The Sheltering Sky Read online

  His spirits rose a bit as he came out onto a square that was relatively brightly lighted. The cafés on all four sides of the little plaza had put tables and chairs not only across the sidewalks, but in the street as well, so that it would have been impossible for a vehicle to pass through without upsetting them. In the center of the square was a tiny park adorned by four plane trees that had been trimmed to look like open parasols. Underneath the trees there were at least a dozen dogs of various sizes, milling about in a close huddle, and all barking frantically. He made his way slowly across the square, trying to avoid the dogs. As he moved along cautiously under the trees he became aware that at each step he was crushing something beneath his feet. The ground was covered with large insects; their hard shells broke with little explosions that were quite audible to him even amidst the noise the dogs were making. He was aware that ordinarily he would have experienced a thrill of disgust on contact with such a phenomenon, but unreasonably tonight he felt instead a childish triumph. “I’m in a bad way and so what?” The few scattered people sitting at the tables were for the most part silent, but when they spoke, he heard all three of the town’s tongues: Arabic, Spanish and French.

  Slowly the street began to descend; this surprised him because he imagined that the entire town was built on the slope facing the harbor, and he had consciously chosen to walk inland rather than toward the waterfront. The odors in the air grew ever stronger. They were varied, but they all represented filth of one sort or another. This proximity with, as it were, a forbidden element, served to elate him. He abandoned himself to the perverse pleasure he found in continuing mechanically to put one foot in front of the other, even though he was quite clearly aware of his fatigue. “Suddenly I’ll find myself turning around and going back,” he thought. But not until then, because he would not make the decision to do it. The impulse to retrace his steps delayed itself from moment to moment. Finally he ceased being surprised: a faint vision began to haunt his mind. It was Kit, seated by the open window, filing her nails and looking out over the town. And as he found his fancy returning more often, as the minutes went by, to that scene, unconsciously he felt himself the protagonist, Kit the spectator. The validity of his existence at that moment was predicated on the assumption that she had not moved, but was still sitting there. It was as if she could still see him from the window, tiny and far away as he was, walking rhythmically uphill and down, through light and shadow; it was as if only she knew when he would turn around and walk the other way.

  The street lights were very far apart now, and the streets had left off being paved. Still there were children in the gutters, playing with the garbage and screeching. A small stone suddenly hit him in the back. He wheeled about, but it was too dark to see where it had come from. A few seconds later another stone, coming from in front of him, landed against his knee. In the dim light, he saw a group of small children scattering before him. More stones came from the other direction, this time without hitting him. When he got beyond, to a point where there was a light, he stopped and tried to watch the two groups in battle, but they all ran off into the dark, and so he started up again, his gait as mechanical and rhythmical as before. A wind that was dry and warm, coming up the street out of the blackness before him, met him head on. He sniffed at the fragments of mystery in it, and again he felt an unaccustomed exaltation.

  Even though the street became constantly less urban, it seemed reluctant to give up; huts continued to line it on both sides. Beyond a certain point there were no more lights, and the dwellings themselves lay in darkness. The wind, straight from the south, blew across the barren mountains that were invisible ahead of him, over the vast flat sebkha to the edges of the town, raising curtains of dust that climbed to the crest of the hill and lost themselves in the air above the harbor. He stood still. The last possible suburb had been strung on the street’s thread. Beyond the final hut the garbage and rubble floor of the road sloped abruptly downward in three directions. In the dimness below were shallow, crooked canyon—like formations. Port raised his eyes to the sky: the powdery course of the Milky Way was like a giant rift across the heavens that let the faint white light through. In the distance he heard a motorcycle. When its sound was finally gone, there was nothing to hear but an occasional cockcrow, like the highest part of a repeated melody whose other notes were inaudible.

  He started down the bank to the right, sliding among the fish skeletons and dust. Once below, he felt out a rock that seemed clean and sat down on it. The stench was overpowering. He lit a match, saw the ground thick with chicken feathers and decayed melon rinds. As he rose to his feet he heard steps above him at the end of the street. A figure stood at the top of the embankment. It did not speak, yet Port was certain that it had seen him, had followed him, and knew he was sitting down there. It lit a cigarette, and for a moment he saw an Arab wearing a chechia on his head. The match, thrown into the air, made a fading parabola, the face disappeared, and only the red point of the cigarette remained. The cock crowed several times. Finally the man cried out.

  “Qu’est-ce ti cherches la?”

  “Here’s where the trouble begins,” thought Port. He did not move.

  The Arab waited a bit. He walked to the very edge of the slope. A dislodged tin can rolled noisily down toward the rock where Port sat.

  “He! M’sieu! Qu’est-ce ti vo?”

  He decided to answer. His French was good.

  “Who? Me? Nothing.”

  The Arab bounded down the bank and stood in front of him. With the characteristic impatient, almost indignant gestures he pursued his inquisition. What are you doing here all alone? Where do you come from? What do you want here? Are you looking for something? To which Port answered wearily: Nothing. That way. Nothing. No.

  For a moment the Arab was silent, trying to decide what direction to give the dialogue. He drew violently on his cigarette several times until it glowed very bright, then he flicked it away and exhaled the smoke.

  “Do you want to take a walk?” he said.

  “What? A walk? Where?”

  “Out there.” His arm waved toward the mountains.

  “What’s out there?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was another silence between them.

  “I’ll pay you a drink,” said the Arab. And immediately on that: “What’s your name?”

  “Jean,” said Port.

  The Arab repeated the name twice, as if considering its merits. “Me,” tapping his chest, “Smaïl. So, do we go and drink?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “You don’t feel like it. What do you feel like doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  All at once the conversation began again from the beginning. Only the now truly outraged inflection of the Arab’s voice marked any difference: “Qu’est-ce ti fi là? Qu’est-ce ti cherches?” Port rose and started to climb up the slope, but it was difficult going. He kept sliding back down. At once the Arab was beside him, tugging at his arm. “Where are you going, Jean?” Without answering Port made a great effort and gained the top. “Au revoir,” he called, walking quickly up the middle of the street. He heard a desperate scrambling behind him; a moment later the man was at his side.

  “You didn’t wait for me,” he said in an aggrieved tone.

  “No. I said good-bye.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Port did not answer. They walked a good distance in silence. When they came to the first street light, the Arab reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn wallet. Port glanced at it and continued to walk.

  “Look!” cried the Arab, waving it in his face. Port did not look.

  “What is it?” he said flatly.

  “I was in the Fifth Battalion of Sharpshooters. Look at the paper! Look! You’ll see!”

  Port walked faster. Soon there began to be people in the street. No one stared at them. One would have said that the presence of the Arab be
side him made him invisible. But now he was no longer sure of the way. It would never do to let this be seen. He continued to walk straight ahead as if there were no doubt in his mind. “Over the crest of the hill and down,” he said to himself, “and I can’t miss it.”

  Everything looked unfamiliar: the houses, the streets, the cafés, even the formation of the town with regard to the hill. Instead of finding a summit from which to begin the downward walk, he discovered that here the streets all led perceptibly upward, no matter which way he turned; to descend he would have had to go back. The Arab walked solemnly along with him, now beside him, now slipping behind when there was not enough room to walk two abreast. He no longer made attempts at conversation; Port noticed with relish that he was a little out of breath.

  “I can keep this up all night if I have to,” he thought, “but how the hell will I get to the hotel?”

  All at once they were in a street which was no more than a passageway. Above their heads the opposite walls jutted out to within a few inches of each other. For an instant Port hesitated: this was not the kind of street he wanted to walk in, and besides, it so obviously did not lead to the hotel. In that short moment the Arab took charge. He said: “You don’t know this street? It’s called Rue de la Mer Rouge. You know it? Come on. There are cafis arabes up this way. Just a little way. Come on.”

  Port considered. He wanted at all costs to keep up the pretense of being familiar with the town.

  “Je ne sais pas si je veux y aller ce soir,” he reflected, aloud.

  The Arab began to pull Port’s sleeve in his excitement. “Si, si!” he cried. “Viens! I’ll pay you a drink.”

  “I don’t drink. It’s very late.”

  Two cats nearby screamed at each other. The Arab made a hissing noise and stamped his feet; they ran off in opposite directions.

  “We’ll have tea, then,” he pursued.

  Port sighed. “Bien,” he said.

  The café had a complicated entrance. They went through a low arched door, down a dim hall into a small garden. The air reeked of lilies, and it was also tinged with the sour smell of drains. In the dark they crossed the garden and climbed a long flight of stone steps. The staccato sound of a hand drum came from above, tapping indolent patterns above a sea of voices.

  “Do we sit outside or in?” the Arab asked.

  “Outside,” said Port. He sniffed the invigorating smell of hashish smoke, and unconsciously smoothed his hair as they arrived at the top of the stairs. The Arab noticed even that small gesture. “No ladies here, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  Through a doorway he caught a glimpse of the long succession of tiny, brightly-lit rooms, and the men seated everywhere on the reed matting that covered the floors. They all wore either white turbans or red chechias on their heads, a detail which lent the scene such a strong aspect of homogeneity that Port exclaimed: “Ah!” as they passed by the door. When they were on the terrace in the starlight, with an oud being plucked idly in the dark nearby, he said to his companion: “But I didn’t know there was anything like this left in this city.” The Arab did not understand. “Like this?” he echoed. “How?”

  “With nothing but Arabs. Like the inside here. I thought all the cafés were like the ones in the street, all mixed up; Jews, French, Spanish, Arabs together. I thought the war had changed everything.”

  The Arab laughed. “The war was bad. A lot of people died. There was nothing to eat. That’s all. How would that change the cafés? Oh no, my friend. It’s the same as always.” A moment later he said: “So you haven’t been here since the war! But you were here before the war?”

  “Yes,” said Port. This was true; he had once spent an afternoon in the town when his boat had made a brief call there.

  The tea arrived; they chatted and drank it. Slowly the image of Kit sitting in the window began to take shape again in Port’s mind. At first, when he became conscious of it, he felt a pang of guilt. Then his fantasy took a hand, and he saw her face, tight-lipped with fury as she undressed and flung her flimsy pieces of clothing across the furniture. By now she had surely given up waiting and gone to bed. He shrugged his shoulders and grew pensive, rinsing what was left of his tea around and around in the bottom of the glass, and following with his eyes the circular motion he was making.

  “You’re sad,” said Smaïl.

  “No, no.” He looked up and smiled wistfully, then resumed watching the glass.

  “You live only a short time. Il faut rigoler.”

  Port was impatient; he was not in the mood for café philosophizing.

  “Yes, I know,” he said shortly, and he sighed. Smaïl pinched his arm. His eyes were shining.

  “When we leave here, I’ll take you to see a friend of mine.”

  “I don’t want to meet him,” said Port, adding: “Thank you anyway.”

  “Ah, you’re really sad,” laughed Smaïl. “It’s a girl. Beautiful as the moon.”

  Port’s heart missed a beat. “A girl,” he repeated automatically, without taking his eyes from the glass. He was perturbed to witness his own interior excitement. He looked at Smaïl.

  “A girl?” he said. “You mean a whore.”

  Smaïl was mildly indignant. “A whore? Ah, my friend, you don’t know me. I wouldn’t introduce you to that. C’est de la saloperie, ça! This is a friend of mine, very elegant, very nice. When you meet her, you’ll see.”

  The musician stopped playing the oud. Inside the café they were calling out numbers for the lotto game: “Ouahad aou tletine! Arbaine!”

  Port said: “How old is she?”

  Smaïl hesitated. “About sixteen. Sixteen or seventeen.”

  “Or twenty or twenty-five,” suggested Port, with a leer.

  Again Smaïl was indignant. “What do you mean, twenty-five? I tell you she’s sixteen or seventeen. You don’t believe me? Listen. You meet her. If you don’t like her, you just pay for the tea and we’ll go out again. Is that all right?”

  “And if I do like her?”

  “Well, you’ll do whatever you want.”

  “But I’ll pay her?”

  “But of course you’ll pay her.”

  Port laughed. “And you say she’s not a whore.”

  Smaïl leaned over the table towards him and said with a great show of patience: “Listen, Jean. She’s a dancer. She only arrived from her bled in the desert a few weeks ago. How can she be a whore if she’s not registered and doesn’t live in the quartier? Eh? Tell me! You pay her because you take up her time. She dances in the quartier, but she has no room, no bed there. She’s not a whore. So now, shall we go?”

  Port thought a long time, looked up at the sky, down into the garden, and all around the terrace before answering: “Yes. Let’s go. Now.”

  V

  When they left the café it seemed to him that they were going more or less in the same direction from which they had just come. There were fewer people in the streets and the air was cooler. They walked for a good distance through the Casbah, making a sudden exit through a tall gateway onto a high, open space outside the walls. Here it was silent, and the stars were very much in evidence. The pleasure he felt at the unexpected freshness of the air and the relief at being in the open once more, out from under the overhanging houses, served to delay Port in asking the question that was in his mind: “Where are we going?” But as they continued along what seemed a parapet at the edge of a deep, dry moat, he finally gave voice to it. Smaïl replied vaguely that the girl lived with some friends at the edge of town.

  “But we’re already in the country,” objected Port.

  “Yes, it’s the country,” said Smaïl.

  It was perfectly clear that he was being evasive now; his character seemed to have changed again. The beginning of intimacy was gone. To Port he was once more the anonymous dark figure that had stood above him in the garbage at the end of the street, smoking a bright cigarette. You can still break it up. Stop walking. Now. But the combined even rhythm of th
eir feet on the stones was too powerful. The parapet made a wide curve and the ground below dropped steeply away into a deeper darkness. The moat had ended some hundred feet back. They were now high above the upper end of an open valley.

  “The Turkish fortress,” remarked Smaïl, pounding on the stones with his heel.

  “Listen to me,” began Port angrily, “where are we going?” He looked at the rim of uneven black mountains ahead of them on the horizon.

  “Down there.” Smaïl pointed to the valley. A moment later he stopped walking. “Here are the stairs.” They leaned over the ledge. A narrow iron staircase was fastened to the side of the wall. It had no railing and led straight downward at a steep angle.

  “It’s a long way,” said Port.

  “Ah, yes, it’s the Turkish fortress. You see that light down there?” He indicated a faint red glimmer that came and went almost directly beneath them. “That’s the tent where she lives.”

  “The tent!”

  “There are no houses down here. Only tents. There are a lot of them. On descend?”

  Smaïl went first, keeping close to the wall. “Touch the stones,” he said.

  As they approached the bottom, he saw that the feeble glow of light was a dying bonfire built in an open space between two large nomad tents. Smaïl suddenly stopped to listen. There was an indistinguishable murmur of male voices. “Allons-y,” he muttered; his voice sounded satisfied.