count on me, he told him.

  The next day he went into the sickroom and announced that he was ready to make a new cast. Monsieur Ducros waved him away. No, no. I don’t want it.

  But you must have a cast. You can’t walk without one.

  I shan’t walk. I’ll stay in my bed at home until you come to do it.

  As you like, Dr. Rinaldi said shortly, feeling that he was being foolish to humor the caprice of an unreasonable old man.

  Abdeslam can take me home this afternoon. Will you come by at five o’clock?

  Fleetingly the idea occurred to the doctor that the experience at the airport might have caused a small cerebral lesion. In some subtle way Monsieur Ducros’ personality seemed very slightly altered.

  You must not use the leg, he said frowning. Not even to take a few steps in your room. Are we agreed?

  IV

  AT EL HAFA Dr. Rinaldi found his patient propped up in an enormous antique bed; the damask curtains that hung from the baldaquin overhead nearly hid him from view.

  I’ve obeyed you to the letter, he called out, even before the doctor and his assistant had got inside the room.

  Dr. Rinaldi laughed. When do you plan your next escape attempt?

  I haven’t thought about it, said Monsieur Ducros. May I have a five-minute conversation with you in private?

  Dr. Rinaldi spoke with the Moroccan, and he left the room. When they were alone, Monsieur Ducros leaned forward and beckoned to the other to approach.

  I’ll explain, he whispered. You see, I don’t want you to put the cast on today. I merely wanted you to come by. And I’ve decided to sell those paintings, if you can get in touch with the American.

  This inconsequential coupling of ideas confirmed Dr. Rinaldi’s previous suspicions; he saw in it a clear instance of mental dysfunction. Come, he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. One thing at a time. May I ask why you prefer to remain without the cast?

  Because I must know whether or not the paintings can be sold. I should think that would be obvious.

  I hadn’t connected the two things, the doctor said drily. But since what interests you most is evidently the sale of the paintings, I can say: yes, they definitely can be sold, and in short order, if you like. I myself will buy them and resell them.

  At a resonable profit, I hope, added Monsieur Ducros, smiling.

  Very likely.

  You said two million, as I recall.

  Dr. Rinaldi laughed. If you want to throw in the Vlaminck, the Rouault and the Kokoschka, two and a quarter.

  Monsieur Ducros threw up his hands. Kokoschka, indeed! I don’t know one from the other. They’re all equally inept. That would make all eight of them, wouldn’t it? I have some old Thai things I’ll hang at that end of the hall. They’ll be far more in keeping.

  Dr. Rinaldi looked searchingly at his patient. This is serious? You really want my check now?

  But not at all! The currency. In French francs.

  Dr. Rinaldi opened his mouth. But, he began.

  You don’t agree?

  It will take time. Perhaps by tomorrow evening.

  Monsieur Ducros was waving his hands again. Just bring the francs here to me.

  Shaking his head with disapproval, Dr. Rinaldi said: Far too much money to leave lying around the house.

  This seemed to mystify Monsieur Ducros. Surely you’ve understood by now what I expect you to do with the banknotes? You’ll build them into the cast. And what they imagined was happening the first time will actually happen this time.

  After a long silence Dr. Rinaldi said slowly: You can scarcely expect me to be eager to risk my professional status simply to help you perpetrate a fraud.

  Monsieur Ducros cried excitedly: Fraud! I’ve already been punished. Now I want to deserve that punishment!

  The doctor stood up. I find it quite extraordinary, the total change in your views on morality.

  Nothing has changed. What was a question of ethics has become a question of honor.

  As Dr. Rinaldi moved around the room, following the patterns of the rug, he said: You realize how much more work it would mean for me, having to do it all without my assistant?

  Monsieur Ducros, knowing he had won, pressed on. Herbier has been in touch with Rabat, no? He has a formal apology for the incident. There’s absolutely no question of a repetition. The element of risk has been removed.

  The doctor returned to the bed and placed his hands on the footboard. I retract what I said about you at dinner not too long ago. You are indeed a product of our times.

  I don’t see it that way at all, Monsieur Ducros said quickly. This little ploy of revenge in no way affects my point of view. We’re playing a game of extra-legal tit-for-tat, nothing more.

  It’s quite all right, said Dr. Rinaldi. You won’t need any medical attestations if Herbier himself is accompanying you to the airport.

  …And that is the bare outline of how your father took the first step along the pathway to crime. But criminals can be fiercely fond of their families, you know. So, go to the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank in Kuala and ask for Mister Nigel Dawson. He will explain to you that you now have an account with them, and that it has seventy-five thousand British pounds in it at the moment. I’m sure there are many things for which it will be useful, including, I hope, a visit by you and Pierrot to Tangier before too long.

  I had the paintings thanks to your mother. And I think she would appreciate the ridiculous turn of events which made it possible for me to sell them for a small fortune. But luck is always absurd.

  I imagine you sitting in the dubious freshness of that air-conditioned apartment, looking down at the wet trees and traffic of “Kuala l’impur,” as Cocteau called it. But there are places far more impure!

  Know that I think of you, and, I beg you, let me have news soon.

  ton père qui t’aime

  (1981)

  In the Red Room

  WHEN I HAD a house in Sri Lanka, my parents came out one winter to see me. Originally I had felt some qualms about encouraging their visit. Any one of several things—the constant heat, the unaccustomed food and drinking water, even the presence of a leprosy clinic a quarter of a mile from the house—might easily have an adverse effect on them in one way or another. But I had underestimated their resilience; they made a greater show of adaptability than I had thought possible, and seemed entirely content with everything. They claimed not to mind the lack of running water in the bathrooms, and regularly praised the curries prepared by Appuhamy, the resident cook. Both of them being in their seventies, they were not tempted by the more distant or inaccessible points of interest. It was enough for them to stay around the house reading, sleeping, taking twilight dips in the ocean, and going on short trips along the coast by hired car. If the driver stopped unexpectedly at a shrine to sacrifice a coconut, they were delighted, and if they came upon a group of elephants lumbering along the road, the car had to be parked some distance up ahead, so that they could watch them approach and file past. They had no interest in taking photographs, and this spared me what is perhaps the most taxing duty of a cicerone: the repeated waits while the ritual between man and machine is observed. They were ideal guests.

  Colombo, where all the people I knew lived, was less than a hundred miles away. Several times we went up for week-ends, which I arranged with friends by telephone beforehand. There we had tea on the wide verandahs of certain houses in Cinnamon Gardens, and sat at dinners with professors from the University, Protestant ministers, and assorted members of the government. (Many of the Sinhalese found it strange that I should call my parents by their first names, Dodd and Hannah; several of them inquired i
f I were actually their son or had been adopted.) These week-ends in the city were hot and exhausting, and they were always happy to get back to the house, where they could change into comfortable clothing.

  One Sunday not long before they were due to return to America, we decided to take in the horse races at Gintota, where there are also some botanical gardens that Hannah wanted to see. I engaged rooms at the New Oriental in Galle and we had lunch there before setting out.

  As usual, the events were late in starting. It was the spectators, in any case, who were the focus of interest. The phalanx of women in their shot-silk saris moved Hannah to cries of delight. The races themselves were something of a disappointment. As we left the grounds, Dodd said with satisfaction: It’ll be good to get back to the hotel and relax.

  But we were going to the Botanical Gardens, Hannah reminded him. I’d like to have just a peek at them.

  Dodd was not eager. Those places cover a lot of territory, you know, he said.

  We’ll just look inside and come out again, she promised.

  The hired car took us to the entrance. Dodd was tired, and as a result was having a certain amount of difficulty in walking. The last year or so I find my legs aren’t always doing exactly what I want ‘em to do, he explained.

  You two amble along, Hannah told us. I’ll run up ahead and find out if there’s anything to see.

  We stopped to look up at a clove tree; its powerful odor filled the air like a gas. When we turned to continue our walk, Hannah was no longer in sight. We went on under the high vegetation, around a curve in the path, looked ahead, and still there was no sign of her.

  What does your mother think she’s doing? The first thing we know she’ll be lost.

  She’s up ahead somewhere.

  Soon, at the end of a short lane overhung by twisted lianas, we saw her, partially hidden by the gesticulating figure of a Sinhalese standing next to her.

  What’s going on? Dodd hastened his steps. Run over there, he told me, and I started ahead, walking fast. Then I saw Hannah’s animated smile, and slowed my pace. She and the young man stood in front of a huge bank of brown spider orchids.

  Ah! I thought we’d lost you, I said.

  Look at these orchids. Aren’t they incredible?

  Dodd came up, nodded at the young man, and examined the display of flowers. They look to me like skunk cabbage, he declared.

  The young man broke into wild laughter. Dodd stared at him.

  This young man has been telling me the history of the garden, Hannah began hurriedly. About the opposition to it, and how it finally came to be planted. It’s interesting.

  The Sinhalese beamed triumphantly. He wore white flannels and a crimson blazer, and his sleek black hair gave off a metallic blue glint in the sunlight.

  Ordinarily I steer a determined course away from the anonymous person who tries to engage me in conversation. This time it was too late; encouraged by Hannah, the stranger strolled beside her, back to the main path. Dodd and I exchanged a glance, shrugged, and began to follow along behind.

  Somewhere up at the end of the gardens a pavilion had been built under the high rain-trees. It had a verandah where a few sarong-draped men reclined in long chairs. The young man stopped walking. Now I invite you to a cold ginger beer.

  Oh, Hannah said, at a loss. Well, yes. That would be nice. I’d welcome a chance to sit down.

  Dodd peered at his wrist-watch. I’ll pass up the beer, but I’ll sit and watch you.

  We sat and looked out at the lush greenness. The young man’s conversation leapt from one subject to another; he seemed unable to follow any train of thought farther than its inception. I put this down as a bad sign, and tried to tell from the inflections of Hannah’s voice whether she found him as disconcerting as I did.

  Dodd was not listening. He found the heat of low-country Ceylon oppressive, and it was easy to see that he was tired. Thinking I might cover up the young man’s chatter, I turned to Dodd and began to talk about whatever came into my head: the resurgence of mask-making in Ambalangoda, devil-dancing, the high incidence of crime among the fishermen converted to Catholicism. Dodd listened, but did no more than move his head now and then in response.

  Suddenly I heard the young man saying to Hannah: I have just the house for you. A godsend to fill your requirements. Very quiet and protected.

  She laughed. Mercy, no! We’re not looking for a house. We’re only going to be here a few weeks more.

  I looked hard at her, hoping she would take my glance as a warning against going on and mentioning the place where she was staying. The young man was not paying attention, in any case. Quite all right. You are not buying houses. But you should see this house and tell your friends. A superior investment, no doubt about that. Shall I introduced myself, please? Justus Gonzag, called Sonny be friends.

  His smile, which was not a smile at all, gave me an unpleasant physical sensation.

  Come anyway. A five-minute walk, guaranteed. He looked searchingly at Hannah. I intend to give you a book of poems. My own. Autographed for you with your name. That will make me very happy.

  Oh, Hannah said, a note of dismay in her voice. Then she braced herself and smiled. That would be lovely. But you understand, we can’t stay more than a minute.

  There was a silence. Dodd inquired plaintively: Can’t we go in the car, at least?

  Impossible, sir. We are having a very narrow road. Car can’t get through. I am arranging in a jiffy. He called out. A waiter came up, and he addressed him in Sinhalese at some length. The man nodded and went inside. Your driver is now bringing your car to this gate. Very close by.

  This was going a little too far. I asked him how he thought anyone was going to know which car was ours.

  No problem. I was present when you were leaving the Pontiac. Your driver is called Wickramasinghe. Upcountry resident, most reliable. Down here people are hopeless.

  I disliked him more each time he spoke. You’re not from around here? I asked him.

  No, no! I’m a Colombo chap. These people are impossible scoundrels. Every one of the blighters has a knife in his belt, guaranteed.

  When the waiter brought the check, he signed it with a rapid flourish and stood up. Shall we be going on to the house, then?

  No one answered, but all three of us rose and reluctantly moved off with him in the direction of the exit gate. The hired car was there; Mr. Wickramasinghe saluted us from behind the wheel.

  The afternoon heat had gone, leaving only a pocket here and there beneath the trees where the air was still. Originally the lane where we were walking had been wide enough to admit a bullock-cart, but the vegetation encroaching on each side had narrowed it to little more than a footpath.

  At the end of the lane were two concrete gate-posts with no gate between them. We passed through, and went into a large compound bordered on two sides by ruined stables. With the exception of one small ell, the house was entirely hidden by high bushes and flowering trees. As we came to a doorway the young man stopped and turned to us, holding up one finger. No noises here, isn’t it? Only birds.

  It was the hour when the birds begin to awaken from their daytime lethargy. An indeterminate twittering came from the trees. He lowered his finger and turned back to the door. Mornings they are singing. Now not.

  Oh, it’s lovely, Hannah told him.

  He led us through a series of dark empty rooms. Here the dhobi was washing the soiled clothing! This is the kitchen, you see? Ceylon style. Only the charcoal. My father was refusing paraffin and gas both. Even in Colombo.

  We huddled in a short corridor while he opened a door, reached in, and flooded the space inside with blinding light. It was a small room, made to seem still smaller by having been given glistening crimson walls and ceiling. Almost all the space was filled by a big bed with a satin coverlet of a slightly darker red. A row of straight-backed chairs stood along one wall. Sit down and be comfy, our host advised us.

  We sat, staring at the bed and at the three frame
d pictures on the wall above its brass-spoked headboard: on the left a girl, in the middle our host, and on the right another young man. The portraits had the imprecision of passport photographs that have been enlarged many times their original size.

  Hannah coughed. She had nothing to say. The room gave off a cloying scent of ancient incense, as in a disused chapel. The feeling of absurdity I got from seeing us sitting there side by side, wedged in between the bed and the wall, was so powerful that it briefly paralyzed my mental processes. For once the young man was being silent; he sat stiffly, looking straight ahead, like someone at the theatre.

  Finally I had to say something. I turned to our host and asked him if he slept in this room. The question seemed to shock him. Here? he cried, as if the thing were inconceivable. No, no! This house is unoccupied. No one sleeping on the premises. Only a stout chap to watch out at night. Excuse me one moment.

  He jumped up and hurried out of the room. We heard his footsteps echo in the corridor and then grow silent. From somewhere in the house there came the sonorous chiming of a grandfather’s clock; its comfortable sound made the shiny blood-colored cubicle even more remote and unlikely.

  Dodd stirred uncomfortably in his chair; the bed was too close for him to cross his legs. As soon as he comes back, we go, he muttered.

  He’s looking for the book, I imagine, said Hannah.

  We waited a while. Then I said: Look. If he’s not back in two minutes, I move we just get up and leave. We can find our way out all right.

  Hannah objected, saying it would be unpardonable.

  Again we sat in silence, Dodd now shielding his eyes from the glare. When Sonny Gonzag returned, he was carrying a glass of water which he drank standing in the doorway. His expression had altered: he now looked preoccupied, and he was breathing heavily.

  We slowly got to our feet, Hannah still looking expectant.

  We are going, then? Come. With the empty glass still in his hand he turned off the lights, shut the door behind us, opened another, and led us quickly through a sumptuous room furnished with large divans, Coromandel screens and bronze Buddhas. We had no time to do more than glance from side to side as we followed him. As we went out through the front door, he called one peremptory word back into the house, presumably to the caretaker.