The Sheltering Sky

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, “Smail. 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 Ia? 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 beside 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.”