Let it come down Read online

  The end of the afternoon was splendid: the clouds had been blown away by a sudden wind from the Atlantic. The air smelled clean, the sky had become intense and luminous. As Dyar waited in front of the door of his hotel, a long procession of Berbers on donkeys passed along the avenue on their way from the mountains to the market. The men’s faces were brown and weather-burned, the women were surprisingly light of skin, with salient, round red cheeks. Dispassionately he watched them jog past, not realizing how slowly they moved until he became aware of the large American convertible at the end of the line, whose horn was being blown frantically by the impatient driver. «What’s the hurry?» he thought. The little waves on the beach were coming in quietly, the hills were changing color slowly with the dying of the light behind the city, a few Arabs strolled deliberately along the walk under the wind-stirred branches of the palms. It was a pleasant hour whose natural rhythm was that of leisure; the insistent blowing of the trumpet-like horn made no sense in that ensemble. Nor did the Berbers on their donkeys give any sign of hearing it. They passed peacefully along, the little beasts taking their measured steps and nodding their heads. When the last one had come opposite Dyar the car swung toward the curb and stopped. It was the Marquesa de Valverde. «Mr. Dyar!» she called. As he shook her hand she said: «I’d have been here earlier, darling; but I’ve been bringing up the rear of this parade for the past ten minutes. Don’t ever buy a car here. It’s the most nerve-racking spot in this world to drive in. God!»

  «I’ll bet,» he said; he went around to the other side and got in beside her.

  They drove up through the modern town at a great rate, past new apartment houses of glaring white concrete, past empty lots crammed to bursting with huts built of decayed signboards, packing cases, reed latticework and old blankets, past new cinema palaces and night clubs whose sickly fluorescent signs already glowed with light that was at once too bright and too dim. They skirted the new market, which smelled tonight of fresh meat and roses. To the south stretched the sandy waste land and the green scrub of the foothills. The cypresses along the road were bent by years of wind. «This Sunday traffic is dreadful. Ghastly,» said Daisy, looking straight ahead. Dyar laughed shortly; he was thinking of the miles of strangled parkways outside New York. «You don’t know what traffic is,» he said. But his mind was not on what was being said, nor yet on the gardens and walls of the villas going past. Although he was not given to analyzing his states of mind, since he never had been conscious of possessing any sort of apparatus with which to do so, recently he had felt, like a faint tickling in an inaccessible region of his being, an undefined need to let his mind dwell on himself. There were no formulated thoughts, he did not even daydream, nor did he push matters so far as to ask himself questions like: «What am I doing here?» or «What do I want?» At the same time he was vaguely aware of having arrived at the edge of a new period in his existence, an unexplored territory of himself through which he was going to have to pass. But his perception of the thing was limited to knowing that lately he had been wont to sit quietly alone in his room saying to himself that he was here. The fact kept repeating itself to him: «Here I am». There was nothing to be deduced from it; the saying of it seemed to be connected with a feeling almost of anaesthesia somewhere within him. He was not moved by the phenomenon; even to himself he felt supremely anonymous, and it is difficult to care very much what is happening inside a person one does not know. At the same time, that which went on outside was remote and had no relationship to him; it might almost as well not have been going on at all. Yet he was not indifferent — indifference is a matter of the emotions, whereas this numbness affected a deeper part of him.

  They turned into a somewhat narrower, curving street. On the left was a windowless white wall at least twenty feet high which went on ahead, flush with the street, as far as the eye could follow. «That’s it,» said Daisy, indicating the wall. «The palace?» said Dyar, a little disappointed. «The Beidaoui Palace,» she answered, aware of the crestfallen note in his voice. «It’s a strange old place,» she added, deciding to let him have the further surprise of discovering the decayed sumptuousness of the interior for himself. «It sure looks it,» he said with feeling. «How do you get in?»

  «The gate’s a bit further up,» replied Daisy, and without transition she looked directly at him as she said: «You’ve missed out on a good many things, haven’t you?» His first thought was that she was pitying him for his lack of social advantages; his pride was hurt. «I don’t think so,» he said quickly. Then with a certain heat he demanded: «What sort of things? What do you mean?»

  She brought the car to a stop at the curb behind a string of others already parked there. As she took out the keys and put them into her purse she said: «Things like friendship and love. I’ve lived in America a good deal. My mother was from Boston, you know, so I’m part American. I know what it’s like. Oh, God, only too well!»

  They got out. «I guess there’s as much friendship there as anywhere else,» he said. He was annoyed, and he hoped his voice did not show it. «Or love».

  «Love!» she cried derisively.

  An elderly Arab swung the grilled gate. They went into a dark room where several other bearded men were stretched out on mats in a niche that ran the length of the wall. These greeted Daisy solemnly, without moving. The old Arab opened a door, and they stepped out into a vast dim garden in which the only things Dyar could identify with certainty were the very black, tall cypresses, their points sharp against the evening sky, and the very white marble fountains in which water splashed with an uneven sound. They went along the gravel walk in silence between the sweet and acid floral smells. There were thin strains of music ahead. «I expect they’re dancing to the gramophone,» said Daisy. «This way». She led him up a walk toward the right, to a wide flight of marble stairs. «Evenings they entertain in the European wing. And in European style. Except that they themselves don’t touch liquor, of course». Above the music of the tango came the chatter of voices. As they arrived at the top of the stairway a grave-faced man in a white silk gown stepped forward to welcome them.

  «Dear Abdelmalek!» Daisy cried delightedly, seizing his two hands. «What a lovely party! This is Mr. Dyar of New York». He shook Dyar’s hand warmly. «It is very kind of the Marquesa to bring you to my home,» he said. Daisy was already greeting other friends; M. Beidaoui, still grasping Dyar’s hand, led him to a nearby corner where he presented him to his brother Hassan, a tall chocolate-colored gentleman also clothed in white robes. They spoke a minute about America, and Dyar was handed a whiskey-soda by a servant. As his hosts turned away to give their attention to a new arrival, he began to look about him. The room was large, comfortable and dark, being lighted only by candles that rested in massive candelabra placed here and there on the floor. It was irregularly shaped, and the music and dancing were going on in a part hidden from his vision. Along the walls nearby were wide, low divans occupied exclusively by women, all of whom looked over forty, he noted, and certain of whom were surely at least seventy. Apart from the Beidaoui brothers there were only two other Arabs in view. One was talking to Daisy by an open window and the other was joking with a fat Frenchman in a corner. In spite of the Beidaouis, whom he rather liked, he felt smothered and out of place, and he wished he had not come.

  As Dyar was about to move off and see who was taking part in the dancing, Hassan tapped him on the arm. «This is Madame Werth,» he said. «You speak French?» The dark-eyed woman in black to whom he was being presented smiled. «No,» said Dyar, confused. «It does not matter,» she said. «I speak a little English». «You speak very well,» said Dyar, offering her a cigarette. He had the feeling that someone had spoken to him about her, but he could not remember who, or what it was that had been said. They conversed a while, standing there with their drinks, in the same spot where they had been introduced, and the idea persisted that he knew something about her which he was unable to call to mind. He had no desire to be stuck with her all evening, but for th
e moment he saw no way out. And she had just told him that she was in mourning for her husband; she looked rather forlorn, and he felt sorry for her. Suddenly he saw Eunice Goode’s flushed face appear in the doorway. «How do you do?» she said to Hassan Beidaoui. Behind her was Hadija, looking very smart indeed. «How do you do?» said Hadija, with the identical inflection of Eunice Goode. A third woman entered with them, small and grim-faced, who scarcely acknowledged the greeting extended to her, but immediately began to inspect the guests with care, one by one, as if taking a rapid inventory of the qualities and importance of each. There was not enough light for the color of her hair to be noticeable, so, since no one seemed to know her, no one paid her any attention for the moment. Dyar was too much astonished at seeing Hadija to continue his conversation; he stood staring at her. Eunice Goode held her by the hand and was talking very fast to Hassan.

  «You’ll be interested to know that one of my dearest friends was Crown Prince Rupprecht. We were often at Karlsbad together. I believe he knew your father». As the rush of words went on, Hassan’s face showed increasing lack of comprehension; he moved backward a step after each few sentences, saying: «Yes, yes,» but she followed along, pulling Hadija with her, until she had backed him against the wall and Dyar could no longer hear what she was saying. Somewhat embarrassed, he again became conscious of Madame Werth’s presence beside him.

  «— and I hope you will come to make a visit to me when I am returning from Marrakech,» she was saying.

  «Thank you, I’d like very much to». It was then that he recalled where he had heard her name. The canceled reservation at the hotel there which he had been going to give to Daisy had originally been Madame Werth’s.

  «Do you know Marrakech?» she asked him. He said he did not. «Ah, you must go. In the winter it is beautiful. You must have a room at the Mamounia, but the room must have a view on the mountains, the snow, you know, and a terrace above the garden. I would love to go tomorrow, but the Mamounia is always full now and my reservation is not before the twenty of the month».

  Dyar looked at her very hard. She noticed the difference in his expression, and was slightly startled.

  «You’re going to the Hotel Mamounia in Marrakech on the twentieth?» he said. Then, seeing the suggestion of bewilderment on her face he looked down at her drink. «Yours is nearly finished,» he remarked. «Let me get you another». She was pleased; he excused himself and went across the room with a glass in each hand.

  It all made perfectly good sense. Now at last he understood Daisy’s request of him and the secrecy with which she had surrounded it. Madame Werth would simply have been told that there had been a most regrettable misunderstanding, and Wilcox’s office would have been blamed, but the Marquise de Valverde would already have been installed in the room and there would have been no dislodging her. As he realized how close he had come to doing her the favor he felt a rush of fury against her. «The bitch!» he said between his teeth. The little revelation was unpleasant, and it somehow extended itself to the whole room and everyone in it.

  He saw Daisy out of the corner of his eye as he passed the divan where she sat; she was talking to a pale young man with spectacles and a girl with a wild head of red hair. As he was on his way back she caught sight of him and called out: «Mr. Dyar! When you’ve made your delivery I want you to come over here». He held the glasses up higher and grinned. «Just a second,» he said. He was wondering if Madame Werth would be capable of the same sort of throat-slitting behavior as Daisy, and decided against the likelihood of it. She looked too helpless, which was doubtless precisely why Daisy had singled her out as a likely prospective victim.

  Back, standing again beside Madame Werth, he said as she sipped her new drink: «Do you know the Marquesa de Valverde?»

  Madame Werth seemed enthusiastic. «Ah, what a delightful woman! Such vivacity! And very kind. I have seen her pick out from the street young dogs, poor thin ones with bones, and take them to her home and care for them. The entire world is her charity».

  Dyar laughed abruptly; it must have sounded derisive, for Madame Werth said accusingly: «You think kindness does not matter?»

  «Sure it matters. It’s very important». At the moment he felt expansive and a little reckless; it would be pleasurable to sit beside Daisy and worry her. She could not see whom he was talking to from where she sat, and he wanted to watch her reaction when he told her. Presently a Swiss gentleman joined them and began speaking with Madame Werth in French. Dyar slipped away, finishing his drink quickly and getting another before he went over to the divan where Daisy was.

  «Two compatriots of yours,» she said, moving over so he could squeeze in beside her. «Mr. Dyar. Mrs. Holland, Mr. Richard Holland». The two acknowledged the introduction briefly, with what seemed more diffidence than coldness.

  «We were talking about New York,» said Daisy. «Mr. and Mrs. Holland are from New York, and they say they feel quite as much at home here as they do there. I told them that was scarcely surprising, since Tangier is more New York than New York. Don’t you agree?»

  Dyar looked at her closely; then he looked at Mrs. Holland, who met his gaze for a startled instant and began to inspect her shoes. Mr. Holland was staring at him with great seriousness, like a doctor about to arrive at a diagnosis, he thought. «I don’t think I see what you mean,» said Dyar. «Tangier like New York? How come?»

  «In spirit,» said Mr. Holland with impatience. «Not in appearance, naturally. Are you from New York? I thought Madame de Valverde said you were». Dyar nodded. «Then you must see how alike the two places are. The life revolves wholly about the making of money. Practically everyone is dishonest. In New York you have Wall Street, here you have the Bourse. Not like the bourses in other places, but the soul of the city, its raison d’être. In New York you have the slick financiers, here the money changers. In New York you have your racketeers. Here you have your smugglers. And you have every nationality and no civic pride. And each man’s waiting to suck the blood of the next. It’s not really such a far-fetched comparison, is it?»

  «I don’t know,» said Dyar. At first he had thought he agreed, but then the substance of Holland’s argument had seemed to slip away from him. He took a long swallow of whiskey. The phonograph was playing «Mamá Inez». «I guess there are plenty of untrustworthy people here, all right,» he said.

  «Untrustworthy!» cried Mr. Holland. «The place is a model of corruption!»

  «But darling,» Daisy interrupted. «Tangier’s a one-horse town that happens to have its own government. And you know damned well that all government lives on corruption. I don’t care what sort — socialist, totalitarian, democratic — it’s all the same. Naturally in a little place like this you come in contact with the government constantly. God knows, it’s inevitable. And so you’re always conscious of the corruption. It’s that simple».

  Dyar turned to her. «I was just talking with Madame Werth over there». Daisy looked at him calmly for a moment. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Then she laughed. «I being the sort of person I am, and you being the sort of person you are, I think we can skip over that. Tell me, Mrs. Holland, have you read The Thousand and One Nights?»

  «The Mardrus translation,» said Mrs. Holland without looking up.

  «All of it?»

  «Well, not quite. But most».

  «And do you adore it?»

  «Well, I admire it terribly. But Dick’s the one who loves it. It’s a little direct for me, but then I suppose the culture had no nuances either».

  Dyar had finished his drink and was again thinking of getting in to where the dancing was going on. He sat still, hoping the conversation might somehow present him with a possibility of withdrawing gracefully. Daisy was addressing Mr. Holland. «Have you ever noticed how completely illogical the end of each one of those thousand and one nights actually is? I’m curious to know».

  «Illogical?» said Mr. Holland. «I don’t think so».

  «Oh, my dear! Really! Doesn�
��t it say, at the end of each night: ‘And Schahrazade, perceiving the dawn, discreetly became silent’?»

  «Yes».

  «And then doesn’t it say: ‘And the King and Schahrazade went to bed and remained locked in one another’s arms until morning’?»

  «Yes».

  «Isn’t that rather a short time? Especially for Arabs?»

  Mrs. Holland directed an oblique upward glance at Daisy, and returned to the contemplation of her feet.

  «I think you misunderstand the time-sequence,» said Mr. Holland, sitting up straight with a sudden spasmodic movement, as if he were getting prepared for a discussion. Dyar got quickly to his feet. He had decided he did not like Mr. Holland, who he imagined found people agreeable to the extent that they were interested in hearing him expound his theories. Also he was a little disappointed to find that Daisy had met his challenge with such bland complacency. «She didn’t bat an eyelash,» he thought. It had been no fun at all to confront her with the accusation. Or perhaps she had not even recognized his remark as such. The idea occurred to him as he reached the part of the room where the phonograph was, but he rejected it. Her reply could have meant only that she admitted she had been found out, and did not care. She was even more brazen than he had imagined. For no particular reason, knowing this depressed him, put him back into the gray mood of despair he had felt the night of his arrival on the boat, enveloped him in the old uneasiness.