«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.