The Stories of Paul Bowles

  “Yes, you can sometimes hear that one,” he said, “when there’s no other sound to cover it.”

  “It was sort of comforting. Made me feel that things were under control.”

  He did not seem to be paying attention. “Listen, Nita, you could do me a great favor, if you will. Yes?”

  “Well, sure,” she said, with no idea of what was coming next. It was something she was not expecting, given his unusual manner of prefacing it.

  “Could you go into town and get some films? I want to take a lot more pictures. You know Mother’s been asking for shots of you and me together. I’ve got plenty of photos, but not of us. I’d go myself, but I can’t spare the time. It’s not nine yet. The shop that sells films is on the other side of the market. They don’t shut until ten.”

  “But Tom, you seem to forget that I don’t know my way anywhere.”

  “Well, Sekou’ll go with you. You won’t get lost. Tell them you want black and white.”

  “I know Mother’d rather have them in color.”

  “You’re right. Old people and kids like color better. Get two rolls of color and two black and white. Sekou’s waiting for you by the front door.”

  She was sorry she needed a guide to show her the shop, and even more sorry that the guide had to be the black man she had already decided was hostile toward her. But it was still early and the air in the street would feel relatively fresh.

  “Don’t wear those sandals,” Tom told her, continuing to work, not looking up. “Wear thick socks and regular shoes. God knows what germs are in the dust.”

  So she stood at the door in the prescribed footgear, and Sekou came across the courtyard and greeted her in French. His wide smile made her think that perhaps she had been mistaken, that he did not resent her presence in the house after all. And suppose he does? she thought defiantly. There was a limit to the depth at which one could decently bury one’s ego. Beyond that depth the whole game of selflessness became abject. She knew it was in her nature to refuse to admit being a “person.” It was so much simpler to hide in the shadow of neutrality, even when there was no possibility of a confrontation. One could scarcely care about the reactions of an African servant. For in spite of what Tom had told her, she still thought of Sekou as a kind of servant—a factotum, perhaps with the stature of a jester.

  It was an insane thing to be doing, walking along the main street of the town, side by side with this tall black man. An unlikely couple, God knows. The idea of being photographed at the moment made her smile. If she were to send a copy of such a picture to her mother she knew more or less what the reply would be. “The ultimate in exoticism.” She certainly did not feel that this street was exotic or picturesque: it was dirty and squalid.

  “He may try to make conversation,” she thought, and determined to pretend not to understand. Then she would have only to smile and shake her head. Presently he did say something which, since she had already decided that there were to be no words between them, she failed to understand. An instant later she heard his phrase with its interrogatory inflection, and realized that he had said: “Tu n’as pas chaud?” He had slowed his gait; he was waiting for her reply.

  “The hell with it,” she thought, and so she answered his question, but indirectly. Rather than saying: “Yes, I am hot,” she said: “It’s hot.”

  Now he stopped walking altogether, and indicated, on their left, an improvised nook between piles of crates, where a table and two chairs had been placed. A large sign was laid across the entire space, creating an inviting area of shade, which quickly grew to be irresistible once one had even entertained the possibility of stepping in and sitting down.

  Obsessively, her thoughts turned to her mother. What would be her reaction if she could see her only daughter sitting beside a black man in this dark little refuge? “If he takes advantage of you, remember that you asked for it. It’s just tempting Providence. You can’t treat people like that as equals. They don’t understand it.”

  The drink was Pepsi-Cola, surprisingly cold, but unusually sweet. “Ah,” she said, appreciative.

  Sekou’s fluent French put her to shame. “How can this be?” she thought, with a certain indignation. Being conscious of her own halting French made it more difficult to engage in conversation. These empty moments when neither of them had anything to say made the silence more apparent, and for her more embarrassing. The sounds of the street—footsteps on the sand, children running and now and then a dog’s bark, were curiously muted by the piles of crates and the covering overhead. It was an astonishingly quiet town, she reflected. Since they had left the house she had not heard the sound of one automobile, even in the distance. But now, as she became aware of listening, she could discern the far-off alternative whining and braying of a motorcycle, sounds she particularly disliked.

  Sekou rose and went to pay the owner. She had meant to do that, but now it seemed quite impossible. She thanked him. Then they were back in the street, and the air was hotter than ever. This was the moment to ask herself why she had allowed Tom to send her off on this absurd errand. It would have been better, she thought, if she had gone to the kitchen and asked the cook not to serve fried potatoes. The woman seemed to consider potatoes, no matter how prepared, a succulent dish, but those available here did not lend themselves to any mode of cooking save perhaps mashing. She had mentioned this to Tom on various occasions, but his opinion was that mashing would be more work for Johara, and that most likely she would not know how to perform the operation properly, so that the result would be less tasty than what she served now.

  The insane noise of the motorcycle in imitation of a siren came from a good deal nearer at present. “It’s coming this way,” she thought. If only we could get to the market before it arrives. She had been once with Tom to buy food, and she remembered the colonnades and pillars. No motorcycle could roar through there. “Where is the market?” she demanded suddenly. Sekou gestured. “Ahead.”

  Now the dragonlike machine was visible, far up the long street, bouncing and raising a cloud of dust which seemed partly to precede it. Even that far away she could see pedestrians bolting and scurrying to keep out of its way.

  The noise was growing unbelievably loud. She had an impulse to cover her ears, like a child. The thing was coming. It was coming straight at them. She jumped to the side of the road just as the motorcyclist braked to avoid hitting Sekou straight on. He had refused to duck and escape its impact. The flamboyant vehicle lay in the dust, partially covering the bare legs and arms of the riders. Two nearly naked youths pulled themselves up, holding their red and yellow helmets in their hands. They glared and shouted at Sekou. She was not surprised to hear American speech.

  “You blind?”

  “You’re one lucky son of a bitch. We could have killed you.”

  As Sekou paid no attention to them, but continued to walk, they became abusive.

  “A real downhome uppity nigger.”

  Sekou ignored the two with supreme aplomb.

  From her side of the road Anita stepped forth to face them. “If we’re going to talk about who might be killed by your impossible apparatus, I’m first on the list. You came straight at me. Isn’t that what’s known as sowing panic? Does it make you feel better to frighten people?”

  “Sorry we scared you, ma’am. That wasn’t what we had in mind.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t.” Now being startled had turned to being indignant. “I’ll bet what you had in mind was one big zero.” She had not heard the apology. “You’ve gone too far from home, my friends, and you’re going to have trouble.”

  A leer. “Oh yeah?”

  She could feel her anger pushing up inside her. “Yeah!” she cried. “Trouble! And I hope I’ll have a chance to see it.” A moment later she spat: “Monsters.”

  Sekou, who had not even glanced at them once, now stopped and turned to see if she were coming. As she caught up with him, he remarked without looking at her that tourists were always ignorant.

>   When they got to the shop that sold films, she was surprised to find it being run by a middle-aged French woman. If Anita had not been breathless with rage and excitement, she would have liked to engage the woman in conversation: to ask how long she had been living here and what her life was like. The moment was not propitious for such a move.

  As they walked back toward the house in the increasing heat, there was no sign or sound of the hellish machine. She noticed that Sekou was limping a bit, and looked carefully at him. There was blood on the lower part of his white robe, and she realized that the motorcycle had collided with his leg. Her appraisal seemed to annoy him; she could not bring herself to ask to see the injury, or even to speak of it.

  IX

  AT LUNCH she avoided all mention of the motorcycle accident.

  “It wasn’t too far, was it?”

  “It was hot,” she replied.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Tom said at length. “This house would be so cheap to buy. It would be worthwhile. I wouldn’t mind coming here regularly.”

  “I think you’d be out of your mind!” she cried. “You could never really live here. It’s an uncomfortable temporary campsite, nothing more. Anyway, whatever property you buy in a third-world country is lost before you even pay for it. You know that. Renting makes sense. Then when things go crazy, you’re free.”

  Johara stood beside her, offering her more creamed onions. She served herself.

  “Things don’t always go crazy,” Tom said.

  “Oh, yes they do!” she cried. “In these countries? It’s inescapable.”

  After a bit, she went on. “Well, of course. You’ll do as you please. I don’t suppose you’d lose much.”

  While they were having fruit, Anita volunteered: “I dreamed of Mother last night.”

  “You did?” said Tom without interest. “What was she doing?”

  “Oh, I can’t even remember. But when I woke up I began thinking about her. You know she had absolutely no sense of humor, and yet she could be very funny. I remember she was giving a rather fancy dinner one night, and suddenly she turned to you and said: ‘How old are you, Tom?’ And you said: ‘Twenty-six.’ She waited a little, and then said: ‘When William the Silent was your age he had conquered half of Europe.’ And she sounded so disgusted that everyone at the table burst out laughing. Do you remember? I still think that’s funny, although I’m sure she didn’t mean it to be.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure. I think she was playing to the gallery. She couldn’t laugh herself, naturally. Too dignified. But she wasn’t above making others laugh.”

  X

  ANOTHER DAY they sat on the floor having breakfast in Tom’s room. The cook had just brought them more toast.

  “I’d like to drive a few miles down the river and have a look at the next village,” said Tom, signalling to the cook to wait. “How about it? I can rent. Bessier’s old truck. How does that strike you?”

  “I’m game,” she said. “The road’s straight and flat, isn’t it?”

  “We won’t get lost. Or stuck in the sand.”

  “Is there something special you want to see?”

  “I just need to see something else. The smallest change gives me all sorts of new ideas.”

  They agreed to go the following day. When he asked Johara to prepare them a casse-croûte, she became excited upon hearing that they planned to go to Gargouna. Her sister lived there, she said, and she gave Tom instructions as to how to find her house, along with messages she hoped he would deliver.

  The little truck had no cabin. They were cooled by the breeze they created. It was stimulating to be driving along the edge of the river in the early morning air. The road was completely flat, with no potholes or obstacles.

  “It’s fine now,” said Tom, “but it won’t be so good coming back, with nothing between us and the sun.”

  “We’ve got our topis,” she reminded him, glancing at the two helmets on the seat between them. She had with her a pair of powerful field glasses, bought in Kobe the previous year, and in spite of the movement she kept them trained on the river where men fished and women bathed.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” said Tom.

  “It’s certainly a lot prettier with the black bodies than it would be if they were all whites.”

  This was only moderate enthusiasm, but it seemed to please him. He was very eager for her to appreciate the Niger Valley. But at the moment he was intent on not passing the road on the left that led to Gargouna. “Fifty kilometres, more or less,” he murmured. Soon he said: “Here it is, but I’m not going to risk that sand.” He stopped the truck and shut off the motor. The silence was overpowering. They sat without moving. Occasionally there was a cry from the river, but the open and wide landscape made the voices sound like birdcries.

  “One of us has to stay with the car, and that’s you.”

  Tom jumped down. “I’m going to do it on foot, find the village and Johara’s sister. It ought to take ten minutes, not much more. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?” They had not seen another vehicle since setting out. “We’re right in the middle of the road,” she told him.

  “I know, but if I move off to the right, I’ll be in the sand. That’s the one thing I don’t want. If it makes you nervous, get out and walk around. It’s not hot yet.”

  She was not afraid to have been left alone, but she was nervous. This was one occasion when Tom could have brought along one of the several men who spent their days sitting in the kitchen. It suddenly occurred to her that she had not seen Sekou since the day of the motorcycle incident, and this made her wonder how badly his leg or foot had been hurt. Thinking of him, she got down and began to walk along the same path Tom had taken. She could not see him ahead, because the region was one of low dunes with occasional thorn bushes. She wondered why it was impossible for the sky here to be really blue, why instead it always had a gray tinge.

  Thinking that she might get a glimpse of Gargouna, she climbed one of the small hills of sand, but had a view only of rather larger thorn bushes ahead. She was particularly eager to see the village; she could imagine it: a group of circular huts lying fairly far apart, each with a cleared space around it, where poultry pecked in the sand. She turned to the right, where the dunes appeared to be somewhat higher, and followed a kind of path which led over and around them. There were little valleys between the dunes, some of them quite deep. The crests of the dunes all seemed to run parallel to each other, so that it was difficult to get from one dune to the next without going down and then climbing immediately. There was one dune not far ahead which dominated the others, and from which she felt certain she could see the truck waiting in the road. She reached it and stood atop it, a bit breathless. With the aid of the field glasses she saw that the truck was there, and to the left in the distance there were a few leafless trees. The village was in that direction, she supposed. Then, looking across into the depression between two dunes, she saw something that accelerated the beating of her heart, a senseless sculpture in vermillion enamel and chromium. There were large boulders down there; the cycle had skidded, hurling the suntanned torsos against the rocks. The machine was twisted grotesquely and the two bodies were jumbled together and uniformly spattered with blood. They were not in a condition to call for help; they lay motionless there in the declivity, invisible to all save to one who might stand exactly where she was standing. She turned and ran quickly down the side of the dune. “Monsters,” she muttered, but without in dignation.

  She was sitting in the truck when Tom returned. “Did you find her, Johara’s sister?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a tiny village. Everybody knows everybody, of course. Let’s eat. Here or down the shore?”

  Her heart was still beating rapidly and with force. She said: “Let’s go down to the river. There might be a little breeze down there.” She was surprised now to recall that her first feeling upon seeing the wreck of the motorcycle had been one of elation. She could still induce the little chill of
pleasure that had run through her at that instant. As they walked along the shore, she was thankful once again that she had never mentioned to Tom the confrontation with the two Americans.

  XI

  “ARE YOU SLEEPING better now?” Tom asked her.

  She hesitated. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really?”

  “I have a problem,” she sighed.

  “A problem?”

  “Oh, I might as well tell you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tom, I think Sekou comes to my room at night.”

  “What?” he cried. “You’re crazy. What do you mean, he comes to your room?”

  “Just that.”

  “What does he do? Does he say anything?”

  “No, no. He just stands beside my bed in the dark.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “How could I? It’s pitch dark.”

  “You’ve got a flashlight.”

  “Oh, that terrifies me more than anything. To turn it on and actually see him. Who knows what he’d do then, once he knew I’d seen him.”

  “He’s not a criminal. God, why are you so damned nervous? You’re safer here than you would be anywhere back in New York.”

  “I believe you,” she said. “But that’s not the point.”