The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [63]
“Oh. You think my complaint is mental. You said happier.”
“I don’t think anything because I don’t know. But it seems awfully peculiar to me that anybody should be constantly cold in September in the Sahara desert.”
“Well, it’ll have to seem peculiar,” he said with annoyance. Then he suddenly exclaimed: “These flies have claws! They’re enough to drive you completely off your balance. What do they want, to crawl down your throat?” He groaned and rose to his feet; she looked at him expectantly. “I’ll fix it so we’ll be safe from them. Get up.” He burrowed into a valise and presently pulled out a folded bundle of netting. At his suggestion Kit cleared the bed of her clothing. Over the headboard and footboard he spread the net, remarking that there was no good reason why a mosquito net could not become a fly net. When it was well fastened they slid underneath with the bottle and lay there quietly as the afternoon wore on. By twilight they were pleasantly drunk, disinclined to move out from under their tent. Perhaps it was the sudden appearance of the stars in the square of the sky framed by the window, which helped to determine the course of their conversation. Each moment, as the color deepened, more stars came to fill the spaces which up until then had been empty. Kit smoothed her gown at the hips and said: “When I was young—”
“How young?”
“Before I was twenty, I mean, I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. it would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth-” She hesitated.
Port laughed abruptly. “And now you know it’s not like that. Right? It’s more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. And then’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.”
“But I’m always conscious of the unpleasant taste and of the end approaching,” she said.
“Then you should give up smoking.”
“How mean you are!” she cried.
“I’m not mean!” he objected, almost upsetting his glass as he raised himself on his elbow to drink. “It seems logical, doesn’t it? Or I suppose living’s a habit like smoking. You keep saying you’re going to give it up, but you go right on.”
“You don’t even threaten to stop, as far as I can see,” she said accusingly.
“Why should I? I want to go on.”
“But you complain so all the time.”
“Oh, not about life; only about human beings.”
“The two can’t be considered separately.”
“They certainly can. All it takes is a little effort. Effort, effort! Why won’t anybody make any? I can imagine an absolutely different world. just a few misplaced accents.”
“I’ve heard it all for years,” said Kit. She sat up in the near-dark, cocked her head and said: “Listen!”
Somewhere outside, not far away, perhaps in the market place, an orchestra of drums was playing, little by little gathering up the loose strands of rhythmic force into one mighty compact design which already was revolving, a still imperfect wheel of heavy sounds, lumbering ahead toward the night. Port was silent awhile, and said in a whisper: “That, for instance.”
“I don’t know,” said Kit. She was impatient. “I know I don’t feel any part of those drums out there, however much I may admire the sounds they make. And I don’t see any reason why I should want to feel a part of them.” She thought that such a straightforward declaration would put a quick end to the discussion, but Port was stubborn that evening.
“I know, you never like to talk seriously,” he said, “but it won’t hurt you for once,”
She smiled scornfully, since she considered his vague generalities the most frivolous kind of chatter-a mere vehicle for his emotions. According to her, at such times there was no question of