The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [89]
When night came and Zina reported that the American lady still would not eat, Captain Broussard decided upon a simple course of action. He went to the room and knocked on the door. After a short interval he heard Kit say: “Qui est la?” Then she opened the door. She had not lighted the lamp; the room was black behind her.
“Is it you, madame?” He tried to make his voice pleasant.
“Yes.”
“Could you come with me a moment? I should like to speak with you.”
She followed him through several courtyards into a brightly lighted room with a blazing fireplace at one end. There was a profusion of native rugs which covered the walls, the divans and the floor. At the far end was a small bar attended by a tall black Soudanese in a very white turban and jacket. The captain gestured nonchalantly toward her.
“Will you take something?”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
“A little aperitif.”
Kit was still blinking at the light. “I couldn’t,” she said.
“You’ll have a Cinzano with me.” He signaled to his barman. “Deux Cinzanos. Come, come, sit down, I beg you. I shall not detain you long.”
Kit obeyed, took the glass from the proffered tray. The taste of the wine pleased her, but she did not want to be pleased, she did not want to be ripped from her apathy. Besides, she was still conscious of the peculiar light of suspicion in the captain’s eyes when he looked at her. He sat studying her face as he sipped his drink: he had about come to the decision that she was not exactly what he had taken her for at first, that perhaps she really was the sick man’s wife after all.
“As Chef de Poste,” he said, “I am more or less obliged to verify the identity of the persons who pass through Sba. Of course the arrivals are very infrequent. I regret having to trouble you at such a time, naturally. It is merely a question of seeing your identity papers. Ali!” The barman stepped silently to their chairs and refilled the glasses. Kit did not reply for a moment. The aperitif had made her violently hungry.
“I have my passport.”
“Excellent. Tomorrow I shall send for both passports and return them to you within the hour.”
“My husband has lost his passport. I can only give you mine.”
“Ah, ca!” cried the captain. It was as he had expected, then. He was furious; at the same time he felt a certain satisfaction in the reflection that his first impression had been correct. And how right he had been to forbid his inferior officers to have anything to do with her. He had expected just something of this sort, save that in such cases it was usually the woman’s papers which were difficult to get hold of, rather than the man’s.
“Madame,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, “please understand that I am in no way interested in probing matters which I consider strictly personal. It is merely a formality, but one which must be carried out. I must see both passports. The names are a matter of complete indifference to me. But two people, two passports, no? Unless you have one together.”
Kit thought he had not heard her correctly. “My husband’s passport was stolen in Ain Krorfa.”
The captain hesitated. “I shall have to report this, of course. To the commander of the territory.” He rose to his feet. “You yourselves should have reported it as soon as it happened.” He had had the servant lay a place at the table for Kit, but now he did not want to eat with her.
“Oh, but we did. Lieutenant d’Armagnac at Bou Noura knows all about it,” said Kit, finishing her glass. “May I have a cigarette, please?” He gave her a Chesterfield, lighted it for her, and watched her inhale. “My cigarettes are all gone.” She smiled, her eyes on the pack he held in his hand. She felt better, but the hunger inside her was planting its claws deeper each minute. The captain said nothing. She went on. “Lieutenant d’Armagnac did everything he could for my husband to try and get it back from Messad.”
The captain did not believe a word she was saying; he considered it all an admirable piece of lying. He was convinced now that she was not only an adventuress, but a truly suspicious