The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [5]
He started down the bank to the right, sliding among the fish skeletons and dust. Once below, he felt out a rock that seemed clean and sat down on it. The stench was overpowering. He lit a match, saw the ground thick with chicken feathers and decayed melon rinds. As he rose to his feet he heard steps above him at the end of the street. A figure stood at the top of the embankment. It did not speak, yet Port was certain that it had seen him, had followed him, and knew he was sitting down there. It lit a cigarette, and for a moment he saw an Arab wearing a chechia on his head. The match, thrown into the air, made a fading parabola, the face disappeared, and only the red point of the cigarette remained. The cock crowed several times. Finally the man cried out.
“Qu’est-ce ti cherches la?”
“Here’s where the trouble begins,” thought Port. He did not move.
The Arab waited a bit. He walked to the very edge of the slope. A dislodged tin can rolled noisily down toward the rock where Port sat.
“He! M’sieu! Qu’est-ce ti vo?”
He decided to answer. His French was good.
“Who? Me? Nothing.”
The Arab bounded down the bank and stood in front of him. With the characteristic impatient, almost indignant gestures he pursued his inquisition. What are you doing here all alone? Where do you come from? What do you want here? Are you looking for something? To which Port answered wearily: Nothing. That way. Nothing. No.
For a moment the Arab was silent, trying to decide what direction to give the dialogue. He drew violently on his cigarette several times until it glowed very bright, then he flicked it away and exhaled the smoke.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he said.
“What? A walk? Where?”
“Out there.” His arm waved toward the mountains.
“What’s out there?”
“Nothing.”
There was another silence between them.
“I’ll pay you a drink,” said the Arab. And immediately on that: “What’s your name?”
“Jean,” said Port.
The Arab repeated the name twice, as if considering its merits. “Me,” tapping his chest, “Smail. So, do we go and drink?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t feel like it. What do you feel like doing?”
“Nothing.”
All at once the conversation began again from the beginning. Only the now truly outraged inflection of the Arab’s voice marked any difference: “Qu’est-ce ti_fi Ia? Qu’est-ce ti cherches?” Port rose and started to climb up the slope, but it was difficult going. He kept sliding back down. At once the Arab was beside him, tugging at his arm. “Where are you going, Jean?” Without answering Port made a great effort and gained the top. “Au revoir,” he called, walking quickly up the middle of the street. He heard a desperate scrambling behind him; a moment later the man was at his side.
“You didn’t wait for me,” he said in an aggrieved tone.
“No. I said good-bye.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Port did not answer. They walked a good distance in silence. When they came to the first street light, the Arab reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn wallet. Port glanced at it and continued to walk.
“Look!” cried the Arab, waving it in his face. Port did not look.
“What is it?” he said flatly.
“I was in the Fifth Battalion of Sharpshooters. Look at the paper! Look! You’ll see!”
Port walked faster. Soon there began to be people in the street. No one stared at them. One would have said that the presence of the Arab beside him made him invisible. But now he was no longer sure of the way. It would never do to let this be seen. He continued to walk straight ahead as if there were no doubt in his mind.