The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [27]
He chewed again, and grinned. “Oh, forget it. I’m doing all right by it, too, you may have noticed. So here’s to good old Mumm!” He uncorked the second bottle. Painfully the train started up again.
The fact that they were moving once more exhilarated her. “Dime ingrato, porqui me abandonaste, y sola me dejaste… ” she sang.
“More?” He held the bottle.
“Claro que si, ” she said, downing it at one gulp, and stretching forth her cup again, immediately.
The train jolted along, stopping every little while, each time in what looked like empty countryside. But always there were voices out beyond in the darkness, shouting in the guttural mountain tongue. They completed their supper; as Kit was eating her last fig, Tunner bent over to pull out another bottle from the valise. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she reached into the space where she had hidden her sandwich, drew it out and stuffed it into her handbag on top of her compact. He poured her some champagne.
“The champagne’s not as cool as it was,” she said, sipping it.
“Can’t have everything.”
“Oh, but I love it! I don’t mind it warm. You know, I think I’m getting quite high.”
“Bah! Not on the little bit you’ve had.” He laughed.
“Oh, you don’t know me! When I’m nervous or upset, right off I’m high.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, we’ve got another eight hours at least. We might as well dig in. Is it all right with you if I change seats and sit with you?”
“Of course. I asked you to when we first got on, so you wouldn’t have to ride backwards.”
“Fine.” He rose, stretched, yawned, and sat down beside her very hard, bumping against her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I miscalculated the beast’s gyrations. God, what a train.” His right arm went around her, and he pulled her toward him a little. “Lean against me. You’ll be more comfortable. Relax! You’re all tense and tight.”
“Tight, yes! I’m afraid so.” She laughed; to her it sounded like a titter. She reclined partially against him, her head on his shoulder. “This should make me feel comfortable,” she was thinking, “but it only makes everything worse. I’m going to jump out of my skin.”
For a few minutes she made herself sit there without moving. It was difficult not to be tense, because it seemed to her that the motion of the train kept pushing her toward him. Slowly she felt the muscles of his arm tightening around her waist. The train came to a halt. She bounded up, crying: “I want to go to the door and see what it looks like outside.”
He rose, put his arm around her again, held it there with insistence, and said: “You know what it looks like. just dark mountains.”
She looked up into his face. “I know. Please, Tunner.” She wriggled slightly, and felt him let go. At that moment the door into the corridor opened, and the ravaged-looking woman in black made as if to enter the compartment.
“Ah, pardon. Je me suis trompee,” she said, scowling balefully, and going on without shutting the door behind her.
“What does that old harpy want?” said Tunner.
Kit walked to the doorway, stood in it, and said loudly: “She’s just a voyeuse.” The woman, already halfway down the corridor, turned furiously and glared at her. Kit was delighted. The satisfaction she derived from knowing that the woman had heard the word struck her as absurd. Yet there it was, a strong, exultant force inside her. “A little more and I’ll be hysterical. And then Tunner will be helpless!”
In normal situations she felt that Port was inclined to lack understanding, but in extremities no one else could take his place; in really bad moments she relied on him utterly, not because he was an infallible guide under such circumstances, but because a section of her consciousness annexed him as a buttress, so that in part she identified herself with him. “And Port’s not here. So no hysteria,please.” Aloud she said: “I’ll be right back. Don’t let the witch in.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“Really, Tunner,” she laughed. “I’m afraid where I’m going you’d be just a little in the way.”
He strove not to show his embarrassment. “Oh! Okay. Sorry.