The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [27]
“Phew!” Tunner choked.
She sat still, waiting. If the accident were going to come, it would probably be either in a tunnel or on a trestle. “If I could only be sure it would happen tonight,” she thought. “I could relax. But the uncertainty. You never know, so you always wait.”
Presently they emerged, breathed again. Outside, over the miles of indistinct rocky land, the mountains loomed, jet-black. Above their sharp crests what little light was left in the sky came from between heavy threatening clouds.
“How about those eggs?”
“Oh!” She handed him the whole package.
“I don’t want ‘em all!”
“You must eat them,” she said, making a great effort to be present, to take part in the little life going on inside the creaking wooden walls of the car. “I only want some fruit. And a sandwich.”
But she found the bread hard and dry; she had difficulty chewing it. Tunner was busy leaning over, dragging out one of his valises from under the seat. She slipped the uneaten sandwich into the space between her seat and the window.
He sat up, his face triumphant, holding a large dark bottle; he fished in his pocket a moment, and brought out a corkscrew.
“What is it?”
“You guess,” he said grinning.
“Not-champagne!”
“The first time.”
In her nervousness she reached out and clasped his head in her two hands, kissing him noisily on the forehead.
“You darling!” she cried. “You’re marvelous!”
He tugged at the cork; there was a pop. A haggard woman in black passed along the corridor and stared in at them. Holding the bottle in his hand, Tunner rose and drew the shades. Kit watched him, thinking: “He’s very different from Port. Port would never have done this.”
And as he poured it out into the plastic traveling cups, she continued to debate with herself. “But it means nothing except that he spent the money. It’s something bought, that’s all. Still, being willing to spend the money…. And having thought of it, more than anything.”
They touched cups in a toast. There was no familiar clink-only a dead paper-like sound. “Here’s to Africa,” said Tunner, suddenly bashful. He had meant to say: “Here’s to tonight.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the bottle where he had set it on the floor. Characteristically, she decided at once that it was the magic object which was going to save her, that through its power she might escape the disaster. She drained her cup. He refilled it.
“We must make it last,” she cautioned, suddenly fearful lest the magic give out.
“You think so? Why?” He pulled out the valise and opened it again. “Look.” There were five more bottles. “That’s why I made such a fuss about carrying this bag myself,” he said, smiling to make his dimples deep. “You probably thought I was nuts.”
“I didn’t notice,” she said faintly, not even noticing the dimples she disliked so strongly. The sight of so much magic had somewhat overcome her.
“So, drink up. Fast and furious.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” she laughed. “I don’t need any exhortations.” She felt absurdly happymuch too happy for the occasion, she reminded herself. But it was always a pendulum; in another hour she would be back where she had been a minute ago.
The train came slowly to a stop. Beyond the window it was black night; there was not a light to be seen. Somewhere outside, a voice was singing a strange, repetitious melody. Always beginning high and wandering downward until the breath gave out, only to recommence again at the top of the scale, the song had the pattern of a child’s weeping.
“Is that a man?” said Kit incredulously.
“Where?” said Tunner, looking around.
“Singing.”
He listened a moment. “Hard to tell. Drink up.”
She drank, and smiled. Soon she was staring out the window at the black night. “I think I was never meant to live,” she said ruefully.
He looked worried. “Now see here, Kit. I know you’re nervous. That’s why I brought the fizz-water along.