The Sheltering Sky

“And you know,” Amar went on, “that money you wanted to give him is not good here. It’s Algerian money. Even in Tessalit you have to have A.O.F. francs. Algerian money is contraband.”

“Contraband,” she repeated; the word meant absolutely nothing.

“Defendu!” he said laughing, and be attempted to get her up onto her feet. The sun was painful; he, too, was sweating. She would not move at present—she was exhausted. He waited a while, made her cover her head with her haik, and lay back wrapped in his burnous. The wind increased. The sand raced along the flat black earth like white water streaming sideways.

Suddenly she said: “Take me to your house. They won’t find me there.”

But he refused, saying that there was no room, that his family was large. instead he would take her to the place where they had had coffee earlier in the day.

“It’s a café,” she protested.

“But Atallah has many rooms. You can pay him. Even your Algerian money. He can change it. You have more?”

“Yes, yes. In my bag.” She looked around. “Where is it?” she said vacantly.

“You left it at Atallah’s. He’ll give it to you.” He grinned and spat. “Now, shall we walk a little?”

Atallah was in his café. A few turbaned merchants from the north sat in a corner talking. Amar and Atallah stood a moment conversing in the doorway. Then they led her into the living quarters behind the café. It was very dark and cool in the rooms, and particularly in the last one, where Atallah set her valise down and indicated a blanket in the corner on the floor for her to lie on. Even as he went out, letting the curtain fall across the doorway, she turned to Amar and pulled his face down to hers.

“You must save me,” she said between kisses.

“Yes,” he answered solemnly.

He was as comforting as Belqassim had been disturbing.

Atallah did not lift the curtain until evening, when by the light of his lamp he saw them both asleep on the blanket. He set the lamp down in the doorway and went out.

Some time later she awoke. It was silent and hot in the room. She sat up and looked at the long black body beside her, inert and shining as a statue. She laid her hands on the chest: the heart beat heavily, slowly. The limbs stirred. The eyes opened, the mouth broke into a smile.

“I have a big heart,” he said to her, putting his hand over hers and holding it there on his chest.

“Yes,” she said absently.

“When I feel well, I think I’m the best man in the world. When I’m sick, I hate myself. I say: you’re no good at all, Amar. You’re made of mud.” He laughed.

There was a sudden sound in another part of the house. He felt her cringe. “Why are you afraid?” he said. “I know. Because you are rich. Because you have a bag full of money. Rich people are always afraid.”

“I’m not rich,” she said. She paused. “It’s my head. It aches.” She pulled her hand free and moved it from his chest to her forehead.

He looked at her and laughed again. “You should not think. Ca c’est mauvais. The head is like the sky. Always turning around and around inside. But very slowly. When you think, you make it go too fast. Then it aches.”

“I love you,” she said, running her finger along his lips. But she knew she could not really get to him.

“Moi aussi,” he replied, biting her finger lightly.

She wept, and let a few tears fall on him; he watched her with curiosity, shaking his head from time to time.

“No, no,” he said. “Cry a little while, but not too long. A little while is good. Too long is bad. You should never think of what is finished.” The words comforted her, although she could not remember what was finished. “Women always think of what is finished instead of what is beginning. Here we say that life is a cliff, and you must never turn around and look back when you’re climbing. It makes you sick.” The gentle voice went on; finally she lay down again. Still she was convinced that this was the end, that it would not be long before they found her. They would stand her up before a great mirror, saying to her: “Look!” And she would be obliged to look, and then it would be all over. The dark dream would be shattered; the light of terror would be constant; a merciless beam would be turned upon her; the.pain would be unendurable and endless. She lay close against him, shuddering. Shifting his body toward her, he took her tightly in his arms. When next she opened her eyes the room was in darkness.

“You can never refuse a person money to buy light,” said Amar. He struck a match and held it up.

“And you are rich,” said Atallah, counting her thousand-franc notes one by one.

XXIX

“Votre nom, madame. Surely you remember your name.”

She paid no attention; it was the only way of getting rid of them.

“Cest inutile. You won’t get anything out of her.”

“Are you certain there’s no kind of identification among her clothing?”

“None, mon capitaine.”

“Go back to Atallah’s and look some more. We know she had money and a valise.”

A cracked little church bell pealed from time to time. The nun’s garments made a rippling sound as she moved about the room.