The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [67]
The Arab rose to his feet and stood scratching his turban deliberately. “Four hundred and fifty francs each,” he answered, “but I don’t know—”
Port laid another twelve hundred francs before him and said: “That’s nine hundred. And twelve hundred and fifty for you, after you take out for the tickets.” He saw that the man’s decision had been made. “I shall bring the lady at eight o’clock.”
“Half-past seven,” said the Arab, “for the luggage.”
Back at the pension, in his excitement, he rushed into Kit’s room without knocking. She was dressing, and cried with indignation: “Really, have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Only I hope you can travel in that dress.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have seats on the bus tonight at eight.”
“Oh, no! Oh, my God! For where? El Ga’a?” He nodded and there was a silence. “Oh, well,” she said finally. “It’s all the same to me. You know what you want. But it’s six now. All these grips—”
“I’ll help you.” There was a febrile eagerness in his manner now that she could not help observing. She watched him pulling her clothes out of the wardrobe and sliding them off the hangers with staccato gestures; his behavior struck her as curious, but she said nothing. When he had done all he could in her room he went into his own, where he packed his valises in ten minutes and dragged them out into the corridor himself. Then he ran downstairs and she heard him talking excitedly to the boys. At quarter of seven they sat down to their dinner. In no time he had finished his soup.
“Don’t eat so fast. You’ll have indigestion,” Kit warned him.
“We’ve got to be at the bus office at seven-thirty,” he said, clapping his hands for the next course.
“We’ll make it, or they’ll wait for us.”
“No, no. There’ll be trouble about the seats.”
While they were still eating their cornes de gazelle he demanded the hotel bill and paid it.
“Did you see Lieutenant d’Armagnac?” she asked, as he was waiting for his change.
“Oh, yes.”
“But no passport?”
“Not yet,” he said, adding: “Oh, I don’t think they’ll ever find it. How could you expect them to? It’s probably been sent off up to Algiers or Tunis by now.”
“I still think you should have wired the consul from here.”
“I can send a letter from El Ga’a by the same bus we go down in, when it makes the return trip. It’ll only be two or three days later.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Kit.
“Why?” he asked innocently.
“I don’t understand anything. Your sudden indifference. Even this morning you were in the most awful state about not having any passport. Anyone would have thought you couldn’t live another day without it. And now another few days make no difference. You will admit there’s no connection?”
“You will admit they don’t make much difference?”
“I will not. They might easily. And that’s not my point. Not at all,” she said, “and you know it.”
“The main point right now is that we catch the bus.” He jumped up and ran out to where Abdelkader was still trying to make change for him. Kit followed a moment later. By the flare of the tiny carbide lamps that swung on long wires from the ceiling the boys were bringing down the bags. It was a procession down the staircase; there were six boys, all laden with luggage. A small army of village gamins had gathered outside the door in the dark, with the tacit hope of being allowed to carry something along to the bus terminal.
Abdelkader was saying: “I hope you will like El Ga’a.”
“Yes, yes,” Port answered, putting his change into various pockets. “I hope I did not upset you too much with my troubles.”
Abdelkader looked away. “Ah, that,” he said. “It is better not to speak of it.” The apology was too offhand; he could not accept it.
The night wind had risen. Windows and shutters were banging upstairs. The lamps rocked back and forth, sputtering.
“Perhaps we shall see you on our return trip,” insisted