Port murmured that coffee would please him most. Ahmed was sent to prepare it.
“I don’t mean to detain you, monsieur. But I have news for you. Your passport has been found. Thanks to one of your compatriots, who had also discovered his passport missing, a search had already been instigated before I got in contact with Messad. Both documents had been sold to legionnaires. But fortunately both have been recovered.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a slip of paper. “This American, whose name is Tunner, says he knows you and is coming here to Bou Noura. He offers to bring your passport with him, but I must have your consent before notifying the authorities there to give it to him. Do you give your consent? Do you know this Monsieur Tunner?”
“Yes, yes,” said Port absently. The idea horrified him; faced with Tunner’s imminent arrival, he was appalled to realize that he had never expected really to see him again. “When is he coming?”
“I believe immediately. You are not in a hurry to leave Bou Noura?”
“No,” said Port, his mind darting back and forth like a cornered animal, trying to remember what day the bus left for the south, what day it was then, how long it would take for Tunner to get from Messad. “No, no. I am not pressed for time.” The words sounded ridiculous as he said them. Ahmed came in silently with a tray bearing two small tin canisters with steam rising from them. The lieutenant poured a glass of coffee from each and handed one to Port, who took a sip and sat back in his chair.
“But I do hope to get eventually to El Ga’a,” he went on, in spite of himself.
“Ah, El Ga’a. You will find it very impressive, very picturesque, and very hot. It was my first Saharan post. I know every alley. It’s a vast city, perfectly flat, not too dirty, but rather dark because the streets are built through the houses, like tunnels. Quite safe. You and your wife can wander wherever you please. It’s the last town of any size this side of the Soudan. And that’s a great distance away, the Soudan. Oh, la, la!”
“I suppose there’s a hotel in El Ga’a?”
“Hotel? A kind of hotel,” laughed the lieutenant. “You will find rooms with beds in them, and it may be clean. It is not so dirty in the Sahara as people say. The sun is a great purifier. With even a minimum of hygiene the people could be healthy here. But of course there is not that minimum. Unfortunately for us, d’ailleurs.”
“No. Yes, unfortunately,” said Port. He could not bring himself back to the room and the conversation. He had just realized that the bus left that very night, and there would not be another for a week. Tunner would be there by then. With that realization, his decision seemed to have come automatically. Certainly he was not conscious of having made it, but a moment later he relaxed and began to question the lieutenant on the details of his daily life and work in Bou Noura. The lieutenant looked pleased; one by one the inevitable anecdotes of the colonist came out, all having to do with the juxtaposition, sometimes tragic, but usually ludicrous, of the two incongruous and incompatible cultures. Finally Port rose. “It’s too bad,” he said with a note of sincerity in his voice, “that I shan’t be staying here longer.”
“But you will be here several days more. I count absolutely on seeing you and Madame before your departure. In another two or three days I shall be completely well. Ahmed will let you know when and call for you. So, I shall notify Messad to give your passport to Monsieur Tunner.” He rose, extended his hand; Port went out.
He walked through the little garden planted with stunted palms, and out the gate into the dusty road. The sun had set, and the sky was rapidly cooling. He stood still a moment looking upward, almost expecting to hear the sky crack as the nocturnal chill pressed against it from outside. Behind him in the nomad encampment the dogs barked in chorus. He began to walk quickly, to be out of their hearing as soon as he could. The coffee had accelerated his pulse to an unusual degree, or else it was his nervousness at the thought of missing the bus to El Ga’a. Entering the town gate, he turned immediately to the left and went down the empty street to the offices of the Transports Generaux.
The office was stuffy, withotit light. In the dimness behind the counter on a pile of burlap sacks sat an Arab, half asleep. Immediately Port said: “What time does the bus leave for El Ga’a?”
“Eight o’clock, monsieur.”
“Are there seats still?”
“Oh, no. Three days ago they were all sold.”
“Ah, mon dieu!” cried Port; his entrails seemed to grow heavier. He gripped the counter.
“Are you sick?” said the Arab, looking at him, and his face showed a little interest.
“Sick,” thought Port. And he said: “No, but my wife is very sick. She must get to El Ga’a by tomorrow.” He watched the Arab’s face closely, to see if he were capable of believing such an obvious lie. Apparently here it was as logical for an ailing person to go away from civilization and medical care as to go in the direction of it, for the Arab’s expression slowly changed to one of understanding and sympathy. Still, he raised his hands in a gesture that denoted his inability to help.
But already Port had pulled out a thousand-franc note and spread it on the counter with determination.
“You will have to give us two seats tonight,” he said firmly. “This is for you. You persuade someone to go next week.” Out of courtesy he did not suggest that the persuasion be used on two natives, although he knew that would be the case. “How much is the passage to El Gaa?” He drew out more money.
The Arab rose to his feet and stood scratching his turban deliberately. “Four hundred and fifty francs each,” he answered, “but I don’t know—”
Port laid another twelve hundred francs before him and said: “That’s nine hundred. And twelve hundred and fifty for you, after you take out for the tickets.” He saw that the man’s decision had been made. “I shall bring the lady at eight o’clock.”
“Half-past seven,” said the Arab, “for the luggage.”
Back at the pension, in his excitement, he rushed into Kit’s room without knocking. She was dressing, and cried with indignation: “Really, have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Only I hope you can travel in that dress.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have seats on the bus tonight at eight.”
“Oh, no! Oh, my God! For where? El Ga’a?” He nodded and there was a silence. “Oh, well,” she said finally. “It’s all the same to me. You know what you want. But it’s six now. All these grips—”
“I’ll help you.” There was a febrile eagerness in his manner now that she could not help observing. She watched him pulling her clothes out of the wardrobe and sliding them off the hangers with staccato gestures; his behavior struck her as curious, but she said nothing. When he had done all he could in her room he went into his own, where he packed his valises in ten minutes and dragged them out into the corridor himself. Then he ran downstairs and she heard him talking excitedly to the boys. At quarter of seven they sat down to their dinner. In no time he had finished his soup.
“Don’t eat so fast. You’ll have indigestion,” Kit warned him.
“We’ve got to be at the bus office at seven-thirty,” he said, clapping his hands for the next course.
“We’ll make it, or they’ll wait for us.”
“No, no. There’ll be trouble about the seats.”
While they were still eating their cornes de gazelle he demanded the hotel bill and paid it.
“Did you see Lieutenant d’Armagnac?” she asked, as he was waiting for his change.
“Oh, yes.”
“But no passport?”
“Not yet,” he said, adding: “Oh, I don’t think they’ll ever find it. How could you expect them to? It’s probably been sent off up to Algiers or Tunis by now.”
“I still think you should have wired the consul from here.”
“I can send a letter from El Ga’a by the same bus we go down in, when it makes the return trip. It’ll only be two or three days later.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Kit.