The Sheltering Sky

Under his sun helmet his head was perspiring. He removed the helmet with its wet leather band, and let the sun dry his hair for a moment. Soon the day would be finished, it would be dark, he would be back at the foul-smelling hotel with Kit, but first he must decide what course to take. He turned and walked back toward the town. When he came opposite the ruin, he peered inside. The old man had moved; he was seated just inside what had once been the doorway. The sudden thought struck him that the man must have a disease. He hastened his step and, absurdly enough, held his breath until he was well past the spot. As he allowed the fresh wind to enter his lungs again, he knew what he would do: he would temporarily abandon the idea of getting back together with Kit. In his present state of disquiet he would be certain to take all the wrong turnings, and would perhaps lose her for good. Later, when he least expected it, the thing might come to pass of its own accord. The rest of his walking was done at a brisk pace, and by the time he was back in the streets of Ain Krorfa he was whistling.

They were having dinner. A traveling salesman eating inside in the dining room had brought a portable radio with him and was tuned in to Radio Oran. In the kitchen a louder radio was playing Egyptian music.

“You can put up with this sort of thing for just so long. Then you go crazy,” said Kit. She had found patches of fur in her rabbit stew, and unfortunately the light in that part of the patio was so dim that she had not made the discovery until after she had put the food into her mouth.

“I know,” said Port absently. “I hate it as much as you.”

“No, you don’t. But I think you would if you didn’t have me along to do your suffering for you.”

“How can you say that? You know it’s not so.” He toyed with her hand: having made his decision he felt at ease with her. She, however, seemed unexpectedly irritable.

“Another town like this will fix me up fine,” she said. “I shall simply go back and take the first boat out for Genoa or Marseille. This hotel’s a nightmare, a nightmare!” After Tunner’s departure she had vaguely expected a change in their relationship. The only difference his absence made was that now she could express herself clearly, without fear of seeming to be choosing sides. But rather than make any effort to ease whatever small tension might arise between them, she determined on the contrary to be intransigent about everything. It could come about now or later, that much-awaited reunion, but it must be all his doing. Because neither she nor Port had ever lived a life of any kind of regularity, they both had made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as non-existent. One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen.

XVII

The following night, which was the eve of their departure for Bou Noura, they had dinner early, and Kit went up to her room to pack. Port sat on at their dark table under the arcades, until the other diners inside had finished. He went into the empty dining room and wandered about aimlessly, looking at the proud proofs of civilization: the varnished tables covered with sheets of paper instead of tablecloths, the heavy glass salt shakers, and the opened bottles of wine with the identifying napkins tied around their necks. One of the pink dogs came crawling into the room from the kitchen, and seeing him, continued to the patio, where it lay down and sighed deeply. He walked through the door into the kitchen. In the center of the room, under the one weak light bulb, stood Mohammed holding a large butcher’s knife with its point sticking in the table. Under the point was a cockroach, its legs still feebly waving. Mohammed regarded the insect studiously, He looked up and grinned.

“Finished?” he asked.

“What?” said Port.

“Finished with dinner?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then I’ll lock the dining room.” He went and moved Port’s table back into the room, turned off the lights and locked both doors. Then he put out the light in the kitchen. Port moved into the patio. “Going home to sleep?” he inquired.

Mohammed laughed. “Why do you think I work all day? Just to go home to sleep? Come with me. I’ll show you the best place in Ain Krorfa.”

Port walked with him out into the street, where they conversed for a few minutes. Then they moved off down the street together.