The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [69]
Beyond that the people and animals disappeared into darkness. The bus stopped with a jolt and the driver got out abruptly and walked away with the air of wishing to have nothing further to do with it. Passengers still slept, or yawned and began looking about for their belongings, most of which were no longer in the places where they had put them the night before.
Kit indicated by word and gesture that she and Port would stay where they were until everyone else had left the vehicle. The young Arab said that in that event he would, too, because she would need him to help take Port to the hotel. As they sat there waiting for the leisurely travelers to get down, he explained that the hotel was across the town on the side by the fort, since it was operated exclusively for the few officers who did not have homes, it being very rare that anyone arriving by bus had need of a hotel.
“You are very kind,” she said, sitting back in her seat.
“Yes, madame.” His face expressed nothing but friendly solicitousness, and she trusted him implicitly.
When at last the bus was empty save for the debris of pomegranate peel and date pits on the floor and seats, he got out and called a group of men to carry the bags.
“We’re here,” said Kit in a loud voice. Port stirred, opened his eyes, and said: “I finally slept. What a hellish trip. Where’s the hotel?”
“It’s somewhere around,” she said vaguely; she did not like to tell him that it was on the other side of the city.
He sat up slowly. “God, I hope it’s near. I don’t think I can make it if it isn’t. I feel like hell. I really feel like hell.”
“There’s an Arab here who’s helping us. He’s taking us there. It seems it isn’t right here by the terminal.” She felt better letting him discover the truth about the hotel from the Arab; that way she would remain uninvolved in the matter, and whatever resentment Port might feel would not be directed against her.
Outside in the dust was the disorder of Africa, but for the first time without any visible sign of European influence, so that the scene had a purity which had been lacking in the other towns, an unexpected quality of being complete which dissipated the feeling of chaos. Even Port, as they helped him out, noticed the unified aspect of the place. “It’s wonderful here,” he said, “what I can see of it, anyway.”
“What you can see of it!” echoed Kit. “Is something wrong with your eyes?”
“I’m dizzy. It’s a fever, I know that much.”
She felt his forehead, and said nothing but: “Well, let’s get out of this sun.”
The young Arab walked on his left and Kit on his right; each had a supporting arm about him. The porters had gone on ahead.
“The first decent place,” said Port bitterly, “and I have to feel like this.”
“You’re going to stay in bed until you’re absolutely well. We’ll have plenty of time to explore later.”
He did not answer. They went through the inner gate and straightway plunged into a long, crooked tunnel. Passersby brushed against them in the dark. People were sitting along the walls at the sides, from where muffled voices rose, chanting long repetitious phrases. Soon they were in the sunlight once more, then there was another stretch of darkness where the street burrowed through the thick-walled houses.
“Didn’t he tell you where it was? I can’t take much more of this,” Port said. He had not once addressed the Arab directly.
“Ten, fifteen minutes,” said the young Arab.
He still disregarded him. “It’s out of the question,” he told Kit, gasping a little.
“My dear boy, you’ve got to go. You can’t just sit down in the street here.”
“What is it?” said the Arab, who was watching their faces. And on being told, he hailed a passing stranger and spoke with him briefly. “There is a fondouk that way.” He pointed. “He can-” He made a gesture of sleeping, his hand against his cheek.