The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [92]
“Thank you,” she said, but she remained standing. “I wanted to ask you about trucks leaving Sba.”
“Ah, for El Ga’a. We have no regular service. One came last night and left again this afternoon. We never know when the next will come. But Captain Broussard is always notified at least a day in advance. He could tell you better than anyone else.”
“Captain Broussard. Ah, I see.”
“And your husband. Is he better? Did he enjoy the milk?”
“The milk. Yes, he enjoyed it,” she said slowly, wondering a little that the words could sound so natural.
“I hope he will soon be well.”
“He is already well.”
“Ah, hamdoul’lah!”
“Yes.” And starting afresh, she said: “Monsieur Daoud Zozeph, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Your favor is granted, madame,” he said gallantly. She felt that he had bowed in the darkness.
“A great favor,” she warned.
Daoud Zozeph, thinking that perhaps she wanted to borrow money, began to rattle objects on the counter, saying: “But we are talking in the dark. Wait. I shall light a lamp.”
“No! Please!” exclaimed Kit.
“But we don’t see each other!” he protested.
She put her hand on his arm. “I know, but don’t light the lamp, please. I want to ask you this favor immediately. May I spend the night with you and your wife?”
Daoud Zozeph was completely taken aback-both astonished and relieved. “Tonight?” he said.
“Yes.”
There was a short silence.
“You understand, madame, we should be honored to have you in our house. But you would not be comfortable. You know, a house of poor people is not like a hotel or a poste militaire….”
“But since I ask you,” she said reproachfully, “that means I don’t care. You think that matters to me? I have been sleeping on the floor here in Sba.”
“Ah, that you would not have to do in my house, said Daoud Zozeph energetically.
“But I should be delighted to sleep on the floor. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”
“Ah, no! No, madame! Not on the floor! Quandmime!” he objected. And as he struck a match to light the lamp, she touched his arm again.
“Ecoutez, monsieur,” she said, her voice sinking to a conspiratorial whisper, “my husband is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find me. We have had a misunderstanding. I don’t want to see him tonight. It’s very simple. I think your wife would understand.”
Daoud Zozeph laughed. “Of course! Of course!” Still laughing, he closed the door into the street, bolted it, and struck a match, holding it high in the air. Lighting matches all the way, he led her through a dark inner room and across a small court. The stars were above. He paused in front of a door. “You can sleep here.” He opened the door and stepped inside. Again a match flared: she saw a tiny room in disorder, its sagging iron bed covered with a mattress that vomited excelsior.
“This is not your room, I hope?” she ventured, as the match went out.
“Ah, no! We have another bed in our room, my wife and I,” he answered, a note of pride in his voice. “This is where my brother sleeps when he comes from ColombB&char. Once a year he visits me for a month, sometimes longer. Wait. I shall bring a lamp.” He went off, and she heard him talking in another room. Presently he returned with an oil lamp and a small tin pail of water.
With the arrival of the light, the room took on an even more piteous aspect. She had the feeling that the floor had never yet been swept since the day the mason had finished piling the mud on the walls, the ubiquitous mud that dried, crumbled, and fell in a fine powder day and night…. She glanced up at him and smiled.
“My wife wants to know if you like noodles,” said Daoud Zozeph.
“Yes, of course,” she answered, trying to look into the peeling mirror over the washstand. She could see nothing at all.
“Bien. You know, my wife speaks no French.”
“Really. You will have to be my interpreter.”
There was a dull knocking, out in the shop. Daoud Zozeph excused himself and crossed the court. She shut the door, found there was no key, stood there waiting. It would have been so easy for one of the guards at the fort to follow her. But she doubted that they had thought of it in time. She sat down on the outrageous bed and stared at the wall opposite. The lamp sent up a column of acrid smoke.