The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [82]
She arose and moved about the room stiffly in the cold, trying to raise as little dust as possible while she made her toilet. But the dust lay thick on everything. She was conscious of a defect in her functioning-it was as if an entire section of her mind were numb. She felt the lack there: an enormous blind spot inside her-but she could not locate it. And as if from a distance she watched the fumbling gestures her hands made as they came in contact with the objects and the garments. “This has got to stop,” she said to herself. “This has got to stop.” But she did not know quite what she meant. Nothing could stop; everything always went on.
Zina arrived, completely shrouded in a great white blanket, and slamming the door behind her against the blast, drew forth from beneath the folds of her clothing a small tray which bore a teapot and a glass. “Bonjour, madame. R’mleh bzef,” she said, with a gesture toward the sky, and set the tray on the floor beside the mattress.
The hot tea gave her a little strength; she drank it all and sat a while listening to the wind. Suddenly she realized that there was nothing for Port. Tea would not be enough for him. She decided to go in search of Zina to see if there was any way of getting him some milk. She went out and stood in the courtyard, calling: “Zina! Zina!” in a voice rendered feeble by the wind’s fury, grinding the sand between her teeth as she caught her breath.
No one appeared. After stumbling into and out of several empty niche-like rooms, she discovered a passageway that led to the kitchen. Zina was there squatting on the floor, but Kit could not make her understand what she wanted. With motions the old woman indicated that she would presently fetch Captain Broussard and send him to the room. Back in the semi-darkness she lay down on her pallet, coughing and rubbing away from her eyes the sand that had gathered on her face. Port was still sleeping.
She herself was almost asleep when the captain came in. He removed the hood of his camel’s-hair burnous from around his face, and shook it, then he shut the door behind him and squinted about in the obscurity. Kit stood up. The expected queries and responses regarding the state of the patient were made. But when she asked him about the milk he merely looked at her pityingly. All canned milk was rationed, and that only to women with infants. “And the sheep’s milk is always sour and undrinkable in any case,” he added. It seemed to Kit that each time he looked at her it was as if he suspected her of harboring secret and reprehensible motives. The resentment she felt at his accusatory gaze helped her to regain a little of her lost sense of reality. “I’m sure he doesn’t look at everybody that way,” she thought. “Then why me? Damn his soul!” But she felt too utterly dependent upon the man to allow herself the satisfaction of letting him perceive anything of her reactions. She stood, trying to look forlorn, with her right hand outstretched above Port’s head in a compassionate gesture, hoping the captain’s heart might be moved; she was convinced that he