Let it come down Page 7
As he climbed behind Thami through the streets that were half stairways, Dyar felt his enthusiasm for their project rapidly diminishing. The wet wind circled down upon them from above, smelling of the sea. Occasionally it splashed them with rain, but mostly it merely blew. By the time they had turned into the little street that ran level, he was thinking of his room back at the Hotel de la Playa almost with longing. «Here,» said Thami.
They walked into the bar. The first thing Dyar saw was Hadija standing in the back doorway. She was wearing a simple flannel dress that Eunice had bought her on the Boulevard Pasteur, and it fitted her. She had also learned not to make up so heavily, and even to do her hair up into a knot at the back of her neck, rather than let it stand out wildly in hopeless imitation of the American film stars. She looked intently at Dyar, who felt a slight shiver run down his spine.
«By God, look at that!» he murmured to Thami.
«You like her?»
«I could use a little of it, all right».
A Spaniard had placed a portable radio on the bar; two of the girls bent over listening to faint guitar music behind a heavy curtain of static. Three men were having a serious drunken discussion at a table in the corner. Madame Papa-constante sat at the end of the bar, smoking listlessly. «Muy buenas,» she said to them, beaming widely, mistaking them in her sleepiness for Spaniards.
Thami replied quietly without looking at her. Dyar went to the bar and ordered drinks, keeping his eye on Hadija, who when she saw his attention, looked beyond him to the street. Hearing English being spoken, Madame Papaconstante rose and approached the two, swaying a little more than usual.
«Hello, boys,» she said, patting her hair with one hand while she pulled her sweater down over her abdomen with the other. Apart from figures and a few insulting epithets, these words were her entire English vocabulary.
«Hello,» Dyar answered without enthusiasm. Then he went over to the door and holding up his glass, said to Hadija: «Care for a drink?» But Hadija had learned several things during her short acquaintance with Eunice Goode, perhaps the most important of which was that the more difficult everything was made, the more money would be forthcoming when payment came due. If she had been the daughter of the English Consul and had been accosted by a Spanish fisherman in the middle of the Place de France she could not have stared more coldly. She moved across the room and stood near the door facing the street.
Dyar made a wry grimace. «My mistake,» he called after her ruefully; his chagrin, however, was nothing compared to Madame Papaconstante’s indignation with Hadija. Her hands on her hips, she walked over to her and began to deliver a low-pitched but furious scolding.
«She works here, doesn’t she?» he said to Thami. Thami nodded.
«Watch,» Dyar went on, «the old madam’s giving her hell for being so snotty with the customers». Thami did not understand entirely, but he smiled. They saw Hadija’s expression grow more sullen. Presently she ambled over to the bar and stood sulking near Dyar. He decided to try again.
«No hard feelings?»
She looked up at him insolently. «Hello, Jack,» she said, and turned her face away.
«What’s the matter? Don’t you like strange men?»
«Wan Coca-Cola». She did not look at him again.
«You don’t have to drink with me if you don’t want to, you know,» he said, trying to make his voice sound sympathetic. «If you’re tired, or something..».
«How you feel?» she said. Madame Papaconstante was watching her from the end of the bar.
She lifted her glass of Coca-Cola. «Down the hotch,» she said, and took a sip. She smiled faintly at him. He stood closer to her, so he could just feel her body alongside his. Then he turned slightly toward her, and moved in a bit more. She did not stir.
«You always as crazy as this?» he asked her.
«I not crazy,» she said evenly.
They talked a while. Slowly he backed her against the bar; when he put his arm around her he thought she might push him away, but she did nothing. From her vantage-point Madame Papaconstante judged that the right moment for intervention had arrived; she lumbered down from her stool and went over to them. Thami was chatting with the Spaniard who owned the radio; when he saw Madame Papaconstante trying to talk to Dyar he turned toward them and became interpreter.
«You want to go back with her?» he asked him.
Dyar said he did.
«Tell him fifty pesetas for the room,» said Madame Papaconstante hurriedly. The Spaniards were listening. They usually paid twenty-five. «And he gives the girl what he likes, afterward».
Hadija was looking at the floor.
The room smelled of mildew. Eunice had been asleep, but now she was awake, and she noticed the smell. Certain rooms in the cellar of her grandmother’s house had smeiled like that. She remembered the coolness and mystery of the enormous cellar on a quiet summer afternoon, the trunks, the shelves of empty mason jars and the stacks of old magazines. Her grandmother had been an orderly person. Each publication had been piled separately: Judge, The Smart Set, The Red Book, Everybody’s, Hearst’s International-She sat up in the dark, tense, without knowing why. Then she did know why. She had heard Hadija’s voice outside the door. Now it said: «This room O.K».; she heard a man grunt a reply. The door into the adjacent room was opened, and then closed.
She stood up and began to walk back and forth in front of the couch, three steps one way and three steps the other. «I can’t bear it,» she thought. «I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her». But it was just the sound of the words in her head; no violent images came to accompany the refrain. Crouching on the floor with her neck twisted at a painful angle, she managed to place her ear flush against the wall. And she listened. At first she heard nothing, and she thought the wall must be too thick to let the sound through. But then she heard a loud sigh. They were not saying anything, and she realized that when something was said, she would hear every word.
A long time went by before this happened. Then Hadija said: «No». Immediately the man complained: «What’s the matter with you?» In his voice Eunice recognized a fellow American; it was even worse than she had expected. There were sounds of movement on the couch, and again Hadija said very firmly: «No».
«But, Baby» — the man pleaded.
After more shifting about, «No,» said the man halfheartedly, as if in faint protest. Eunice’s neck ached; she strained harder, pushing against the wall with all her strength. For a while she heard nothing. Then there was a long, shuddering groan of pleasure from the man. «As if he were dying,» thought Eunice, gritting her teeth. Now she told herself: «I’ll kill him,» and this time she had a satisfactorily bloody vision, although her imaginary attack upon the man fell somewhat short of murder.
Suddenly she had drawn her head back and was pounding on the wall with her fist. And she was calling out to Hadija in Spanish: «Go on! Haz lo que quieres! Sigue! Have a good time!» Her own knocking had startled her, and the sound of her voice astonished her even more; she would never have known it was hers. But now she had spoken; she caught her breath and listened. There was silence in the next room for a moment. The man said lazily: «What’s all that?» Hadija answered by whispering. «Quick! Give money!» She sounded agitated. «One other time I fix you up good. No like tonight. No here. Here no good. Listen, boy» — And here apparently she whispered directly into his ear, as if she knew from experience just how thin the walls were and how easily the sound carried. The man, who seemed to be in a state of profound lassitude, began nevertheless to grunt: «Huh? When? Where’s that?» between the lengthy inaudible explanations.
«Okay?» said Hadija finally. «You come?»
«But Sunday, right? Not Friday» — The last word was partially muffled, she supposed by Hadija’s hand.
Painfully Eunice got to her feet. She sighed deeply and sat down on the edge of the couch in the dark. Everything she had suspected was perfectly true: Hadija had been working regularly at the Bar Lucifer; probably she h
ad often come to her fresh from the embrace of a Spanish laborer or shopkeeper. The arrangement with Madame Papaconstante was clearly a farce. Everyone had been lying to her. Yet instead of resentment she felt only a dimly satisfying pain — perhaps because she had found it all out at first-hand and through her own efforts. It was an old story to her and she did not mind. All she wanted now was to be alone with Hadija. She would not even discuss the evening with her. «The poor girl,» she thought. «I don’t give her enough to live on. She’s forced to come here». She began to consider places where she might take her to get her away from the harmful environment, places where they could be alone, unmolested by prying servants and disapproving or amused acquaintances. Sospel, perhaps, or Caparica; somewhere away from Arabs and Spaniards, where she would have the pleasure of feeling that Hadija was wholly dependent upon her.
«But, Baby, that’s all I’ve got,» the man was protesting. They talked normally now; she could hear them from where she sat.
«No, no,» said Hadija firmly. «More. Give».
«You don’t care how much you take from a guy, do you? I’m telling you, I haven’t got any more. Look».
«We go spick you friend in bar. He got».
«No. You got enough now. That’s damn good money for what you did».
«Next time I fix» —
«I know! I know!»
They argued. It astonished Eunice to hear an American refusing to part with an extra fifty pesetas under such circumstances. Typically, she decided he must be an extremely vicious man, one who got his true pleasure from just such scenes, to whom it gave a thrill of evil delight to withhold her due from a helpless girl. But it amused her to observe the vigor with which Hadija pursued the discussion. She bet herself drinks for the house that the girl would get the extra money. And after a good deal of pointless talk he agreed to borrow the sum from the friend in the bar. As they opened the door and went out Hadija said: «You good man. I like». Eunice bit her lip and stood up. More than anything else, that remark made her feel that she was right in suspecting this man of being a particular danger. And now she realized that it was not the possibility of professional relationships on Hadija’s part that distressed her most. It was precisely the fear that things might not remain on that footing. «But I’m an idiot,» she told herself. «Why this man? the very first one I happen to have caught her with?» The important thing was that it be the last; she must take her away. And Madame Papaconstante must not know of it until they were out of the International Zone.
A quarter of an hour later she went out into the hallway; it was gray with the feeble light of dawn which came through the curtain of beads from the bar. There she heard Madame Papaconstante and Hadija arguing bitterly. «You let me go into the very next room!» Hadija was shouting. «You knew she was in there! You wanted her to hear!»
«It’s not my fault she woke up!» cried Madame Papaconstante furiously. «Who do you think you are, yelling at me in my own bar!»
Eunice waited, hoping Madame Papaconstante would go further, say something more drastic, but she remained cautious, obviously not wishing to provoke the girl too deeply — she brought money into the establishment.
Eunice walked quietly down the passageway and stepped into the bar, blinking a little. Her cane was lying across one of the tables. The two ceased speaking and looked at her. She picked up the cane, turned to face them. «Drinks for the house,» she remembered. «Three double gins,» she said to Madame Papaconstante, who went without a word behind the bar and poured them out.
«Take it,» she said to Hadija, holding one of the glasses toward her. With her eyes on Eunice, she obeyed.
«Drink it».
Hadija did, choking afterward.
Madame Papaconstante hesitated and drank hers, still without speaking.
Eunice placed five hundred pesetas on the bar, and said: «Bonne nuit, madame». To Hadija she said: «Ven».
Madame Papaconstante stood looking after them as they walked slowly up the street. A large brown rat crept from a doorway opposite and began to make its way along the gutter in the other direction, stopping to sample bits of refuse as it went. The rain fell evenly and quietly.
VI
Wilcox sat on the edge of his bed in his bathrobe. Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was concentrating his attention upon opening a new tin of Gold Flakes; a faint hiss came out as he punctured the top. Rapidly he cut around the edge and removed the light tin disc, which he dropped on the floor beside his table.
«Have one?» he said to Wilcox, holding up the tin to him. The odor of the fresh tobacco was irresistible. Wilcox took a cigarette. Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers did likewise. When both had lights, Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers went on with what he had been saying.
«My dear boy, I don’t want to seem to be asking the impossible, and I think if you try to look at it from my point of view you’ll see soon enough that actually I’m only asking the inevitable. I expect you knew that sooner or later I should require to move sterling here».
Wilcox looked uncomfortable. He ran his finger along the edge of the ash tray. «Well, yes. I’m not surprised,» he said. Before the other could speak again he went on. «But if you’ll excuse my saying so, I can’t help feeling you’ve chosen a rather crude method of getting it here».
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers smiled. «Yes. If you like, it’s crude. I don’t think that militates against its success in any way».
«I wonder,» said Wilcox.
«Why should it?»
«Well, it’s too large a sum to bring in that way».
«Nonsense!» Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers cried. «Don’t be bound by tradition, my boy. That’s simply superstitious of you. If one can do it that way with a small amount, one can do it in exactly the same way with a larger one. Can’t you see how safe it is? There’s nothing whatever in writing, is there? The number of agents is reduced to a minimum — all I need to be sure of is old Ramlal, his son and you».
«And all I need to be sure of is that nobody knows it when I go to Ramlal and take out nine thousand pounds in cash. That includes our British currency snoopers as well as the Larbi crowd. And I’d say it’s impossible. They’re bound to know. Somebody’s bound to find out».
«Nonsense,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers again. «If you’re afraid for your own skin,» he smiled ingratiatingly, fearing that he might be treading on delicate ground, «and you’ve every right to be, of course, why — send someone else to fetch it. You must have someone around you can trust for a half hour».
«Not a soul,» said Wilcox. He had just thought of Dyar. «Let’s have some lunch. We can have it right here in the room. They have some good roast beef downstairs, or had yesterday». He reached for the telephone.
«Afraid I can’t». Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was half expecting Wilcox to raise his percentage, and he did not want to do anything which might help put him sufficiently at his ease to make him broach the subject.
«Sure?» said Wilcox. «No, I can’t,» repeated Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers.
Wilcox took up the telephone. «A whiskey?» He lifted the receiver.
«Oh, I think not, thank you».
«Of course you will,» said Wilcox. «Give me the bar».
Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers rose and stood looking out the window. The wet town below looked freshly built; the harbor and the sky beyond it were a uniform gray. It was raining indifferently. Wilcox was saying: «Manolo? Haig and Haig Pinch, two Perriers and ice for Two Forty Six». He hung up, and in the same breath went on: «I can do it, but I’ll need another two percent».
«Oh, come,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers patiently, «I’ve been waiting for you to put it up. But I must say I didn’t expect a two percent increase. That’s a bit thick. Ramlal ten, and now you want seven».
«A bit thick? I don’t think so,» said Wilcox. «And I don’t think you’ll think so when you have your nine thousand safely in the Crédit Foncier. It’s all very well for you to keep telling me how easy it is. You’ll be safe in Paris» —
«My dear boy, you probably
will think I’m exaggerating when I say I can think of six persons at this moment who I know would be delighted to do it for three percent».
Wilcox laughed. «Perfectly true. I can think of plenty who’d do it for one percent, too, if it comes to that. But you won’t use them». To himself he was saying that Dyar was the ideal one to use in this connection: he was quite unknown in the town, his innocence of the nature of the transaction was a great advantage, and he could be given the errand as a casual part of his daily work and thus would not have to be paid any commission at all; the entire seven percent could be kept intact. «You’ll have to meet the man I have in mind, of course, and take him around to young Ramlal yourself. He’s an American».
«Aha!» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, impressed.
Wilcox saw that he would have his way about the percentage. «Commission figures between ourselves, you understand,» he went on.
«Obviously,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers in a flat voice, staring at him coldly. He supposed Wilcox intended to keep five and give the man two, which was just what Wilcox intended him to think.
«You can come around to my office this afternoon and size him up, if you like».
«My dear boy, don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly confident in anyone you suggest. But I still think seven percent is a bit steep».
«Well, you come and talk with him,» said Wilcox blandly, feeling certain his client had no desire to discuss the matter with anyone, «and if you don’t like his looks we’ll try and think up someone else. But I’m afraid the seven will have to stand».
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter came in with the drinks.
Dyar awoke feeling that he had not really slept at all. He had a confused memory of the morning’s having been divided into many episodes of varying sorts of noise. There had been the gurgling of the plumbing as the early risers bathed and he tried to drop off to sleep, the train that shunted back and forth on the siding between his window and the beach, the chattering of the scrubwomen in the corridor, the Frenchman in the next room who had sung «La Vie en Rose» over and over while he shaved, showered and dressed. And through it all, like an arhythmical percussive accompaniment there had been the constant metallic slamming of doors throughout the hotel, each one of which shook the flimsy edifice and resounded through it like a small blast.