The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [124]
Momentarily taken aback, the man let go of his charge. Kit wheeled about automatically and started to walk toward the door, but he turned and seized her arm again. She tried to shake him off.
“She understands French!” exclaimed the woman, surprised. “So much the better.” Then she saw the valise. “What’s that?” she said, “But it’s hers. She’s a French lady,” Amar explained, a note of indignation in his voice.
“Pas Possible, ” murmured the woman. She came nearer and looked at her. Finally she said: “Ah, pardon, madame. But with those clothes—” She broke off, and suspicion entered her voice again. “You know, this is a decent hotel.” She was undecided, but she shrugged her shoulders, adding with bad grace: “Enfin, entrez si vous voulez.” And she stepped aside for Kit to pass.
Kit, however, was making frantic efforts to disengage herself from the man’s grasp.
“Non, non, non! A ne veux pas!” she cried hysterically, clawing at his hand. Then she put her free arm around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, sobbing.
The woman stared at her, then at Amar. Her face grew hard. “Take that creature out of here!” she said furiously. “Take her back to the bordel where you found her! Et ne viens plus m’emmerder avec tes sales putains! Va! Salaud!”
Outside the sun seemed more dazzling than before. The mud walls and the shining black faces went past. There was no end to the world’s intense monotony.
“I’m tired,” she said to Amar.
They were in a gloomy room sitting side by side on a long cushion. A Negro wearing a fez stood before them handing them each a glass of coffee.
“I want it all to stop,” she said to them both, very seriously.
“Oui, madame,” said Amar, patting her shoulder.
She drank her coffee and lay back against the wall, looking at them through half-closed eyes. They were talking together, they talked interminably. She did not wonder what it was about. When Amar got up and went outside with the other, she waited a moment, until their voices were no longer audible, and then she too jumped up and walked through a door on the other side of the room. There was a tiny stairway. On the roof it was so hot she gasped. The confused babble from the market was almost covered by the buzzing of the flies around her. She sat down. In another moment she would begin to melt. She shut her eyes and the flies crawled quickly over her face, alighting, leaving, re-alighting with frantic intensity. She opened her eyes and saw the city out there on all sides of her. Cascades of crackling light poured over the terraced roofs.
Slowly her eyes grew accustomed to the terrible brightness. She fixed the objects beside her on the dirt floor: the bits of rags; the dried carcass of a strange gray lizard; the faded, broken matchboxes; and the piles of white chicken feathers stuck together with dark blood. There was somewhere she had to go; someone was expecting her. How could she let the people know she would be late? Because there was no question about it—she was going to arrive far behind schedule. Then she remembered that she had not sent her telegram. At that moment A-mar came through the little doorway and walked toward her. She struggled to her feet. “Wait here,” she said, pushing past him, and she went in because the sun made her feel ill. The man looked at the paper and then at her. “Where do you want to send it?” he repeated. She shook her head dumbly. He handed her the paper and she saw, written on it in her own hand, the words: “CANNOT GET BACK.” The man was staring at her. “That’s not right!” she cried, in French. “I want to add something.” But the man went on staring at her-not angrily, but expectantly. He had a small moustache and blue eyes. “Le destinataire, s’il vous plait, ” he said again. She thrust the paper at him because she could not think of the words she needed to add, and she wanted the message