The Stories of Paul Bowles (49 page)

Fräulein Windling hesitated only an instant. She raised her head and looked carefully at the smooth brown face that was so near. “Of course, Slimane,” she said. It was clear that he had not expected to hear this; his delight was infectious, and she smiled as she watched him run to the pile of bags and begin carrying them out into the sunlight to align them in the dust beside the edge of the trail.

Later, when they were rattling along the hammada, she in front beside the driver and Slimane squatting in the back with a dozen men and a sheep, she considered her irresponsible action in allowing him to make this absurd trip with her all the way to Colomb-Bechar. Still, she knew she wanted to give this ending to their story. A few times she turned partially around in her seat to glance at him through the dirty glass. He sat there in the smoke and dust, laughing like the others, with the hood of his burnoose hiding most of his face.

It had been raining in Colomb-Bechar; the streets were great puddles to reflect the clouded sky. At the garage they found a surly Negro boy to help them carry the luggage to the railway station. Her thumb hurt a little less.

“It’s a cold town,” Slimane said to her as they went down the main street. At the station they checked the bags and then went outside to stand and watch a car being unloaded from an open freight train: the roof of the automobile was still white with snow from the high steppes. The day was dark, and the wind rippled the surface of the water in the flooded empty lots. Fräulein Windling’s train would not be leaving until late in the afternoon. They went to a restaurant and ate a long lunch.

“You really will go back home tomorrow?” she asked him anxiously at one point, while they were having fruit. “You know we have done a very wicked thing to your father and mother. They will never forgive me.” A curtain seemed to draw across Slimane’s face. “It doesn’t matter,” he said shortly.

After lunch they walked in the public garden and looked at the eagles in their cages. A fine rain had begun to be carried on the wind. The mud of the paths grew deeper. They went back to the center of the town and sat down on the terrace of a large, shabby modern café. The table at the end was partly sheltered from the wet wind; they faced an empty lot
strewn with refuse. Nearby, spread out like the bones of a camel fallen on the trail, were the rusted remains of an ancient bus. A long, newly felled date palm lay diagonally across the greater part of the lot. Fräulein Windling turned to look at the wet orange fiber of the stump, and felt an idle pity for the tree. “I’m going to have a Coca-Cola,” she declared. Slimane said he, too, would like one.

They sat there a long time. The fine rain slanted through the air outside the arcades and hit the ground silently. She had expected to be approached by beggars, but none arrived, and now that the time had come to leave the café and go to the station she was thankful to see that the day had passed so easily. She opened her pocket-book, took out three thousand francs, and handed them to Slimane, saying: “This will be enough for everything. But you must buy your ticket back home today. When you leave the railway station. Be very careful of it.”

Slimane put the money inside his garments, rearranged his burnoose, and thanked her. “You understand, Slimane,” she said, detaining him with her hand, for he seemed about to rise from the table. “I’m not giving you any money now, because I need what I have for my journey. But when I get to Switzerland I shall send you a little, now and then. Not much. A little.”

His face was swept by panic; she was perplexed.

“You haven’t got my address,” he told her.

“No, but I shall send it to Boufelja’s house,” she said, thinking that would satisfy him. He leaned toward her, his eyes intense. “No, madame,” he said with finality. “No. I have your address, and I shall send you mine. Then you will have it, and you can write to me.”

It did not seem worth arguing about. For most of the afternoon her thumb had not hurt too much; now, as the day waned, it had begun to ache again. She wanted to get up, find the waiter, and pay him. The fine rain still blew; the station was fairly far. But she saw Slimane had something more to say. He leaned forward in his chair and looked down at the floor. “Madame,” he began.

“Yes?” she said.

“When you are in your country and you think of me you will not be happy. It’s true, no?”

“I shall be very sad,” she answered, rising.

Slimane got slowly to his feet and was quiet for an instant before
going on. “Sad because I ate the food out of the picture. That was very bad. Forgive me.”

The shrill sound of her own voice exclaiming, “No!” startled her. “No!” she cried. “That was good!” She felt the muscles of her cheeks and lips twisting themselves into grimaces of weeping; fiercely she seized his arm and looked down into his face.
“Oh, mon pauvre petit!”
she sobbed, and then covered her face with both hands. She felt him gently touching her sleeve. A truck went by in the main street, shaking the floor.

With an effort she turned away and scratched in her bag for a handkerchief. “Come,” she said, clearing her throat. “Call the waiter.”

They arrived at the station cold and wet. The train was being assembled; passengers were not allowed to go out onto the platform and were sitting on the floor inside. While Fräulein Windling bought her ticket Slimane went to get the bags from the checkroom. He was gone for a long time. When he arrived he came with his burnoose thrown back over his shoulders, grinning triumphantly, with three valises piled on his head. A man in ragged European jacket and trousers followed behind carrying the rest. As he came nearer she saw that the man held a slip of paper between his teeth.

The ancient compartment smelled of varnish. Through the window she could see, above some remote western reach of waste-land, a few strips of watery white sky. Slimane wanted to cover the seats with the luggage, so that no one would come into the compartment. “No,” she said. “Put them in the racks.” There were very few passengers in the coach. When everything was in place, the porter stood outside in the corridor and she noticed that he still held the slip of paper between his teeth. He counted the coins she gave him and pocketed them. Then quickly he handed the paper to Slimane, and was gone.

Fräulein Windling bent down a bit, to try and see her face in the narrow mirror that ran along the back of the seat. There was not enough light; the oil lantern above illumined only the ceiling, its base casting a leaden shadow over everything beneath. Suddenly the train jolted and made a series of crashing sounds. She took Slimane’s head between her hands and kissed the middle of his forehead. “Please get down from the train,” she told him. “We can talk here.” She pointed to the window and began to pull on the torn leather strap that lowered it.

Slimane looked small on the dark platform, staring up at her as she leaned out. Then the train started to move. She thought surely it would
go only a few feet and then stop, but it continued ahead, slowly. Slimane walked with it, keeping abreast of her window. In his hand was the paper the porter had given him. He held it up to her, crying: “Here is my address! Send it here!”

She took it, and kept waving as the train went faster, kept calling: “Good-by!” He continued to walk quickly along beside the window, increasing his gait until he was running, until all at once there was no more platform. She leaned far out, looking backward, waving; straightway he was lost in the darkness and rain. A bonfire blazed orange by the track, and the smoke stung in her nostrils. She pulled up the window, glanced at the slip of paper she had in her hand, and sat down. The train jolted her this way and that; she went on staring at the paper, although now it was in shadow; and she remembered the first day, long ago, when the child Slimane had stood outside the door watching her, stepping back out of her range of vision each time she turned to look at him. The words hastily printed for him on the scrap of paper by the porter were indeed an address, but the address was in Colomb-Bechar. “They said he tried to run away. But he didn’t get very far.” Each detail of his behavior as she went back over it clarified the pattern for her. “He’s too young to be a soldier,” she told herself. “They won’t take him.” But she knew they would.

Her thumb was hot and swollen; sometimes it seemed almost that its throbbing accompanied the side-to-side jolting of the coach. She looked out at the few remaining patches of colorless light in the sky. Sooner or later, she argued, he would have done it.

“Another year, perhaps,” the captain had said. She saw her own crooked, despairing smile in the dark window-glass beside her face. Maybe Slimane would be among the fortunate ones, an early casualty. “If only death were absolutely certain in wartime,” she thought wryly, “the waiting would not be so painful.” Listing and groaning, the train began its long climb upwards over the plateau.

(1967)

Y
OU WANTED TO
see me? They told you right. That’s my name. Ntiuz. The African Giant’s what they’ve called me ever since I started fighting. What can I do for you? Have you seen the town? It isn’t such a bad place. You’re lucky the wind’s not blowing these days. We have a bad wind that comes through here. But without it the sun’s too hot. Argos? Never heard of it. I’ve never been over to the other side.

A man named Erakli? Yes, yes, he was here. It was a long time ago. I remember him. We even put on a fight together.

Killed me! Is that what he told them back there? I see. And when you got here you heard I was still around, and so you wanted to meet me? I understand.

Why don’t we sit here? There’s a spring in the courtyard that has the coldest water in town. You asked about Erakli. No, he had no trouble here, except losing his fight. Why would anyone bother him? A man alone. You never saw him before. You let him go on his way. You don’t bother him. Only savages attack a stranger walking alone. They kill him and fight over his loincloth. We let people go through without a word. They come in on one side and go out on the other. That’s the way we
like it. Peaceful and friendly with everyone. We have a saying: Never hit a man unless you know you can kill him, and then kill him fast. Up where I come from we’re rougher than they are down here on the coast. We have a harder life, but we’re healthier. Look at me, and I could almost be your father. If I’d lived down here on the coast all my life I wouldn’t be like this now. And still I’m nothing to what I was twenty years ago. In those days I went to every festival and put on shows for people. I’d lift a bull with one hand and hit him between the horns with the other, so he’d fall dead. People like to see that. Sometimes I broke beams with my head. That was popular, too, but the bull was religious, of course, so it was the one people wanted to see most. There was nobody who didn’t know about me.

Have some nuts? I eat them all day. I get them up in the forest. There are trees up there bigger than any you ever saw.

It was at least twenty years ago he came through here, but I remember him, all right. Not because he was any good as a fighter, but because he was so crazy. You can’t help remembering a man as crazy as Erakli.

Have some more. I’ve got a whole sack full. That’s true, the flavor’s not quite like anything else. I don’t suppose you have them over on the other side.

I’ll be only too glad to take you up to the forest, if you’d like to see it. It’s not far. You don’t mind climbing a little?

Of course he didn’t make any friends here, but a man like that can’t have friends. He was so full of great ideas about himself that he didn’t even see us. He thought we were all savages, ready to swallow his stories. Even before the fight everybody was laughing at him. Strong, yes, but not a good fighter. An awful boaster and a terrible liar. And ignorant.

We’ll turn here and go up this path. He talked all the time. If you believed him, there was nothing he couldn’t do, and do it better than anybody else.

You’ll get a fine view on the way. The edge of the world. How does it feel, when you’re used to being in the middle, to be out here at the end? It must be a different feeling.

Erakli came into town without anyone noticing him. He must have had a little money with him, because he began to meet two or three men I knew every day and pay for their drinks. They told me about him, and I went along one day just to see what he looked like, not to meet him. Right away I knew he was no good. No good as a fighter, no good as a
man. I didn’t even take him seriously enough to challenge him. How can you take a man seriously when he has a beard that looks like the wool on a sheep?

He stayed around town a while and saw me kill a few bulls. I fought a match or two, too, while he was here, and it seems he came each time to watch me. The next thing I knew, he’d challenged me. It was he who wanted the match. It was hard to believe. And what’s more, they told me he held it against me that I hadn’t been the one who challenged him. It just never entered my mind.

All this land you see up here is mine. This and the forest up ahead. I keep everybody out. I like to walk, and I don’t want to meet people while I’m walking. It makes me nervous. I used to fight every man I met. At least, in the beginning.

When I was a small boy in my village I liked to go late in the afternoon to a big rock. I’d sit on it and look down the valley and pretend enemies were coming. I’d let them get to a certain point, and then I’d start a boulder rolling down the mountain to hit them. I killed them every time. My father caught me and I got punished. I might have hit a sheep or goats, or even men down there.

But I’m not dead, as you can see, no matter what Erakli may be saying. I want you to look at my trees. Look at the size of the trunk of that one. Follow it up, up, up, to where the first branches begin. Have you ever seen trees this big anywhere?

When I got a little older I learned how to throw a calf, and later a bull. By that time I was fighting. Never lost yet. They forgot my name was Ntiuz and began to call me The Giant. Not because of my size, of course. I’m not so big. But because nobody could beat me in a match. They came from all around, and afterwards from far away. You know how they do when they hear of a fighter who’s never lost. They can’t believe that somehow or other they won’t manage to get him down. That was the way with your Erakli. I didn’t meet him until the fight, but I’d heard all about him from my friends. He told them he’d studied me, and he knew how to beat me. He didn’t say how he was going to do it. And I never even found out what he thought he was going to do until after the fight.

No, I’m not dead. I’m still the champion. Anybody here can tell you. It’s too bad you never met Erakli yourself. You wouldn’t be so surprised. You’d understand that whatever he said when he got back home was
what he wanted to tell and nothing more. He couldn’t tell the truth if he wanted to.

Are you tired? It’s a steep climb if you’re not used to it. The fight itself? It didn’t last long. He was so busy trying to use the system he’d worked out. He’d back away, and then come up to me and just stand there with his hands on me. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to do. The crowd was jeering. For a minute I thought: He’s the kind that gets his pleasure this way, running his hands over a man’s chest and squeezing his waist. He didn’t like it because I laughed and shouted to the crowd. He was very serious the whole time. And I was wrong anyway. Are we going too fast? And you’re carrying that heavy pouch at your waist. We can go as slowly as you want to. There’s no hurry.

That’s a good idea. Why don’t we sit a minute and rest? Do you feel all right? No. Nothing. I thought you looked a little pale. It may be the light. The sun never gets down in here.

It was only after the fight that one of my friends told me what Erakli wanted to do. Instead of trying to throw me, the crazy fool was trying to lift me off the ground and hold me in the air! Not so he could throw me down better, but just to hold me up there. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? But that’s what he had in his mind. That was his great system. Why? Don’t ask me. I’m an African. I don’t know what goes on in the heads of the men of your country.

Have some more nuts. No, no, they couldn’t have hurt you. It’s the air. Our climate doesn’t suit people from the other side. While he was trying to make up his mind how to lift me I finished him. They had to drag him out.

Shall we go on? Or would you rather wait a while? Are you still out of breath? There’s no air here in the forest.

Don’t you think we ought to wait a while? Of course, if you want to go. We can walk slowly. Let me help you up. It’s too bad we couldn’t have gone further. The biggest trees are up that way.

Yes, they dragged him out, and he stayed three days lying on a mat before he left here. Finally he limped out of town like a dog, with everybody laughing at him along the way. Hand onto me. I won’t let you fall. You’re walking all right. Just keep going. He didn’t look left or right on his way out of town. Must have been glad to get into the mountains.

Relax. First one foot, then the other foot. I don’t know where he
went. I’m afraid there’s no water here. We’ll get some as soon as we get to town. You’ll be all right. I suppose he went back where he came from. We never saw him again here, in any case.

Does it seem like such a long time that we’ve been walking? It’s only a few minutes. You recognize the path but you don’t know where you are? Why should you know where you are? It’s not your forest. Relax. Step. Step. Step.

You’re right. It’s the rock where we were sitting a few minutes ago. I wondered if you’d notice. Of course I know my way! I thought you’d better rest again before we started into town. That’s right, you just lie back there. You’ll be fine as soon as you’ve had a little sleep. It’s very quiet here.

No, you haven’t been asleep so long. How do you feel now? Good. I knew a little sleep would do it. You’re not used to the air here. A pouch? I don’t think you were carrying anything.

There’s no need to make a face like that. You don’t think I took it, do you?

I thought we were friends. I treated you like a friend. And now you pay me back.

I’m not going to take you anywhere. Get down to the town by yourself. I’m going the other way.

Go on back to your country and tell them about me. You can walk all right.

Just keep going.

And get out of the forest fast!

(1970)