Let it come down Page 8

  He looked at his watch: it was twenty-five past twelve. He groaned; his heart seemed to have moved into his neck and to be beating there. He felt breathless, tense and exhausted. In retrospect the night before seemed a week long. Going to bed by daylight always made him sleep badly. And he was bothered by two things, two ideas that he felt lodged in the pit of his stomach like unwanted food. He had spent twenty dollars during the evening, which meant that he now had $460 left, and he had borrowed a hundred pesetas from an Arab, which meant that he had to see the Arab again.

  «God-damned idiot!» he said as he got out of bed to look in his bags for the aspirin. He took three, had a quick shower, and lay down again to relax. A chambermaid, having heard the shower running, knocked on the door to see when she could make up the room. «Who is it?» he yelled, and not understanding her reply, did not get up to let her in. Presently he opened his eyes again and discovered that it was twenty minutes past two. Still not feeling too well, he dressed and went down into the lobby. The boy at the desk handed him a slip that read: Llamar a la Sra. Debalberde 28–01. He looked at it apathetically, thinking it must be for someone else. Stepping outside, he began to walk along the street without paying attention to where he was going. It was good to be in the air. The rain dripped out of the low sky in a desultory fashion, as if it were falling from invisible eaves overhead.

  Suddenly he realized he was extremely hungry. He raised his head and looked around, decided there would be no restaurant in the vicinity. A half-mile or so ahead of him, sprawling over a hill that jutted into the harbor, was the native town. At his right the small waves broke quietly along the deserted beach. He turned to his left up one of the many steep streets that led over the hill. Like the others it was lined with large new apartment houses, some of which were still under construction but inhabited, nonetheless. Near the top of the hill he came to a modest-looking hotel with the word Restaurant printed over the doorway. In the dining room, where a radio roared, several people were eating. The tables were small. He sat down and looked at the typewritten card at his place. It was headed Menu à 30 p. He counted his money and grinned a little to see that he still had thirty-five pesetas. As he ate his hors d’oeuvre he found his hunger growing rapidly; he began to feel much better. During the merlans frits he pulled out the piece of paper the boy at the desk had given him and studied it absently. The name conveyed nothing to him; suddenly he saw that it was a message from Daisy de Valverde. «Radio Internacional,» boomed the imbecilic girl’s voice. A harp glissando followed. He had no particular desire to see his hostess of last night, or to see anyone, for that matter. At the moment he felt like being alone, having an opportunity to accustom himself to the strangeness of the town. But for fear she might be waiting for his call he went out into the lobby and asked the desk clerk to make the call for him. «Veinteyochocerouno,» he heard him shout several times, and he wondered if he would ever be able even to make a telephone call by himself. After the man handed the instrument to him he had to wait a long time for her to come to the phone.

  «Dear Mr. Dyar! How kind of you to ring me! Did you get back safely last night? What vile weather! You’re seeing the place at its very worst. But keep a stiff upper lip. One of these days the sun will be out and dry up all this fearful damp. I can’t wait. Jack is very naughty. He hasn’t telephoned me. Are you there? If you see him, tell him I’m rather put out with him. Oh, I wanted to tell you, Tambang is better. He drank a little milk. Isn’t that wonderful news? So you see, our little excursion to his room did some good». (He tried to dismiss the memory of the airless room, the needles and the smell of ether.) «Mr. Dyar, I want very much to see you». For the first time she paused to let him speak. He said: «Today?» and heard her laugh. «Yes, of course today. Naturally. I’m insatiable, yes?» As he stammered protests she continued. «But I don’t want to go to Jack’s office for a particular reason I shall have to tell you when I see you. I was thinking, we might meet at the Faro Bar on the Place de France. It’s just around the corner from the tourist bureau. Darling old snobbish Jack wouldn’t be caught dead in the place, so we shall be running no risk of seeing him. You can’t miss it. Just ask anyone». She spelled out the name for him. «It’s sweet of you to come. Shall we say about seven? Jack closes that establishment of his at half past six. I have so much to talk to you about. And one enormous favor to ask you, which you don’t have to grant if you don’t want». She laughed. «The Faro at seven». And as he was trying to decide quickly how to word his bread-and-butter phrase for last night’s hospitality, he realized that she had hung up. He felt the blood rush to his face; he should have got the sentence in somehow at the beginning of the call. The man at the desk asked him for one peseta fifty. He went back to his table annoyed with himself, and wondering what she thought of him.

  The check was for thirty-three pesetas, including the service. He had fifty céntimos left, which he certainly could not leave as a tip. He left nothing, and walked out whistling innocently in the face of the waiter’s accusing stare. But after he had gone a short way he stopped under the awning of a tobacco shop and took out his two little folders of American Express checks. There was a book of fifties and one of twenties. On the ship he had counted the checks every few days; it made him feel a little less poor to see them and reckon their aggregate. He would have to stop into a bank now and get some money, but the examination of his fortune was to be done in the privacy of the street. Whatever one wants to do in a bank, there are always too many people there watching. There would be six left in the first book (he counted them and snapped the cover shut), which meant eight in the other. He shuffled them almost carelessly, and then immediately went through them again, to be certain. His expression became intense; he now counted them with caution, pushing his thumb against the edge of each sheet to separate a possible two. He still found only seven. Now he looked at the serial numbers: it was undeniable that he had only seven twenty-dollar checks — not eight. $440. His face assumed an expression of consternation as he continued to recount the checks uselessly, automatically, as though it were still an instant before he had made the discovery, as though it were still possible for something different to happen. In his mind he was trying to recall the time and place of the cashing of each check. And now he remembered: he had needed an extra twenty dollars on board the ship, for tips. The remembering, however, did not make the new figure emotionaly acceptable; he put his checks away profoundly troubled, and began to walk along looking down at the pavement.

  There were many banks, and each one he came to was closed. «Too late,» he thought, grimly. «Of course».

  He went on, found Wilcox’s office easily. It was upstairs over a large tearoom, and the entire building smelled appetizingly of pastries and coffee. Wilcox was there, and made him feel a little better by saying with a wide gesture: «Well, here’s your cage». He had half expected him to make some sort of drastic announcement like: «Listen, old man, I guess it’s up to me to make a confession. I’m not going to be able to use you here. You can see for yourself why it’s out of the question». And then he might have offered to pay his fare back to New York, or perhaps not even that. Certainly Dyar would not have been extremely astonished; such behavior would have been in keeping with his own feeling about the whole undertaking. He was prepared for just such a bitter blow. But Wilcox said: «Sit down. Take the load off your feet. Nobody’s been in yet today, so there’s no reason to think they’ll come in now». Dyar sat down in the chair facing Wilcox at his desk, and looked around. The two rooms were uncomfortably small. In the antechamber, which had no window, there were a couch and a low table, piled with travel booklets. The office room had a window which gave on a narrow court; besides the desk and the two chairs there was a green filing cabinet. The room’s inhospitable bareness was tempered by the colored maps covering the walls, drawing the eye inevitably to their irregular contours.

  They talked for an hour or so. When Dyar remarked: «You don’t seem to be doing a rushing business, do you?
» Wilcox snorted disgustedly, but Dyar was unable to interpret his reaction as one of sincere discontent. The Marquesa was obviously correct: there was a slight mystery about his set-up. «I’ve got to change some money,» he said presently. Wilcox might just possibly suggest an advance.

  «What have you got?» asked Wilcox.

  «Express checks».

  «I’ll cash whatever you want. I can give you a better rate than most of the banks, and a good deal better one than the money stalls».

  Dyar gave him a fifty-dollar check. When he had his wallet stuffed with hundred-peseta notes and felt a little less depressed about his finances, he said: «When do I start work?»

  «You’ve started,» Wilcox replied. «You’re working now. There’s a guy coming in here this afternoon, a customer of mine. He travels a lot, and always books through me. He’ll take you down to meet young Ramlal. You’d have to meet him anyway, sooner or later. The Ramlals are great friends of mine. I do a hell of a lot of business with them». This monologue made no sense to Dyar; moreover he had the impression that Wilcox was on the defensive while delivering it, as if he expected to be challenged. Soon enough, he thought, he would know what it was all about. «I see,» he said. Wilcox shot him a glance which he did not at all like: it was hard and unfriendly and suspicious. Then he went on. «I’ve got to be at somebody’s house for drinks around five, so I hope to God he comes soon. You can go down with him and come right back. I’ll wait till you get here. At six-thirty just go out and shut the door behind you. I’ll have a set of keys for you tomorrow». The telephone rang. There ensued a long conversation in which Wilcox’s part consisted mainly of the word «yes» uttered at irregular intervals. The door opened and a tall, slightly stooped gentleman wearing heavy tweeds and a raincoat stepped into the antechamber. Wilcox cut his telephone conversation short, stood up, and said: «This is Mr. Dyar. This is Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. I sold him a ticket to Cairo the day after I opened this office, and he’s been coming back ever since. A satisfied client. Or at least I like to think so».

  Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers looked impatient. «Ah, yes. Quite». He put his hands behind his back and spun around to examine a large map of the world that hung above the filing cabinet. «I expect we’d better be going,» he said.

  Wilcox looked at Dyar significantly. He had meant to tell him a little more about Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, above all to advise him not to ask any questions. But perhaps it was just as well that he had said nothing.

  Dyar slipped into his raincoat as they descended the stairs. «We may as well walk,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «It’s stopped raining for the present, and the shop’s not very far». They went down the hill and came out into the wide square which had been empty last night save for the taxis; now it was a small city of natives engaged in noisy commerce. «Chaos,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers, a note of satisfaction in his voice. As they went under the bare trees in the center of the square the water dripped down upon their heads. The women huddled in rows along the pavement, wrapped in candy-striped woolen blankets, holding forth great bunches of drenched white lilies and calling out hoarsely for them to buy. The day was coming to a close; the sky was growing duller.

  «Shrewd people, these mountain Berbers,» remarked Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «But no match for the Indians».

  «The Indians?» Dyar looked confused.

  «Oh, not your redskins. Our Indians. Moslems, most of them, from India. Tangier’s full of them. Hadn’t you noticed? Young Ramlal, that we’re on our way to see, he’s one. Most shrewd. And his father, old Ramlal, in Gib. Amazing business acumen. Quite amazing. He’s a bandit, of course, but an honest bandit. Never takes a shilling above what’s been agreed upon. He doesn’t need to, of course. His commission’s enormous. He knows he has you and he piles it on because he knows he’s worth it». Dyar listened politely; they were going between two rows of money changers. The men sat behind their small desks directly in the street. A few of them, spotting the two foreigners speaking English, began to call out to them. «Yes! Come on! Yes! Change money!»

  «The devil of it is,» Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers was saying, «the authorities are onto it. They know damned well Gib’s one of the most important leakage points».

  Dyar said tentatively: «Leakage?»

  «Sterling leakage. They know there’s probably twenty thousand pounds slipping out every day. And they’re catching up with some of the chaps. It’s only a question of time before they’ll be able to put a stop to it altogether. Time is of the essence. Naturally it makes a man a bit nervous». He laughed apologetically. «It’s a chance one must take. I like Morocco and my wife likes it. We’re building a little villa here and we must have some capital, risk or no risk».

  «Oh, sure,» said Dyar. He was beginning to understand.

  Ramlal’s window was piled with cheap wrist watches, fountain pens and toys. The shop was tiny and dark; it smelled of patchouli. Once Dyar’s eyes had got used to the lack of light inside, he realized that all the stock was in the window. The shop was completely empty. A swarthy young man sat at a bare desk smoking. As they entered he rose and bowed obsequiously.

  «Good evening, Ramlal,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers in the tone of a doctor making his rounds through a ward of incurables.

  «About to get under way?» Ramlal spoke surprisingly good English.

  «Yes. Tomorrow. This is Mr. Dyar, my secretary». Dyar held out his hand to Ramlal, looking at Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «What the hell goes on?» he said to himself. He acknowledged the introduction.

  «He’ll arrange everything,» went on Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «You’ll give him the packet». Ramlal was looking carefully at Dyar all the while. Showing his very white teeth he smiled and said: «Yes, sir».

  «Got him?» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers.

  «Yes, indeed, sir».

  «Well, we must be going. Your father’s well, I hope?»

  «Oh, yes, sir. Very well, thank you».

  «Not too many worries, I hope?»

  Ramlal smiled even more widely. «Oh, no, sir».

  «That’s good,» grunted Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «Well, look after yourself, Ramlal. See you when I get back». Ramlal and Dyar shook hands again and they went out.

  «Now if you’ll come along with me to the Café España I’ll present you to Benzekri».

  Dyar looked at his watch. «I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to the office». It was twilight, and raining lightly. The narrow street was packed with people wearing djellabas, raincoats, turkish towels, overalls, blankets and rags.

  «Nonsense,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers sharply. «You’ve got to meet Benzekri. Come along. It’s essential».

  «Well, since I’m your secretary,» Dyar smiled.

  «In this matter you are». Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers walked as close to Dyar as he could, speaking directly into his ear. «Benzekri is with the Crédit Fonder here. I’ll show you the entrance as we go by it in a moment». They had come out into the Zoco Chico, filled with the drone of a thousand male voices. This evening there was electricity and the cafés were resplendent.

  Working their way among the clusters of men standing engaged in conversation, they crossed slowly to the lower end of the square. «There’s the entrance,» said Mr. Ashcome-Danvers, pointing at a high portal of iron grillework that stood at the top of a few steps in a niche. «That’s the Crédit Fonder and that’s where you’ll take the packet. You’ll just ask for Mr. Benzekri and go upstairs to his office. And here’s the Café España».

  Mr. Benzekri was there, sitting alone at one end of the terrace. He had a head like an egg — quite bald — and a face like a worried hawk. He did not smile when he shook hands with Dyar; the lines in his forehead merely deepened. «You will have a beer?» he inquired. His accent was thick.

  «We’ll sit for a moment. I’ll not take anything,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. They sat down. «None for me, either,» Dyar said. He was not feeling too well, and he wanted a whiskey.

  «Mr. Dyar will be bringing you a little present one of the
se days,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers. «He understands that he’s to give it to no one but you».

  Mr. Benzekri nodded gravely, staring down into his glass of beer. Then he lifted his head and looked sadly at Dyar for a moment. «Good,» he said, as if there the matter ended.

  «I know you are in a hurry,» said Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers to Dyar. «So if you’d like to go on about your affairs go along. And many thanks. I shall be back in a few weeks».

  Dyar said good evening. He had to fight his way across the Zoco Chico and up the narrow street; everyone was moving against him. «My new station in life: messenger-boy,» he thought with a wry inner smile. He did not particularly like Mr. Ashcombe-Danvers: he had behaved exactly as though he had been paying him for his services. Not that he had expected payment, but still, the principal reason a man does not want to be paid for such things is to avoid being put into the position of an inferior. And he was in it anyway.

  Wilcox was impatient when he got back to the office. «Took you long enough,» he said.

  «I know. He made me go on with him and meet some other guy from the bank».

  «Benzekri».

  «Yes».

  «You didn’t have to meet him. Ashcombe-Danvers is a fussy old buzzard. Be sure the window’s shut, the door’s locked and the lights are off. Stick around until six-thirty». Wilcox put on his coat. «Come by the Atlantide in the morning about nine and I’ll give you the address where they’re making the keys. If anyone calls tell ’em I had to go out and to call back tomorrow. See you».

  VII

  The door closed. Dyar sat looking around the room. He stood up and studied the maps a while, searched in the waiting room for magazines, and rinding none, went and sat down again at the desk. A wild impatience kept him from feeling really alone in the room, an impatience merely to be out of it. «This isn’t it,» he told himself mechanically; he was not really sitting alone in the room because he did not believe he would ever work there. He was unable to visualize himself sitting day after day in this unventilated little box pretending to look after a non-existent business. In New York he had imagined something so different that now he had quite forgotten how he had thought it would be. He asked himself whether, knowing ahead of time what it would be like, he would have wanted to come, and he decided he would have, anyway, in spite of the profound apathy the idea of the job induced in him. Besides, the job was too chimerical and absurd to last. When it stopped, he would be free. He snorted, faintly. Free, with probably a hundred dollars between him and starvation. It was not a pleasant thought: it made him feel tense all over. He listened. Above the noise made by the automobile horns outside was the soft sound of rain falling.