The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [60]
Lieutenant d’Armagnac raised himself a little higher in bed. “And why precisely do you demand it be a native?”
Port smiled faintly. “Isn’t it reasonable to suppose it was a native? Apart from the fact that no one else had the opportunity to take it, isn’t it the sort of thing that would naturally turn out to have been done by a native-charming as they may be?”
“No, monsieur. To me it seems just the kind of thing that would not have been done by a native.”
Port was taken aback. “Ah, really?” he said. “Why? Why do you say that?”
The lieutenant said: “I have been with the Arabs a good many years. Of course they steal. And Frenchmen steal. And in America you have gangsters, I believe?” He smiled archly. Port was impassive: “That was a long time ago, the era of gangsters,” he said. But the lieutenant was not discouraged. “Yes, everywhere people steal. And here as well. However, the native here,” he spoke more slowly, emphasizing his words, “takes only money or an object he wants for himself. He would never take anything so complicated as a passport.”
Port said: “I’m not looking for motives. God knows why he took it.” His host cut him short. “But I am looking for motives!” he cried. “And I see no reason for believing that any native has gone to the trouble of stealing your passport. Certainly not in Bou Noura. And I doubt very much in Ain Krorfa. One thing I can assure you, Monsieur Abdelkader did not take it. You can believe that.”
“Oh?” said Port, unconvinced.
“Never. I have known him for several years—”
“But you have no more proof that he didn’t than I have that he did!” Port exclaimed, annoyed. He turned up his coat collar and huddled in his chair.
“You aren’t cold, I hope?” said the lieutenant in surprise.
“I’ve been cold for days,” answered Port, rubbing his hands together.
The lieutenant looked at him closely for an instant. Then he went on: “Will you do me a favor if I do you one in return?”
“I suppose so. What?”
“I should be greatly obliged if you would withdraw your complaint against Monsieur Abdelkader at once—today. And I will try one thing to get you your passport back. On ne sait jamais. It may be successful. If your passport has been stolen, as you say, the only place for it logically to be now is Messad. I shall telegraph Messad to have a thorough search made of the Foreign Legion barracks.”
Port was sitting quite still, looking straight ahead of him. “Messad,” he said.
“You were not there, too, were you?”
“No, no!” There was a silence.
“And so, are you going to do me this favor? I shall have an answer for you as soon as the search has been carried out.”
“Yes,” said Port. “I’ll go this afternoon. Tell me: there is a market for such things at Messad, then?”
“But of course. Passports bring high prices in Legion posts. Especially an American passport! Oh, la, la!” The lieutenant’s spirits were soaring: he had attained his object; this could offset, at least partially, the damaging effects of the Yamina case to his prestige. “Tenez,” he said, pointing to a cupboard in the corner, “you are cold. Will you hand me that bottle of cognac over there? We shall each have a swallow.” It was not at all what Port wanted, but he felt he scarcely could refuse the hospitable gesture.
Besides, what did he want? He was not sure, but he thought it was merely to sit quietly in a warm, interior place for a long time. The sun made him feel colder, made his head burn, seem enormous and top-heavy. If he had not had his normal appetite he would have suspected that perhaps he was not well. He sipped the cognac, wondering if it would make him warmer, or if he would regret having drunk it, for the heartburn it sometimes produced in him. The lieutenant appeared to have divined his thoughts, for he said presently: “It’s fine old cognac. It won’t hurt you.”
“It’s excellent,” he replied, choosing to ignore the latter part of the remark, The lieutenant’s impression that here was a young man unhealthily preoccupied with himself