The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [85]
She did not ask him what he meant. He went on: “Is it beautiful out?”
“No.”
“I wish you could have said yes.”
“Why? “
“I’d have liked it to be beautiful out.”
“I suppose you could call it beautiful, but it’s just a little unpleasant to walk in.”
“Ah, well, we’re not out in it,” he said.
The quietness of his dialogue made more monstrous the groans of pain which an instant later issued from within him. “What is it?” she cried in a frenzy. But he could not hear her. She knelt on her mattress and looked at him, unable to decide what to do. Little by little he grew silent, but he did not open his eyes. For a while she studied the inert body as it lay there beneath the covers, which rose and fell slightly with the rapid respiration. “He’s stopped being human,” she said to herself. Illness reduces man to his basic state: a cloaca in which the chemical processes continue. The meaningless hegemony of the involuntary. It was the ultimate taboo stretched out there beside her, helpless and terrifying beyond all reason. She choked back a wave of nausea that threatened her for an instant.
There was a knocking at the door: it was Zina with Port’s soup, and a plate of couscous for her. Kit indicated that she wanted her to feed the invalid; the old woman seemed delighted, and began to try to coax him into sitting up. There was no response save a slight acceleration in his breathing. She was patient and persevering, but to no avail.
Kit had her take the soup away, deciding that if he wanted nourishment later she would open one of the tins of milk and mix it with hot water for him.
The wind was blowing again, but without fury, and from the other direction. It moaned spasmodically through the cracks around the window, and the folded sheet moved a bit now and then. Kit stared at the spurting white flame of the lamp, trying to conquer her powerful desire to run out of the room. It was no longer the familiar fear that she felt-it was a steadily mounting sentiment of revulsion.
But she lay perfectly still, blaming herself and thinking: “If I feel no sense of duty toward him, at least I can act as if I did.” At the same time there was an element of self-chastisement in her immobility. “You’re not even to move your foot if it falls asleep. And I hope it hurts.” Time passed, expressed in the low cry of the wind as it sought to enter the room, the cry rising and falling in pitch but never quite ceasing. Unexpectedly Port breathed a profound sigh and shifted his position on the mattress. And incredibly, he began to speak.
“Kit.” His voice was faint but in no way distorted. She held her breath, as if her least movement might snap the thread that held him to rationality.
“Kit.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been trying to get back. Here.” He kept his eyes closed.
“Yes—”
“And now I am.”
“Yes!”
“I wanted to talk to you. There’s nobody here?”
“No, no!”
“Is the door locked?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She bounded up and locked it, returning to her pallet, all in the same movement. “Yes, it’s locked.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She did not know what to say. She said: “I’m glad.”
“There are so many things I want to say. I don’t know what they are. I’ve forgotten them all.”
She patted his hand lightly. “It’s always that way.”
He lay silent a moment.
“Wouldn’t you like some warm milk?” she said cheerfully.
He seemed distraught. “I don’t think there’s time. I don’t know.”
“I’ll fix it for you,” she announced, and she sat up, glad to be free.
“Please stay here.”
She lay down again, murmuring: “I’m so glad you feel better. You don’t know how different it makes me feel to hear you talk. I’ve been going crazy here. There’s not a soul around-” She stopped, feeling the momentum of hysteria begin to gather in the background. But Port seemed not to have heard her.
“Please stay here,” he repeated, moving his hand uncertainly along the sheet. She knew it was searching for hers, but she could not make herself reach out and let it take hold. At the same moment she became aware of her refusal, and the tears came into her eyes-tears of pity