The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [8]
“It’s a long way,” said Port.
“Ah, yes, it’s the Turkish fortress. You see that light down there?” He indicated a faint red glimmer that came and went almost directly beneath them. “That’s the tent where she lives.”
“The tent!”
“There are no houses down here. Only tents. There are a lot of them. On descend?”
Smail went first, keeping close to the wall. “Touch the stones,” he said.
As they approached the bottom, he saw that the feeble glow of light was a dying bonfire built in an open space between two large nomad tents. Smail suddenly stopped to listen. There was an indistinguishable murmur of male voices. “Allons-y,” he muttered; his voice sounded satisfied.
They reached the end of the staircase. There was hard ground beneath their feet. To his left Port saw the black silhouette of a huge agave plant in flower.
“Wait here,” whispered Smail. Port was about to light a cigarette; Smail hit his arm angrily. “No!” he whispered. “But what is it?” began Port, highly annoyed at the show of secrecy. Smail disappeared.
Leaning against the cold rock wall, Port waited to hear a break in the monotonous, low-pitched conversation, an exchange of greetings, but nothing happened. The voices went on exactly as before, an uninterrupted flow of expressionless sounds. “He must have gone into the other tent,” he thought. One side of the farther tent flickered pink in the light of the bonfire; beyond was darkness. He edged a few steps along the wall, trying to see the entrance of the tent, but it faced in the other direction. Then he listened for the sound of voices there, but none came. For no reason at all he suddenly heard Kit’s parting remark as he had left her room: “After all, it’s much more your business than it is mine.” Even now the words meant nothing in particular to him, but he remembered the tone in which she had said it: she had sounded hurt and rebellious. And it was all about Tunner. He stood up straight. “He’s been after her,” he whispered aloud. Abruptly he turned and went to the staircase, started up it. After six steps he stopped and looked around. “What can I do tonight?” he thought. “I’m using this as an excuse to get out of here, because I’m afraid. What the hell, he’ll never get her.”
A figure darted out from between the two tents and ran lightly to the foot of the stairs. “Jean!” it whispered. Port stood still.
“Ah! ti es la! What are you doing up there? Come on!” Port walked slowly back down. Smail stepped out of his way, took his arm.
“Why can’t we talk?” whispered Port. Smail squeezed his arm. “Shh!” he said into his ear. They skirted the nearer tent, brushing past a clump of high thistles, and made their way over the stones to the entrance of the other.
“Take off your shoes,” commanded Smail, slipping off his sandals.
“Not a good idea,” thought Port. “No,” he said aloud.
“Shh!” Smail pushed him inside, shoes still on.
The central part of the tent was high enough to stand up in. A short candle stuck on top of a chest near the entrance provided the light, so that the nether parts of the tent were in almost complete darkness. Lengths of straw matting had been spread on the ground at senseless angles; objects were scattered everywhere in utter disorder. There was no one in the tent waiting for them.
“Sit down,” said Smail, acting the host. He cleared the largest piece of matting of an alarm clock, a sardine can, and an ancient, incredibly greasy pair of overalls. Port sat down and put his elbows on his knees. On the mat next to him lay a chipped enamel bedpan, half filled with a darkish liquid. There were bits of stale bread everywhere. He lit a cigarette without offering one to Smail, who returned to stand near the entrance, looking out.
And suddenly she stepped inside-a slim, wild-looking girl with great dark eyes. She was dressed in spotless white, with a white turban-like headdress that pulled her hair tightly backward, accentuating the indigo designs tattooed on her forehead. Once inside the tent, she stood quite still, looking at Port with something of the expression, he thought, the young bull often wears as he takes the first few steps into the glare of the arena. There was bewilderment, fear, and a passive expectancy in her face as she stared quietly at him.