The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [125]
He finally caught up with her and took hold of her shoulder, but she redoubled her efforts. Soon, however, she slowed down, and then he seized her firmly and brought her to a stop. She sank to her knees and wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. The expression of terror was still strong in her eyes. He crouched down beside her in the dust and tried to comfort her with clumsy pats on the arm.
“Where are you going like this?” he demanded presently. “What’s the matter?”
She did not answer. The hot wind blew past. In the distance on the flat road to the river, a man and two oxen passed along slowly. Amar was saying: “That was Monsieur Geoffroy. He’s a good man. You should not be afraid of him. For five years he has worked at the Postes et Telegraphes.”
The sound of the last word was like a needle piercing her flesh. She jumped. “No, I won’t! No, no, no!” she wailed.
“And you know,” Amar went on, “that money you wanted to give him is not good here. It’s Algerian money. Even in Tessalit you have to have A.O.F. francs. Algerian money is contraband.”
“Contraband,” she repeated; the word meant absolutely nothing.
“Defendu!” he said laughing, and be attempted to get her up onto her feet. The sun was painful; he, too, was sweating. She would not move at present-she was exhausted. He waited a while, made her cover her head with her haik, and lay back wrapped in his burnous. The wind increased. The sand raced along the flat black earth like white water streaming sideways.
Suddenly she said: “Take me to your house. They won’t find me there.”
But he refused, saying that there was no room, that his family was large. instead he would take her to the place where they had had coffee earlier in the day.
“It’s a cafe,” she protested.
“But Atallah has many rooms. You can pay him. Even your Algerian money. He can change it. You have more?”
“Yes, yes. In my bag.” She looked around. “Where is it?” she said vacantly.
“You left it at Atallah’s. He’ll give it to you.” He grinned and spat. “Now, shall we walk a little?”
Atallah was in his cafe. A few turbaned merchants from the north sat in a corner talking. Amar and Atallah stood a moment conversing in the doorway. Then they led her into the living quarters behind the cafe. It was very dark and cool in the rooms, and particularly in the last one, where Atallah set her valise down and indicated a blanket in the corner on the floor for her to lie on. Even as he went out, letting the curtain fall across the doorway, she turned to Amar and pulled his face down to hers.
“You must save me,” she said between kisses.
“Yes,” he answered solemnly.
He was as comforting as Belqassim had been disturbing.
Atallah did not lift the curtain until evening, when by the light of his lamp he saw them both asleep on the blanket.