The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [43]
“If they were French we could eat inside,” said Tunner.
They lighted cigarettes in the hope of counteracting some of the stench that occasionally was wafted toward them from the basin. The babies were gone; their screams came from an inner room now.
Tunner stopped eating his soup and stared at it. Then he pushed his chair back and threw his napkin onto the table. “Well, by God in heaven, this may be the only hotel in town, but I can find better food than this in the market. Look at the soup! It’s full of corpses.”
Port examined his bowl. “They’ve weevils. They must have been in the noodles.”
“Well, they’re in the soup now. It’s thick with ‘em. You all can eat here at Carrion Towers if you like. I’m going to dig up a native restaurant.”
“So long,” said Port. Tunner went out.
He returned an hour later, less belligerent and slightly crest-fallen. Port and Kit were still in the patio, sitting over coffee and waving away flies.
“How was it? Did you find anything?” they asked.
“The food? Damned good.” He sat down. “But I can’t get any information on how to get out of this place.”
Port, whose opinion of his friend’s mastery of the French language had never been high, said: “Oh.” A few minutes later he got up and went out into the town to collect by himself whatever bits of knowledge he could relating to the transportation facilities of the region. The heat was oppressive, and he had not eaten well. In spite of these things he whistled as he walked along under the deserted arcades, because the idea of getting rid of Tunner made him unaccountably lively. Already he was noticing the flies less.
Late in the afternoon a large automobile drew up in front of the hotel entrance. It was the Lyles’ Mercedes.
“Of all the utterly idiotic things to have done! To try to find some lost village no one ever heard of!” Mrs. Lyle was saying. “You nearly made me miss tea. I suppose you’d have thought that amusing. Now drive away these wretched brats and come in here. Mosh! Mosh!” she cried, suddenly charging at a group of native youngsters who had approached the car. “Mosh! Imshi!” She raised her handbag in a menacing gesture; the bewildered children slowly backed away from her.
“I must find the right term to get rid of them with here,” said Eric, jumping out and slamming the door. “It’s no use saying you’ll get the police. They don’t know what that is.”
“What nonsense! Police, indeed! Never threaten natives with the local authorities. Remember, we don’t recognize French sovereignty here.”
“Oh, that’s in the Rif, Mother, and it’s Spanish sovereignty.”
“Eric! Will you be quiet? Don’t you think I know what Madame Gautier told me? What do you mean?” She stopped as she saw the table under the arcade, still laden with the dirty dishes and glasses left by Port and Kit. “Hello! Someone else has arrived,” she said in a tone that denoted the greatest interest. She turned accusingly to Eric. “And they’ve eaten outside! I told you we could have eaten outside, if you’d only insisted a bit. The tea’s in your room. Will you bring it down? I must see about that putrid fire in the kitchen. And get out the sugar and open a new tin of biscuits.”
As Eric returned through the patio with the box of tea, Port came in the door from the street.
“Mr. Moresby!” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Port tried to keep his face from falling. “Hello,” he said. “What are you doing here? I thought I’d recognized your car outside.”
“Just one second. I’ve got to deliver this tea to Mother. She’s in the kitchen waiting for it.” He rushed through the side door, stepping on one of the obscene dogs that lay exhausted just inside in the dark. It yelped lengthily. Port hurried upstairs to Kit and imparted the latest bad news to her. A minute later Eric pounded on the door. “I say, do have tea with us in ten minutes in room eleven. How nice to see you, Mrs. Moresby.”
Room eleven was Mrs. Lyle’s, longer but no less bare than the others, and directly over the entrance. While she drank her tea, she kept rising from the bed where