The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [39]
Once alone with Port, he had had the effrontery to ask him to lend him ten thousand francs, explaining that his mother was eccentric about money, and often flatly refused for weeks at a time to give him any.
“Not a chance. Sorry,” Port had said, determining to be adamant. The sum had gradually been reduced, until at last he had remarked wistfully: “Even five hundred francs would keep me in smokes for a fortnight.”
“I never lend anyone money,” Port had explained with annoyance.
“But you will me.” His voice was of honey.
“I will not.”
“I’m not one of those stupid English who think all Americans have pots of money. It isn’t that at all. But my mother’s mad. She simply refuses to give me money. What am I to do?”
“Since he has no shame,” thought Port, “I’ll have no mercy.” So he said: “The reason I won’t lend you money is that I know I’ll never get it back, and I haven’t enough to give away. You see? But I’ll give you three hundred francs. Gladly. I notice you smoke the tabac du pays. Fortunately it’s very cheap.”
In Oriental fashion Eric had bowed his head in agreement. Then he held forth his hand for the money. It made Port uncomfortable even now to recall the scene. When he had got back to the hotel he had found Kit and Tunner drinking beer together in the bar, and since then he had not had her to himself a minute, save the night before, when she had bidden him good night in the doorway. It did not make it easier for him, the fact that he suspected she was trying to keep from being alone with him.
“But there’s plenty of time,” he said to himself. “The only thing is, I must get rid of Tunner.” He was pleased to have reached at last a definite decision, Perhaps Tunner would take a hint and leave of his own accord; if not, they would have to leave him. Either way, it must be done, and immediately, before they found a place they wanted to stay in long enough for Tunner to begin using it as a mail address.
He could hear the heavy valises sliding about on the top of the bus above his head; with conveyances no better than this he wondered if they had been wise to bring so much. However, it was too late now to do anything about it. There would be no place along the way where they could leave anything, because it was more than likely they would be coming back by some other route, if, indeed, they returned to the Mediterranean coast at all. For he had hopes of being able to continue southward; only, since no data on transportation and lodging facilities ahead of them were available, they would have to take their chances on what each place had to offer, hoping at best to gather some information each time about the next town, as they moved along. It was merely that the institution of tourist travel in this part of the world, never well developed in any case, had been, not interrupted, but utterly destroyed by the war. And so far there had been no tourists to start it up again. In a sense this state of affairs pleased him, it made him feel that he was pioneering-he felt more closely identified with his great-grandparents, when he was rolling along out here in the desert than he did sitting at home looking out over the reservoir in Central Park-but at the same time he wondered how seriously one ought to take the travel bulletins in their attempts to discourage such pioneering: “At present travelers are strongly advised not to undertake land trips into the interiors of French North Africa, French West Africa, or French Equatorial Africa. As more is learned on the subject of touristic conditions in this part of the world, such information will be made available to the public.” He had not shown any such paragraphs to Kit while he was making his campaign speeches for Africa