Budayeen Nights (29 page)

Ernst’s throat was suddenly dry. “I will be here,” he said.

“A poem,” thought Ernst. “I need a poem. Nothing impresses the uneducated mind quite like rhymes. But it must be the right sort, or it will bring nothing but ruin and humiliation. How the women used to laugh at my romantic verses! How dismayed I was, left alone on the darkened balcony, holding the flimsy product of my innocent wit. The sonnet on the arch of her brow. Good God, how could I have done it? I wish I could return, go back to those iron moments, stand behind a curtain and listen to myself. I wonder if I would be amused. I cannot understand why those brainless princesses so easily dismissed me; they couldn’t have been so plagued with clowns. I ought to have been kept as a refreshing antidote to dawning maturity.”

He took out a pen and began to compose on the back of a soiled napkin. The atmosphere of the Fee Blanche was not the best for the generation of poetry, he realized. But he also understood that the unknown recipient of his craft would be more awed by the simple fact of the poem than by any singular verbal charm. Surely no friend of Ieneth’s could be sophisticated enough to appreciate anything but the grossest of street chants. In that case, all that was required was a quick collection of lines, without attention to musical values, arranged visually in a recognizably poetic way. The ink from the fountain pen blotted on the napkin, spreading rapidly and obscuring each letter, obliterating all sense and intention. Ernst cursed and crushed the paper into a ball, tossing it to the floor.

“My life would have been greatly different, Eugenie, if this had happened while I loved you. If I had only known enough to keep my mouth closed, to express myself only in abstract looks and gestures, so that it all might be disowned quickly as worldly nonsense. Wisdom does not necessarily come with age, only silence. And that is the greatest treasure of all.” He returned his pen to his pocket and called for M. Gargotier.

In the time it took for Ernst to drink two more bowls of bingara, the parade had ended. The crowd broke up, shouting new slogans which Ernst could not understand. The other patrons finished their drinks and departed, and the cafe was again empty except for its single poet. The sun had marked noon and now, hotter still, moved down the sky just enough to hurt his eyes as he looked westward, across the street.

“West,” thought Ernst, rocking restlessly in his chair. “What absurd, empty thoughts does that bring to mind, to help pass this hour? One day after another. It gets to be so tedious. I should begin walking through this blighted city, through the wealthy sections clustered near this quarter, through the more populated tradesmen’s quarter, through the filthy paupers’ streets, past the noisy, dangerous rim of utter human refuse just within the walls, beyond the city’s gates and across the dunes. Then what? Then I would die in about twelve hours, burned by the noonday sun, chiseled by the windborne sand, frozen by Barid, the cold wind of night. Westward, toward the Atlantic, toward England and her debauched civilities. West, the direction of death, decay, finality, and poetic conclusions. Into Avalon. Perhaps if it weren’t for Ieneth and her sly, snickering hints, I would wander off that way. Pack a picnic lunch, perhaps, and bake myself dead upon a hill of sand. I always dreamed of a heroic death, defending Eugenie’s intermittent honor, or fighting for Marie’s bemused favor. Gasping, I would lie upon the specified lap and the lady would weep. Her tears would restore my fleeing mortality. Then I would smile, as would Eugenie or Marie in her proper turn, amazed and joyful. A signal that would be for me to begin the dream anew. Another way of getting through the hours, though much too unfulfilling for my present needs.”

Ernst watched the clock on the hotel impatiently. The pedestrians moved by in their aimless courses, and each ticked off a few seconds on the yellow clock face. Yet the traffic was too sluggish to move the clock’s iron hands quickly enough to suit Ernst, and thus could not beguile his furious anticipation.

It was while Ernst was silent in thought, staring at the damned clock, lost in his own strange expectant horror, that someone moved a chair to his table and joined him. He looked up, startled. The intruder was a tall, thin Polish man named Czerny, a wealthy man who had come to the city a political refugee and who had made his fortune by teaching the city’s hungry inhabitants to require the luxuries of Europe. Ernst had been introduced to Czerny a few times, but neither had been overly taken with the other’s company.

“Good afternoon, M. Weintraub,” said Czerny. “Although there are a number of tables free, I have preferred to join you. I hope you will forgive my rather forward behavior.”

Ernst waved away the apology, more curious about Czerny’s motives. He did realize that the blond man was the founder of the Jaish, the Citizens’ Army, and its principal financial support. His appearance after its show was not mere happenstance.

“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I may, M. Weintraub,” said Czerny.

“That’s Weinraub, without the f. Certainly. Would you care for a drink?”

Czerny smiled his commercial smile. “No, thank you. This new religion of mine doesn’t allow it. But look, M. Weinraub, I wonder if you realize the service you could render, in the time you spend idly here?”

Ernst was slightly annoyed. Surely Czerny wanted something, and his patronizing attitude wasn’t going to help him get it. “What service do you mean, Monsieur Czerny? I doubt if I have anything that you might envy.”

“It is your talent. As you know, the Jaish is still small in numbers, even smaller in resources. I have been doing my limited best to help, but for our purposes even all my savings would be too little.”

Ernst finished half a bowl of the liquor in one swallow. He raised his hand for M. Gargotier. “What are these purposes?” he asked.

“Why, liberty for all, of course,” said Czerny, disappointed that Ernst had need to ask. “We distribute leaflets at all parades. Surely you’ve seen them.”

“Yes,” said Ernst, “but not read them.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps if they were composed in a better style….”

“Might I ask who has the task now?”

“A young man of great promise,” said Czerny proudly. “Sandor Courane.”

Ernst leaned back, lifting the front two legs of his chair off the pavement. “M. Czerny,” he said slowly, “that is very interesting, but I must embarrassedly admit that you have chosen an inopportune time for this interview. This afternoon I have something of an assignation, and so….” Ernst settled his chair, smiled drunkenly, and shrugged.

Czerny looked angry. He rose from his seat. “M. Weintraub, I will return later. I believe it is time that you considered such matters as duty and honor. Perhaps this evening you will be more of a mind to discuss this. Good day, and have a gratifying…assignation.”

“Weinraub,” whispered Ernst, as Czerny strode away. “Without the
t
”

Czerny walked swiftly along the eastern edge of the square until he came to a parked limousine. It was one of the very few automobiles in the city; Ernst did not doubt that it was Czerny’s private car. The driver got out and handed Czerny a gray uniform coat, taking the wealthy man’s more expensively cut jacket in return. “Ah,” thought Ernst, “at least I rated a change of clothing. We shall see whether or not the same thing happens this evening. It is sad that so frequently the scheme of great men may be deciphered by such paltry tokens.” Czerny put on his uniform coat and waited until the driver opened the rear door of the limousine for him. Then he entered; the driver walked around the car and disappeared inside. In a moment the vehicle moved slowly away from the curb, its siren crying shrilly and the pennants of the Jaish whipping in the breeze. The car drove down the length of the square, turned along the north side, and went on for a short distance. Then it stopped again, and Czerny spoke with two figures on the sidewalk. From that distance Ernst could not recognize them.

“If I were you, Czerny,” he thought, “I would not involve myself too deeply with the people of this city. There is always the danger that you may find people to like or, most deadly of all, to love. What should you do, having fallen in love with some rare woman, and then find yourself betrayed? Ah, I anticipate your outraged reply. We are both too far along to have that happen to us again. Perhaps you are right, though one can never be too careful. But what if you are not betrayed, eh, Czerny? What then? No final demarcations, however painful. You have forgotten that. Nothing to chop it off before weariness sets in. Lifetimes go by that way, Czerny. Boredom and angry frustration are only the first symptoms. No mistresses for you, no other men’s wives, no playful daughters of police commissioners. We find that we need them, sooner or later. And that is the first of the body’s spasms of death. Years, years, years in this city, with the same faces, yours and hers. Years, years, years. Do not stop for them, Czerny. Tend to your army.”

Czerny’s car drove away, and after a few moments Ernst saw that one of the two people walking toward him was the girl, Ieneth, without her knife-sharpening equipment. With her was another girl, taller and darker. Ernst rose from his chair by the railing, and the two girls joined him at his table. M. Gargotier, evidently expecting that Ernst would soon depart, did not come to take an order. He stood glaring in the bar’s doorway, obviously resenting the presence of the two lower-class women. Ernst made a flamboyant gesture to summon the proprietor. He switched his drinking to absinthe, and the girls ordered wine.

“What is her name, Ieneth?” he asked, staring at the new girl. She looked shyly at the table.

“She is called Ua. In her language it means ‘flower.’ She does not understand our speech.”

“How charming she is, and how lovely her name. Truly a flower. Convey to her my sincerest compliments.” Ieneth did so. “What language is that?” asked Ernst.

“It is a strange dialect, spoken by the black people beyond the desert and the mountains. It is called Swahili.”

“Black people? How interesting. I have only heard stories. They actually exist?”

“Yes, yaa Sidi,” said Ieneth.

“And how did she learn the tongue? And you, also, for that matter?”

Ieneth closed her eyes, fluttering her painted lashes, and smiled.

Ernst turned to Ua. “What is this called?” he said, pointing to her foot. Ieneth translated, and Ua replied.

“
Mguu
,” she said.

“And this?” said Ernst, pointing now to her ankle.

“
Kifundo cha mguu
.”

“What is this?”

“
Jicho
.” Eye.

“How do you say ‘mouth’?”

“
Kinywa
.”

Ernst sipped his drink nervously, although he labored to seem casual and urbane. “This?” he asked.

“
Mkono
.” Arm.

“This?” Ernst’s fingers lingered on her breast, feeling the rough material of the brassiere beneath the cotton blouse.

Ua blushed. “
Ziwa
,” she whispered.

“She is indeed very lovely,” Ernst said.

“And worthy of reward for her, ah, agent?” asked Ieneth.

“Certainly,” said Ernst absently, as he moved his hand down past Ua’s stomach, stopping at the juncture of her thighs. “Now, my love, what could this be?”

Ua said nothing, staring at the table. She blushed fiercely while she played with the base of her wineglass.

“Ask her what the word for this is,” he said. Ieneth did so.

“
Mkunga
,” Ua said at last, removing Ernst’s hand.

Ieneth laughed shrilly, clapping her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks as she rose from her seat. “Ah, your cosmopolitan tastes!” she said.

“What is so amusing?” asked Ernst.

“
Mkunga
!” said Ieneth. “
Mkunga
is the word for ‘eel’ Oh, enjoy your hour together, yaa Sidi. You and she will have much to discuss!” And she went out of the cafe, laughing as she walked away from Ernst’s disconcerted and savage glare.

It was late afternoon, and already the sun was melting behind the hotel across the street. Ernst sipped wine now, for he appreciated the effect of the slanting sun’s rays on the rich, dark liquid. He had discovered this by accident when he had first come to the city, strolling along the walled quarter’s single, huge avenue. He had seen the red shimmers reflecting on the impassive face of a shopworn working girl. How much better, he had thought then, how much better it would be to have that singularly fortunate play of light grace a true poet.

“It may be a bit naive of me, nonetheless,” he thought. “After all, if these loiterers of the city lack the verbal sophistication to appreciate the verses themselves, how can I expect them to have any greater regard for the wielder of the pen? But I must defeat that argument by ignoring it if by no more rigorous means. I cannot allow myself to be pulled down into the intellectual miasma of these Afric prisoners. The sun must burn out all wonder and delight at an early age; it is only we unlucky travelers who can deplore their sand-worn ignorance.” He took some more of the wine and held it in his mouth until he began to feel foolish. He swallowed it and pushed the glass away.

While Ernst sat there, sucking the taste of the wine from his teeth, a young boy walked by on the sidewalk. He was small, nearly hairless, and quite obviously had strayed from the neighborhood of his parents. He stopped when he saw Ernst. “Are you not Weinraub the wanderer, from Europe?”

“I am,” said Ernst. “I have been, for some time. Has my fame then spread as far as your unwashed ears?”

“I have heard much about you, yaa Sidi,” said the boy. “I never believed that I’d really see you.”

“And are your dreams confirmed?”

“Not yet,” said the boy, shaking his head. “Do you really kiss other men?”

Ernst spat at the boy, and the dark boy laughed, dancing into the street, hopping back on the sidewalk. “Come here,” said Ernst, “and I’ll wrap this chair around your skinny neck.”