The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [54]
But at the moment he felt bodily cold, too, and this was strange because he had just climbed the hill fast and was still panting a little. Seized by a sudden fear, akin to the terror of the child when it brushes against an unidentifiable object in the dark, he jumped up and ran along the crest of the hill until he came to the path that led below to the market place. Running assuaged his fear, but when he stopped and looked down at the ring of lights around the market he still felt the cold, like a piece of metal inside him. He ran on down the hill, deciding to go to the hotel and get the whiskey in his room, and since the kitchen was locked, take it back to the brothel where he could make himself a hot grog with some tea. As he went into the patio he had to step over the watchman lying across the threshold. The man raised himself slightly and called out: “Echkoun? Qui?”
“Numero vingt!” he cried, hurrying through the foul smells.
No light came from under Kit’s door. In his room he took up the bottle of whiskey and looked at his watch, which out of caution he had left behind on the night table. It was three-thirty. He decided that if he walked quickly he could get there and be back in his room by half-past four, unless they had let the fires go out.
The watchman was snoring when he went out into the street. There he forced himself to take strides so long that the muscles of his legs rebelled, but the exercise failed to mitigate the chill he felt everywhere within him. The town seemed completely asleep. No music was audible as he approached the entrance of the house. The courtyard was totally dark and so were most of the rooms. A few of them, however, were still open and had lights. Mohammed was there, stretched out, talking with his friends.
“Well, did you find her?” he said as Port entered the room. “What are you carrying there?” Port held up the bottle, smiling faintly.
Mohammed frowned. “You don’t want that, my friend. That’s very bad. It turns your head.” He made spiral gestures with one hand and tried to wrest the bottle away from Port with the other. “Have a pipe with me,” he urged. “It’s better. Sit down.”
“I’d like more tea,” said Port.
“It’s too late,” said Mohammed with great assurance.
“Why?” Port asked stupidly. “I must.”
“Too late. No fire,” Mohammed announced, with a certain satisfaction. “After one pipe you forget you wanted tea. In any case you have already drunk tea.”
Port ran out into the courtyard and clapped his hands loudly. Nothing happened. Thrusting his head into one of the cubicles where he saw a woman seated, he asked in French for tea. She stared at him. He asked in his halting Arabic. She answered that it was too late. He said, “A hundred francs.” The men murmured among themselves; a hundred francs seemed an interesting and reasonable offer, but the woman, a plump, middle-aged matron, said: “No.” Port doubled his offer. The woman rose and motioned him to accompany her. He walked behind her, beneath a curtain hung across the back wall of the room, and through a series of tiny, dark cells, until finally they were out under the stars. She stopped and indicated that he was to sit on the ground and wait for her. A few paces from him she disappeared into a separate hut, where he heard her moving about. Nearer still to him in the dark an animal of some sort was sleeping; it breathed heavily and stirred from time to time. The ground was cold and he began to shiver. Through the breaks in the wall he saw a flicker of light. The woman had lighted a candle and was breaking bundles of twigs. Presently he heard them crackling in flames as she fanned the fire.
The first cock was crowing when she finally came out of the shack with the pot of coals. She led the way, sparks trailing behind her,