The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [65]
“But Lieutenant d’Armagnac has spent many months there. He can tell you everything you want to know.” Only then did he understand that he really wanted to know nothing about El Ga’a beyond the fact that it was isolated and unfrequented, that it was precisely those things he had been trying to ascertain about it. He determined not to mention the town to the lieutenant, for fear of losing his preconceived idea of it.
The same afternoon Ahmed, who had reinstated himself in the lieutenant’s service, appeared at the pension and asked for Port. Kit, in bed reading, told the servant to send the boy to the hammam, where Port had gone to bask in the steam room in the hope of thawing out his chill once and for all. He was lying almost asleep in the dark, on a hot, slippery slab of rock, when an attendant came and roused him. With a wet towel around him he went to the entrance door. Ahmed stood there scowling; he was a light Arab boy from the ereg, and his face had the telltale, fiery gashes halfway down each cheek which debauchery sometimes makes in the soft skin of those too young to have pouches and wrinkles.
“The lieutenant wants you right away,” said Ahmed.
“Tell him in an hour,” Port said, blinking at the light of day.
“Right away,” repeated Ahmed stolidly. “I wait here.”
“Oh, he gives orders!” He went back inside and had a pail of cold water thrown over him-he would have liked more of it, but water was expensive here, and each pailful was a supplementary charge-and a quick massage before he dressed. It seemed to him that he felt a little better as he stepped out into the street. Ahmed was leaning against the wall talking with a friend, but he sprang to attention at Port’s appearance, and kept a few paces behind him all the way to the lieutenant’s house.
Dressed in an ugly bathrobe of wine-colored artificial silk, the lieutenant sat in his salon smoking.
“You will pardon me if I remain seated,” he said. “I am much better, but I feel best when I move least. Sit down. Will you have sherry, cognac or coffee?”
Port murmured that coffee would please him most. Ahmed was sent to prepare it.
“I don’t mean to detain you, monsieur. But I have news for you. Your passport has been found. Thanks to one of your compatriots, who had also discovered his passport missing, a search had already been instigated before I got in contact with Messad. Both documents had been sold to legionnaires. But fortunately both have been recovered.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a slip of paper. “This American, whose name is Tunner, says he knows you and is coming here to Bou Noura. He offers to bring your passport with him, but I must have your consent before notifying the authorities there to give it to him. Do you give your consent? Do you know this Monsieur Tunner?”
“Yes, yes,” said Port absently. The idea horrified him; faced with Tunner’s imminent arrival, he was appalled to realize that he had never expected really to see him again. “When is he coming?”
“I believe immediately. You are not in a hurry to leave Bou Noura?”
“No,” said Port, his mind darting back and forth like a cornered animal, trying to remember what day the bus left for the south, what day it was then, how long it would take for Tunner to get from Messad. “No, no. I am not pressed for time.” The words sounded ridiculous