The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [66]
“But I do hope to get eventually to El Ga’a,” he went on, in spite of himself.
“Ah, El Ga’a. You will find it very impressive, very picturesque, and very hot. It was my first Saharan post. I know every alley. It’s a vast city, perfectly flat, not too dirty, but rather dark because the streets are built through the houses, like tunnels. Quite safe. You and your wife can wander wherever you please. It’s the last town of any size this side of the Soudan. And that’s a great distance away, the Soudan. Oh, la, la!”
“I suppose there’s a hotel in El Ga’a?”
“Hotel? A kind of hotel,” laughed the lieutenant. “You will find rooms with beds in them, and it may be clean. It is not so dirty in the Sahara as people say. The sun is a great purifier. With even a minimum of hygiene the people could be healthy here. But of course there is not that minimum. Unfortunately for us, d’ailleurs.”
“No. Yes, unfortunately,” said Port. He could not bring himself back to the room and the conversation. He had just realized that the bus left that very night, and there would not be another for a week. Tunner would be there by then. With that realization, his decision seemed to have come automatically. Certainly he was not conscious of having made it, but a moment later he relaxed and began to question the lieutenant on the details of his daily life and work in Bou Noura. The lieutenant looked pleased; one by one the inevitable anecdotes of the colonist came out, all having to do with the juxtaposition, sometimes tragic, but usually ludicrous, of the two incongruous and incompatible cultures. Finally Port rose. “It’s too bad,” he said with a note of sincerity in his voice, “that I shan’t be staying here longer.”
“But you will be here several days more. I count absolutely on seeing you and Madame before your departure. In another two or three days I shall be completely well. Ahmed will let you know when and call for you. So, I shall notify Messad to give your passport to Monsieur Tunner.” He rose, extended his hand; Port went out.
He walked through the little garden planted with stunted palms, and out the gate into the dusty road. The sun had set, and the sky was rapidly cooling. He stood still a moment looking upward, almost expecting to hear the sky crack as the nocturnal chill pressed against it from outside. Behind him in the nomad encampment the dogs barked in chorus. He began to walk quickly, to be out of their hearing as soon as he could. The coffee had accelerated his pulse to an unusual degree, or else it was his nervousness at the thought of missing the bus to El Ga’a. Entering the town gate, he turned immediately to the left and went down the empty street to the offices of the Transports Generaux.
The office was stuffy, withotit light. In the dimness behind the counter on a pile of burlap sacks sat an Arab, half asleep. Immediately Port said: “What time does the bus leave for El Ga’a?”
“Eight o’clock, monsieur.”
“Are there seats still?”
“Oh, no. Three days ago they were all sold.”
“Ah, mon dieu!” cried Port; his entrails seemed to grow heavier. He gripped the counter.
“Are you sick?” said the Arab, looking at him, and his face showed a little interest.
“Sick,” thought Port. And he said: “No, but my wife is very sick. She must get to El Ga’a by tomorrow.” He watched the Arab’s face closely, to see if he were capable of believing such an obvious lie. Apparently here it was as logical for an ailing person to go away from civilization and medical care as to go in the direction of it, for the Arab’s expression slowly changed to one of understanding and sympathy. Still, he raised his hands in a gesture that denoted his inability to help.
But already Port had pulled out a thousand-franc note and spread it on the counter with determination.
“You will have to give us two seats tonight,” he said firmly. “This is for