“Why?” he asked innocently.
“I don’t understand anything. Your sudden indifference. Even this morning you were in the most awful state about not having any passport. Anyone would have thought you couldn’t live another day without it. And now another few days make no difference. You will admit there’s no connection?”
“You will admit they don’t make much difference?”
“I will not. They might easily. And that’s not my point. Not at all,” she said, “and you know it.”
“The main point right now is that we catch the bus.” He jumped up and ran out to where Abdelkader was still trying to make change for him. Kit followed a moment later. By the flare of the tiny carbide lamps that swung on long wires from the ceiling the boys were bringing down the bags. It was a procession down the staircase; there were six boys, all laden with luggage. A small army of village gamins had gathered outside the door in the dark, with the tacit hope of being allowed to carry something along to the bus terminal.
Abdelkader was saying: “I hope you will like El Ga’a.”
“Yes, yes,” Port answered, putting his change into various pockets. “I hope I did not upset you too much with my troubles.”
Abdelkader looked away. “Ah, that,” he said. “It is better not to speak of it.” The apology was too offhand; he could not accept it.
The night wind had risen. Windows and shutters were banging upstairs. The lamps rocked back and forth, sputtering.
“Perhaps we shall see you on our return trip,” insisted Port.
Abdelkader should have answered: “Incha’allah.” He merely looked at Port, sadly but with understanding. For a moment it seemed that he was about to say something; then he turned his head away. “Perhaps,” he said finally, and when he turned back his lips were fixed in a smile—a smile that Port felt was not directed at him, did not even show consciousness of him. They shook hands and he hurried over to Kit, standing in the doorway carefully making up under the moving light of the lamp, while the curious young faces outside were upturned, following each movement of her fingers as she applied the lipstick.
“Come on!” he cried. “There’s no time for that.”
“I’m all done,” she said, swinging around so he should not jostle her as she completed her handiwork. She dropped her lipstick into her bag and snapped it shut.
They went out. The road to the bus station was dark; the new moon gave no light. Behind them a few of the village urchins still straggled hopefully, most of them having given up when they saw the entire staff of the pension’s boys accompanying the travelers.
“Too bad it’s windy,” said Port. “That means dust.”
Kit was indifferent to the dust. She did not answer. But she noticed the unusual inflection in his speaking: he was unaccountably exhilarated.
“I only hope there are no mountains to cross,” she said to herself, wishing again, but more fervently now, that they had gone to Italy, or any small country with boundaries, where the villages had churches and one went to the station in a taxi or a carriage, and could travel by daylight. And where one was not inevitably on display every time one stirred out of the hotel.
“Oh, my God, I forgot!” Port cried. “You’re a very sick woman.” And he explained how he had got the seats.
“We’re almost there. Let me put my arm around your waist. You walk as though you had a pain. Shuffle a little.”
“This is ridiculous,” she said crossly. “What’ll our boys think?”
“They’re too busy. You’ve turned your ankle. Come on. Drag a bit. Nothing simpler.” He pulled her against him as they walked along.
“And what about the people whose seats we’re usurping?”
“What’s a week to them? Time doesn’t exist for them.”
The bus was there, surrounded by shouting men and boys. The two went into the office, Kit walking with a certain real difficulty caused by the force with which Port was pressing her toward him. “You’re hurting me. Let up a little,” she whispered. But he continued to constrict her waist tightly, and they arrived at the counter. The Arab who had sold him the tickets said: “You have numbers twenty-two and twenty-three. Get in and take your seats quickly. The others don’t want to give them up.”
The seats were near the back of the bus. They looked at each other in dismay; it was the first time they had not sat in front with the driver.
“Do you think you can stand it?” he asked her.
“If you can,” she said.
And as he saw an elderly man with a gray beard and a high yellow turban looking in through the window with what seemed to him a reproachful expression, he said: “Please lie back and be fatigued, will you? You’ve got to carry this off to the end.”
“I hate deceit,” she said with great feeling. Then suddenly she shut her eyes and looked quite ill. She was thinking of Tunner. In spite of the firm resolution she had made in Ain Krorfa to stay behind and meet him according to their agreement, she was letting Port spirit her off to El Ga’a without even leaving a note of explanation. Now that it was too late to change the pattern of her behavior, suddenly it seemed incredible to her that she had allowed herself to do such a thing. But a second later she said to herself that if this was an unpardonable act of deceit toward Tunner, how much graver was the deception she still practiced with Port in not telling him of her infidelity. Immediately she felt fully justified in leaving; nothing Port asked of her could be refused at this point. She let her head fall forward contritely.
“That’s right,” said Port encouragingly, pinching her arm. He scrambled over the bundles that had just been piled into the aisle and got out to see that all the luggage was on top. When he got back in, Kit was still in the same attitude.
There were no difficulties. As the motor started up, Port glanced out and saw the old man standing beside a younger one. They were both close to the windows, looking wistfully in. “Like two children,” he thought, “who aren’t being allowed to go on a picnic with the family.”
When they started to move, Kit sat up straight and began to whistle. Port nudged her uneasily.
“It’s all over,” she said. “You don’t think I’m going to go on playing sick all the way, I hope? Besides, you’re mad. No one’s paying the slightest attention to us.” This was true. The bus was full of lively conversation; their presence seemed quite unnoticed.
The road was bad almost immediately. At each bump Port slid down lower in his seat. Noticing that he made no effort to avoid slipping more, Kit said at length: “Where are you going? On to the floor?” When he answered, he said only: “What?” and his voice sounded so strange that she turned sharply and tried to see his face. The light was too dim. She could not tell what expression was there.
“Are you asleep?” she asked him.
“No.”
“Is anything wrong? Are you cold? Why don’t you spread your coat over you?”
This time he did not answer.
“Freeze, then,” she said, looking out at the thin moon, low in the sky.
Some time later the bus began a slow, laborious ascent. The fumes from the exhaust grew heavy and acrid; this, combined with the intense noise of the grinding motor and the constantly increasing cold, served to jar Kit from the stupor into which she had sunk. Wide awake, she looked around the indistinct interior of the bus. The occupants all appeared to be asleep; they were resting at unlikely angles, completely rolled in their burnouses, so that not even a finger or a nose was visible. A slight movement beside her made her look down at Port, who had slid so low in his seat that he now was resting on the middle of his spine. She decided to make him sit up, and tapped him vigorously on the shoulder. His only reply was a slight moan.
“Sit up,” she said, tapping again. “You’ll ruin your back.”
This time he groaned: “Oh-h-h!”
“Port, for heaven’s sake, sit up,” she said nervously. She began to tug at his head, hoping to rouse him enough to start him into making some effort himself.
“Oh, God!” he said, and he slowly wormed his way backward up onto the seat. “Oh, God!” he repeated when he was sitting up finally. Now that his head was near her, she realized that his teeth were chattering.