The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [101]
That evening he enjoyed his chess game less than usual. Abdelkader saw that he was preoccupied and suddenly suggested they stop playing. He was glad of the opportunity to get to sleep early, and he found himself hoping that the bed in his new room would not prove to have something wrong with it. He told Abdelkader he would see him in the morning, and slowly mounted the stairs, feeling certain now that he would be staying in Bou Noura all winter. Living was cheap; his money would hold out.
The first thing he noticed on stepping into his room was the open communicating door. The lamps were lighted in both rooms, and there was a smaller, more intense light moving beside his bed. Eric Lyle stood there on the far side of the bed, a flashlight in his hand. For a second neither one moved. Then Eric said, in a voice trying to sound sure of itself: “Yes? Who is it?”
Tunner shut the door behind him and walked toward the bed; Eric backed against the wall. He turned the flashlight in Tunner’s face.
“Who—Don’t tell me I’m in the wrong room!” Eric laughed feebly; nevertheless the sound of it seemed to give him courage. “By the look of your face I expect I aml How awful! I just came in from outside. I thought everything looked a bit odd.” Tunner said nothing. “I must have come automatically to this room because my things had been in it this noon. Good God! I’m so fagged I’m scarcely conscious.”
It was natural for Tunner to believe what people told him; his sense of suspicion was not well developed, and even though it had been aroused a moment ago he had been allowing himself to be convinced by this pitiful monologue. He was about to say: “That’s all right,” when he glanced down at the bed. One of Port’s small overnight cases lay there open; half of its contents had been piled beside it on the blanket.
Slowly Tunner looked up. At the same time he thrust his neck forward in a way that sent a thrill of fear through Eric, who said apprehensively: “Oh!” Taking four long steps around the foot of the bed he reached the corner where Eric stood transfixed.
“You God-damned little son of a bitch!” He grabbed the front of Eric’s shirt with his left hand and rocked him back and forth. Still holding it, he took a step sideways to a comfortable distance and swung at him, not too hard. Eric fell back against the wall and remained leaning there as if he were completely paralyzed, his bright eyes on Tunner’s face. When it became apparent that the youth was not going to react in any other way, Tunner stepped toward him to pull him upright, perhaps to take another swing at him, depending on bow he felt the next second. As he seized his clothing, a sob came in the middle of Eric’s heavy breathing, and never shifting his piercing gaze, he said in a low voice, but distinctly: “Hit me.”
The words enraged Tunner. “With pleasure,” he replied, and did so, harder than before-a good deal harder, it seemed, since Eric slumped to the floor and did not move. He looked down at the full, white face with loathing. Then he put the things back into the valise, shut it, and stood still, trying to collect his thoughts. After a moment Eric stirred, groaned. He pulled him up and propelled him toward the door, where he gave him a vicious shove into the next room. He slammed the door, and locked it, feeling slightly sick. Anyone’s violence upset him-his own most of all.
The next morning the Lyles were gone. The photograph, a study in sepia of a Peulh water carrier with the famous Red Mosque of Djenne in the background, remained tacked on the salon wall above the divan all winter.
BOOK THREE
THE SKY
“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.”
-KAFKA Chapter 26 When she opened her eyes she knew immediately where she was. The moon was low in the sky. She pulled her coat around her legs and shivered slightly, thinking of nothing. There was a part of her mind that ached, that needed rest. It was good merely to lie there, to exist and ask no questions. She was sure that if she wanted to, she could begin remembering all that had happened. It required only a small effort. But she was comfortable there as she was, with that opaque curtain falling between. She would not be the one to lift it, to gaze down into the abyss of yesterday and suffer again its grief and remorse. At present, what had gone before was indistinct, unidentifiable. Resolutely she turned her mind away, refusing to examine it, bending all her efforts to putting a sure barrier between herself and it. Like an insect spinning its cocoon thicker and more resistant, her mind would go on strengthening the thin partition, the danger spot of her being.