The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [48]
The wind blew and the palm trunks slowly moved with it, their lofty tops swaying slightly in a circular motion. A young man in a yellow turban approached, greeted them gravely, and seated himself a little in the background, at the edge of the rug. From under his burnous he brought forth an oud, whose strings he began to pluck casually, looking off under the trees all the while. Kit drank her tea in silence, smiling from time to time at M. Chaoui’s remarks. At one point she asked Port in English for a cigarette, but he frowned, and she understood that it would shock the others to see a lady smoke. And so she sat drinking the tea, feeling that what she saw and heard around her was not really happening, or if it were, she was not really there herself. The light was fading; little by little the pots of coals became the eyes’ natural focusing point. Still the lute music went on, a patterned background for the aimless talk; listening to its notes was like watching the smoke of a cigarette curl and fold in untroubled air. She had no desire to move, speak, or even think. But suddenly she was cold. She interrupted the conversation to say so. M. Chaoui was not pleased to hear it; he considered it a piece of incredible rudeness. He smiled, and said: “Ah, yes. Madame is blonde. The blondes are like the seguia when it has no water in it. The Arabs are like the seguias of Ain Krorfa. The seguias of Ain Krorfa are always full. We have flowers, fruit, trees.”
“Yet you say Ain Krorfa is sad,” said Port.
“Sad?” repeated M. Chaoui with astonishment. “Ain Krorfa is never sad. It is peaceful and full of joy. If one offered me twenty million francs and a palace, I would not leave my native land.”
“Of course,” Port agreed, and seeing that his host no longer desired to sustain the conversation, he said: “Since Madame is cold, we must go, but we thank you a thousand times. It has been a great privilege for us to be allowed to come to this exquisite garden.”
M. Chaoui did not rise. He nodded his head, extended his hand, said: “Yes, yes. Go, since it is cold.”
Both guests offered florid apologies for their departure: it could not be said that they were accepted with very good grace. “Yes, yes, yes,” said M. Chaoui. “Another time perhaps it will be warmer.”
Port restrained his mounting anger, which, even as he was feeling it, made him annoyed with himself.
“Au ‘voir, cher monsieur,” Kit suddenly said in a childish treble. Port pinched her arm. M. Chaoui had noticed nothing extraordinary; indeed, he unbent sufficiently to smile once more. The musician, still strumming on his lute, accompanied them to the gate, and solemnly said: “B’slemah” as he closed it after them.
The road was almost dark. They began to walk quickly.
“I hope you’re not going to blame me for that,” began Kit defensively.
Port slipped his arm around her waist. “Blame you! Why? How could I? And what difference does it make, anyway?”
“Of course it makes a difference,” she said. “If it doesn’t, what was the point of seeing the man in the first place?”
“Oh, point! I don’t suppose there was any particular point. I thought it would be fun. And I still think it was; I’m glad we went.”
“So am I, in a way. It gave me a first-hand opportunity of seeing what the conversations are going to be like here—just how unbelievably superficial they can be.”
He let go of her waist. “I disagree. You don’t say a frieze is superficial just because it has only two dimensions.”
“You do if you’re accustomed to having conversation that’s something more than decoration. I don’t think of conversation as a frieze, myself.”
“Oh, nonsense! It’s just another way of living they have, a completely different philosophy.”
“I know that,” she said, stopping to shake sand from her shoe. “I’m just saying I could never live