«Yes,» said Dyar automatically, never having given much thought to what it would be like not to be an American. It seemed somehow the natural thing to be.
The whiskey came; they drank it, Thami making a face. Dyar ordered another set-up, for which Thami halfheartedly offered to pay, quickly slipping his money back into his pocket at Dyar’s first «no».
«What a place, what a place,» said Dyar, shaking his head. Two men with black beards had just come in, their heads wrapped in large turkish towels; like all the others they were completely engrossed in unceasing and noisy conversation. «They sit here talking all night like this? What are they talking about? What is there to talk about so long?»
«What are people talking about in America?» said Thami, smiling at him.
«In a bar, usually politics. If they talk. Mostly they just drink».
«Here, everything: business, girls, politics, neighbors. Or what we are talking about now».
Dyar drained his glass. «And what are we talking about?» he demanded. «I’m damned if I know».
«About them». Thami laughed and made a wide gesture.
«You mean they’re talking about us?»
«Some, perhaps».
«Have fun, chums,» Dyar called loudly, turning his head toward the others. He looked down at his glass, had difficulty in getting it into clear focus. For a second he forgot where he was, saw only the empty glass, the same little glass that was always waiting to be refilled. His toe muscles were flexing, and that meant he was drunk. «Which is the nearest subway?» he thought. Then he stretched his legs out in front of him voluptuously and laughed. «Jesus!» he cried. «I’m glad to be here!» he looked around the dingy bar, heard the meaningless chatter, and felt a wave of doubt break over him, but he held firrn. «God knows where this is, but I’d rather be here than there!» he insisted. The sound of the words being spoken aloud made him feel more sure; leaning back, he looked up at the shadows moving on the high yellow ceiling. He did not see the badly dressed youth with the sly expression who came in the door and began to walk directly toward the table. «And I mean it, too,» he said, suddenly sitting upright and glaring at Thami, who looked startled.
The first Dyar knew of his presence was when Thami grudgingly responded to his greeting in Arabic. He glanced up, saw the young man looking down at him in a vaguely predatory fashion, and immediately took a dislike to him.
«Hello, mister». The youth grinned, widely enough to show which of his teeth were of gold and which were not.
«Hello,» replied Dyar apathetically.
Thami said something in Arabic; he sounded truculent. The youth paid no attention, but seized a chair and drew it up to the table, keeping his eyes fixed on Dyar.
«Spickin anglish you like wan bleddy good soulima yah mister?» he said.
Thami looked around the bar uncomfortably, relaxing somewhat when he saw no one watching the table at the moment.
«Now,» said Dyar, «just start all over again and take your time. What was that?»
The youth glared at him, spat. «You no spickin anglish?»
«Not that kind, buddy».
«He wants you to go and see a film,» explained Thami. «But don’t go».
«What? At this hour?» cried Dyar. «He’s nuts».
«They show them late because they are forbidden by the police,» said Thami, looking as though the whole idea were highly distasteful to him.
«Why? What kind of movies are they?» Dyar was beginning to be interested.
«Very bad. You know». Since Thami had the Arab’s utter incomprehension of the meaning of pornography, he imagined that the police had placed the ban on obscene films because these infringed upon Christian doctrine at certain specific points, in which case any Christian might be expected to show interest, if only to disapprove. He found it not at all surprising that Dyar should want to know about them, although he himself was as totally indifferent as he would have expected Dyar to be had they treated of the question as to whether the pilgrim at Mecca should run around the Kaaba clockwise or counter-clockwise. At the same time, their being prohibited made them disreputable, and he was against having anything to do with them.
«They are very expensive and you see nothing,» he said.
The young man did not understand Thami’s words, but he knew the drift of his argument, and he was displeased. He spat more vehemently and carefully avoided turning his head in his direction.
«Well, you must see something, at least,» objected Dyar with logic. «Let’s get this straight,» he said to the youth. «How much?» He got no reply. The youth looked confused; he was trying to decide how far above the usual tariff he could safely go. «Ch’hal?» pursued Thami. «How much? The man says how much. Tell him».
«Miehtsain».
«Achrine duro,» said Thami sternly, as if he were correcting him. They argued a while. Presently Thami announced triumphantly: «You can go for one hundred pesetas». Then he glanced about the bar and his face darkened. «But it’s no good. I advise you, don’t go. It’s very late. Why don’t you go to bed? I will walk with you to your hotel».
Dyar looked at him and laughed lightly. «Listen, my friend. You don’t have to come anywhere. Nobody said you had to come. Don’t worry about me». Thami studied his face a second to see if he were angry, decided he was not, and said: «Oh, no!» There was no question of leaving the American to wander off into Benider with the pimp. Even though he would have liked more than anything at the moment to go home and sleep, and despite the fact that the last thing he wanted was to be seen in the street at this hour with a foreigner and this particular young man, he felt responsible for Dyar and determined not to let him out of his sight until he had got him to his hotel door. «Oh, no!» he said. «I’ll go with you».
«Suit yourself».
They rose, and the youth followed them out onto the terrace. Dyar’s clothes were still wet and he winced when the wind’s blast struck him. He asked if it were far; Thami conferred with the other and said that it was a two-minute walk. The rain had lessened. They crossed the zoco, took a few turnings through streets that were like corridors in an old hotel, and stopped in the dimness before a high grilled door. Thami peered uneasily up and down the deserted alley as the youth hammered with the knocker, but there was no one to see them.
«I’m going to quit singing I’m worried in my shoes» — sang Dyar, not very loud. But Thami gripped his arm, terrified. «No, no!» he whispered. «The police!» The song had echoed in the quiet interior of the street.
«Jesus Christ! So we’re going to see a dirty movie. So what?» But he did not sing again.
They waited. Eventually there were faint sounds within. A muffled voice spoke on the other side of the door, and the youth answered. When the grille opened there was nothing at all to see but the blackness inside. Then a figure stepped from behind the door, and at the same time there came an odor which was a combination of eau de cologne, toothpaste and perspiration. The figure turned a flashlight in their faces, ordered the young man with them, in broken Spanish, to fetch a lamp, and shut the grille behind them. For a moment they all stood without moving in complete darkness. Thami coughed nervously; the sharp sound reverberated from wall to wall. When the young man appeared carrying the lamp the figure in white retired silently into a side room, and the three started up a flight of stairs. At the top, in a doorway, stood a fat man with a grayish complexion; he wore pyjamas and held a hand that was heavy with rings in front of his mouth to cover his yawns. The air up here was stiff with the smell of stale incense; the dead smoke clogged the hall.