The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [14]
Tunner annoyed her because although his presence and his interest in her provided a classical situation which, if exploited, actually might give results where nothing else could, she was for some reason incapable of playing up to him. He bored her; she involuntarily compared him with Port, and always to Port’s advantage. As she had been thinking in the night she had tried again and again to direct her fantasies in such a way as to make Tunner an object of excitement. Naturally this had been a failure. Nevertheless she had resolved to attempt the building of a more intimate relationship with him, despite the fact that even as she had made the decision she was quite aware that not only would it be a thoroughly unsavory chore for her, but also that she would be doing it, as she always did everything that required a conscious effort, for Port.
There was a knock at the door into the hall.
“Oh, God, who is it?” Kit said aloud.
“Me.” It was Tunner’s voice. As usual, he sounded offensively chipper. “Are you awake?”
She scrambled about in the bed, making a loud noise that mingled sighs, flapping sheet, and creaking bedspring. “Not very,” she groaned, at last.
“This is the best time of day. You shouldn’t miss it!” he shouted.
There was a pointed silence, during which she remembered her resolution. In a martyred voice she called: “Just a minute, Tunner.”
“Right!” A minute, an hour-he would wait, and show the same good-natured (and false, she thought) smile when he finally was let in. She dashed cold water into her face, rubbed it with a flimsy turkish towel, put on some lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. Suddenly frantic, she began to look about the room for the right bathrobe. Through the partially open door into Port’s room she caught sight of his big white terry-cloth robe hanging on the wall. She knocked rapidly on the door as she went in, saw that he was not there, and snatched up the robe. As she pulled the belt about her waist in front of her mirror she reflected with satisfaction that no one ever could accuse her of coquetry in having chosen this particular garment. It came to the floor on her, and she had to roll the sleeves back twice to uncover her hands.
She opened the door.
“Hi”
There was the smile.
“Hello, Tunner,” she said apathetically. “Come in.”
He rumpled her hair with his left hand as he walked past her on his way to the window, where he pulled the curtains aside. “You holding a s~ance in here? Ah, now I can see you.” The sharp morning light filled the room, the polished floor-tiles reflecting the sun on the ceiling as if they had been water.
“How are you?” she said vacantly as she stood beside the mirror again, combing her hair where he had tousled it.
“Wonderful.” He beamed at her image in the mirror, making his eyes sparkle, and even, she noted with great distaste, moving a certain facial muscle that emphasized the dimples in his cheeks. “He’s such a fake,” she thought. “What in God’s name’s he doing here with us? Of course, it’s Port’s fault. He’s the one who encouraged him to drag along.”
“What happened to Port last night?” Tunner was saying. “I sort of waited up for him, but he didn’t show up.”
Kit looked at him. “Waited for up him?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Well, we more or less had a date at our cafe, you know the one. For a nightcap. But no hide, no hair. I got in bed and read until pretty late. He hadn’t come in by three.” This was completely false. Actually Tunner had said: “If you go out, look into the Eckmiihl; I’ll probably be in there.” He had gone out shortly after Port, had picked up a French girl and stayed with her at her hotel