Let it come down Page 2
Moving regretfully away from the desk, the fat man walked back to the lift. As he shut the door the telephone rang. The boy started for it, but Dyar got there ahead of him. The boy glared at him angrily. It was Wilcox, who said he would be at the Hotel de la Playa in twenty minutes. «I want you to meet a friend of mine,» he said. «The Marquesa de Valverde. She’s great. She wants you to come to dinner too». And as Dyar protested, he interrupted. «We’re not dressing. God, no! None of that here. I’ll pick you up».
«But Jack, listen»—
«So long».
Dyar went up to his room, nettled at not having been given the opportunity of deciding to accept or refuse the invitation. He asked himself if it would raise him in Wilcox’s estimation if he showed independence and begged off. But obviously he had no intention of doing such a thing, since when he got to his room he tore off his clothes, took a quick shower, whistling all the while, opened his bags, shaved as well as he could by the light of the lone candle, and put on his best suit. When he had finished he blew out the candle and hurried downstairs to wait at the front entrance.
II
Daisy de Valverde sat at her dressing table, her face brilliant as six little spotlights threw their rays upon it from six different angles. If she made up to her satisfaction in the pitiless light of these sharp lamps, she could be at ease in any light later. But it took time and technique. The Villa Hesperides was never without electricity, even now when the town had it for only two hours every other evening. Luis had seen to that when they built the house; he had foreseen the shortage of power. It was one of the charms of the International Zone that you could get anything you wanted if you paid for it. Do anything, too, for that matter;—there were no incorruptibles. It was only a question of price.
Outside, the wind was roaring, and in the cypresses it sounded like a cataract. The boom of waves against the cliffs came up from far below. Mingled with the reflections of the lights in the room, other lights, small, distant points, showed in the black sheets of glass at the windows: Spain across the strait, Tarifa and Cape Camariñal.
She was always pleased to have Americans come to the house because she felt under no constraint with them. She could drink all she pleased and they drank along with her, whereas her English guests made a whiskey last an hour — not to mention the French, who asked for a Martini of vermouth with a dash of gin, or the Spanish with their glass of sherry. «The Americans are the nation of the future,» she would announce in her hearty voice. «Here’s to ’em. God bless their gadgets, great and small. God bless Frigidaire, Tampax and Coca-Cola. Yes, even Coca-Cola, darling». (It was generally conceded that Coca-Cola’s advertising was ruining the picturesqueness of Morocco.) The Marques did not share her enthusiasm for Americans, but that did not prevent her from asking them whenever she pleased; she ran the house to suit herself.
She had a Swiss butler and an Italian footman, but when Americans were invited to dinner she let old Ali serve at table because he owned a magnificent Moorish costume; although he was not very competent she thought his appearance impressed them more than the superior service the two Europeans could provide.
The difficulty was that both the butler and footman disapproved so heartily of this arrangement that unless she went into the kitchen at the last moment and repeated her orders, they always found some pretext for not allowing poor old Ali to serve, so that when she looked up from her plate expecting to see the brilliant brocades and gold sash from the palace of Sultan Moulay Hafid, she would find herself staring instead at the drab black uniform of Hugo or Mario. Their faces would be impassive; she never knew what had been going on. There was a chance that this would happen tonight, unless she went down now and made it clear that Ali must serve. She rose, slipped a heavy bracelet over her left hand, and went out through the tiny corridor which connected her room with the rest of the house. Someone had left a window open at the end of the upper hall, and several of the candles in front of the large tapestry had been blown out. She could not bear the anachronism of having electricity in the rooms where tapestries were hung. Ringing a bell, she waited until a breathless chambermaid had appeared, then she indicated the window and the candles with a stiff finger. «Mire,» she said disapprovingly, and moved down the stairway. At that moment there was the sound of a motor outside. She hurried down the rest of the way, practically running the length of the hall to disappear into the kitchen, and when she came back out Hugo was taking her guests’ raincoats. She walked toward the two men regally.
«Darling Jack. How sweet of you to come. And in this foul weather».
«How kind of you to have us. Daisy, this is Mr. Dyar. The Marquesa de Valverde».
Dyar looked at her and saw a well-preserved woman of forty with a mop of black curls, china blue eyes, and a low-cut black satin dress, to squeeze herself into which must have been somewhat painful.
«How nice to see you, Mr. Dyar. I think we’ve got a fire in the drawing room. God knows. Let’s go in and see. Are you wet?» She felt of Dyar’s sleeve. «No? Good. Come along. Jack, you’re barman. I want the stiffest drink you can concoct».
They sat before a scorching log fire. Daisy wanted Wilcox to mix sidecars. At the first sip Dyar realized how really hungry he was; he glanced clandestinely at his watch. It was nine-forty. Observing Daisy, he thought she was the most fatuous woman he had ever met. But he was impressed by the house, Hugo entered. «Now for dinner,» thought Dyar. It was a telephone call for Madame la Marquise. «Pour me another, sweet, and let me take it with me as consolation,» she said to Wilcox.
When she had gone Wilcox turned to Dyar.
«She’s one grand girl,» he said, shaking his head.
«Yes,» Dyar replied, without conviction, adding: «Isn’t she a little on the beat-up side for you?»
Wilcox looked indignant, lowered his voice. «What are you talking about, boy? She’s got a husband in the house. I said she’s grand fun to be with. What the hell did you think I meant, anyway?» Mario’s arrival to add a log to the fire stopped whatever might have followed. «Listen to that wind,» said Wilcox, sitting back with his drink.
Dyar knew he was annoyed with him; he wondered why. «He’s getting mighty touchy in his old age,» he said to himself, looking around the vast room. Mario went out. Wilcox leaned forward again, and still in a low voice, said: «Daisy and Luis are practically my best friends here». There were voices in the hall. Daisy entered with a neat dark man who looked as though he had stomach ulcers. «Luis!» cried Wilcox, jumping up. Dyar was presented, and the four sat down, Daisy next to Dyar. «This can’t last long,» he thought. «It’s nearly ten». His stomach felt completely concave.
They had another round of drinks. Wilcox and the Marques began to discuss the transactions of a local banker who had got himself into difficulties and had left suddenly for Lisbon, not to return. Dyar listened for a moment.
«I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,» he said to Daisy; she was speaking to him.
«I said: how do you like our little International Zone?»
«Well, I haven’t seen anything of it yet. However» — he looked around the room with appreciation — «from here it looks fine». He smiled self-consciously.
Her voice assumed a faintly maternal note. «Of course. You just came today, didn’t you? My dear, you’ve got so much ahead of you! So much ahead of you! You can’t know. But you’ll love it, that I promise you. It’s a madhouse, of course. A complete, utter madhouse. I only hope to God it remains one».
«You like it a lot?» He was beginning to feel the drinks.
«Adore it,» she said, leaning toward him. «Absolutely worship the place».
He set his empty glass carefully on the table beside the shaker.
From the doorway Hugo announced dinner.
«Jack, one more drop all around». She held forth her glass and received what was left. «You’ve given it all to me, you monster. I didn’t want it all». She stood up, and carrying her glass with her, led the men into the dining room,
where Mario stood uncorking a bottle of champagne.
«I’m going to be drunk,» thought Dyar, suddenly terrified that through some lapse in his table etiquette he would draw attention to himself.
Slowly they advanced into a meal which promised to be endless.
Built into the wall opposite him, a green rectangle in the dark paneling, was an aquarium; its hidden lights illumined rocks, shells and complex marine plants. Dyar found himself watching it as he ate. Daisy talked without cease. At one point, when she had stopped, he said: «I don’t see any fish in there».
«Cuttle-fish,» explained the Marques. «We keep only cuttlefish». And as Dyar seemed not to understand, «You know — small octopi. You see? There is one there on the left, hanging to the rock». He pointed; now Dyar saw the pale fleshy streamers which were its tentacles.
«They’re rather sweeter than goldfish,» said Daisy, but in such a way that Dyar suspected she loathed them. He had never met anyone like her; she gave the impression of remaining uninvolved in whatever she said or did. It was as if she were playing an intricate game whose rules she had devised herself.
During salad there was a commotion somewhere back in the house: muffled female voices and hurrying footsteps. Daisy set down her fork and looked around the table at the three men.
«God! I know what that is. I’m sure of it. This storm has brought in the ants». She turned to Dyar. «Every year they come in by the millions, the tiniest ones. When you first see them on the wall you’d swear it was an enormous crack. When you go nearer it looks more like a rope. Positively seething. They all stick together. Millions. It’s terrifying». She rose. «Do forgive me; I must go and see what’s happening».
Dyar said: «Is there anything I can do?» and got a fleeting glance of disapproval from Wilcox.
She smiled. «No, darling. Eat your salad».
Daisy was gone nearly ten minutes. When she returned she was laughing. «Ah, the joys of living in Morocco!» she said blithely. «The ants again?» asked the Marques. «Oh, yes! This time it’s the maids’ sewing room. Last year it was the pantry. That was much worse. And they had to shovel the corpses out». She resumed eating her salad and her face grew serious. «Luis, I’m afraid poor old Tambang isn’t long for this world. I looked in on him. It seemed to me he was worse».
The Marques nodded his head. «Give him more penicillin».
Daisy turned to Dyar. «It’s an old Siamese I’m trying to save. He’s awfully ill. We’ll go and see him after dinner. Luis refuses to go near him. He hates cats. I’m sure you don’t hate cats, do you, Mr. Dyar?»
«Oh, I like all kinds of animals». He turned his head and saw the octopus. It had not moved, but a second one had appeared and was swaying loosely along the floor of the tank. It looked like something floating in a jar of formaldehyde — a stomach, perhaps, or a pancreas. The sight of it made him feel vaguely ill, or else it was the mixture of sidecars and champagne.
«Then you won’t mind helping me with him, will you?» pursued Daisy.
«Be delighted».
«You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,» said Wilcox, laughing unpleasantly.
«Nonsense!» Daisy exclaimed. «He’ll wear enormous thick gloves. Even Tambang can’t claw through those».
«The hell he can’t! And he’s got teeth too, hasn’t he?»
«Just for this,» said the Marques, «we must make Jack go and be the attendant».
«No,» Daisy said firmly. «Mr. Dyar is coming with me. Does anyone want fruit? I suggest we go in and have coffee immediately. We’ll have our brandy afterward when we come down». She rose from the table.
«You’ll need it,» said Wilcox.
From the drawing room now they could hear the storm blowing louder than before. Daisy gulped her coffee standing up, lit a cigarette, and went toward the door.
«Tell Mario to keep the fire blazing, Luis, or it’ll begin to smoke. It’s already begun, in fact. Shall we go up, Mr. Dyar?»
She went ahead of him up the stairs. As she passed each candelabrum the highlights of her satin flashed.
From a small cloakroom at the head of the stairs she took two pairs of thick gardening gloves and gave one to Dyar.
«We don’t really need these,» she said, «but it’s better to be protected».
The walls of the little room were lined with old French prints of tropical birds. On an antique bed with a torn canopy over it lay a large Siamese cat. An enamel pan containing lumps of raw liver had been pushed against its head, but it looked wearily in the other direction. The room smelled like a zoo. «God, what a fug!» Daisy exclaimed. «But we can’t open the window». The storm raged outside. From time to time the house trembled. A branch beat repeatedly against the window like a person asking to be let in. The cat paid no attention while Daisy filed off the ends of ampoules, filled the syringe, and felt along its haunches for the right spot.
«He’s got to have four different injections,» she said, «but I can give the first two together. Now, stand above, and be ready to push down on his neck, but don’t push unless you have to. Scratch him under the chin».
The old cat’s fur was matted, its eyes were huge and empty. Once as the needle flashed above his head Dyar thought he saw an expression of alertness, even of fear, cross its face, but he scratched harder, with both hands, under the ears and along the jowls. Even when the needle went in tentatively, and then further in, it did not move.
«Now we have only two more,» said Daisy. Dyar watched the sureness of her gestures. No veterinarian could have been more deft. He said as much. She snorted. «The only good vets are amateurs. I wouldn’t let a professional touch an animal of mine». The odor of ether was very strong. «Is that ether?» Dyar asked; he was feeling alarmingly ill. «Yes, for sterilizing». She had filled the syringe again. «Now, hold him». The wind roared; it seemed as though the branch would crack the windowpane. «This may burn. He may feel it». Dyar looked up at the window; he could see his own head reflected vaguely against the night beyond. He thought he might throw up if he had to watch the needle go into the fur again. Only when Daisy stepped away from the bed did he dare lower his gaze. The cat’s eyes were half shut. He bent down: it was purring.
«Poor old beast,» said Daisy. «Now for the last. This will be easy. Tambang, sweet boy, what is it?»
«He’s purring,» said Dyar, hoping she would not look at his face. His lips felt icy, and he knew he must be very pale.
«You see how right I was to bring you? He likes you. Jack would have antagonized him in some way».
She did look at him, and he thought her eyes stayed an instant too long. But she said nothing.
«Don’t tell me he’s going to faint,» she thought. «The wretched man is completely out of contact with life». But he was making a great effort.
«The cat doesn’t seem to feel anything,» he said.
«No, I’m afraid he won’t live».
«But he’s purring».
«Will you hold him, please? This is the last».
He wanted to talk, to take his mind off his dizziness, away from what was going on just below his face on the bed. He could think of nothing to say, so he kept silent. The cat stirred slightly. Daisy straightened up, and at the same moment there was a splitting sound and a heavy crash somewhere outside in the darkness. They looked at each other. Daisy set the syringe on the table.
«I know what that was. One of our eucalyptus. God, what a night!» she said admiringly.
They shut the door and went downstairs. In the drawing room there was no one. «I daresay they’ve gone out to look. Let’s go into the library. The fireplace draws better in there. This one’s smoking».
The library was small and pleasant; the fire crackled. She pushed a wall button and they sat down on the divan. She looked at him, musing.
«Jack told me you were coming, but somehow I never thought you’d actually arrive».
«Why not?» He felt a little better now.
«Oh, you know. Such
things have a way of not coming off. Frightfully good idea that misses fire. And then, of course, I can’t see really why Jack needs anyone there in that little office».
«You mean it’s not doing well?» He tried to keep his voice even.
She laid a hand on his arm and laughed. As though she were imparting a rather shameful secret, she said in a low voice: «My dear, if you think he makes even his luncheon money there, you’re gravely mistaken».
She was studying him too carefully, trying to see the effect of her words. He would refuse to react. He felt hot all over, but did not speak. Hugo entered carrying a tray of bottles and glasses. They both took brandy, and he set the tray down on a table at Dyar’s elbow and went out.
She was still looking at him.
«Oh, it’s not going well,» he said. He would not say what he was sure she was waiting for him to say: How does he keep going?
«Not at all. It never has».
«I’m sorry to hear that,» said Dyar.
«There’s no need to be. If it had gone well I daresay he wouldn’t have sent for you. He’d have had just about all he could manage by himself. As it is, I expect he needs you far more».
Dyar made a puzzled face. «I don’t follow that».
Daisy looked pleased. «Tangier. Tangier,» she said. «You’ll follow soon enough, my pet».
They heard voices in the hall.
«You’ll be wanting a good many books to read, I should think,» she said. «Do feel free to borrow anything here that interests you. Of course there’s a circulating library run by the American Legation that’s far better than the English library. But they take ages to get the new books».
«I don’t read much,» said Dyar.
«But my dear lamb, whatever are you going to do all day? You’ll be bored to distraction».
«Oh, well. Jack» —
«I doubt it,» she said. «I think you’ll be alone from morning to night, every day».