Port thought a long time, looked up at the sky, down into the garden, and all around the terrace before answering: “Yes. Let’s go. Now.”
V
When they left the café it seemed to him that they were going more or less in the same direction from which they had just come. There were fewer people in the streets and the air was cooler. They walked for a good distance through the Casbah, making a sudden exit through a tall gateway onto a high, open space outside the walls. Here it was silent, and the stars were very much in evidence. The pleasure he felt at the unexpected freshness of the air and the relief at being in the open once more, out from under the overhanging houses, served to delay Port in asking the question that was in his mind: “Where are we going?” But as they continued along what seemed a parapet at the edge of a deep, dry moat, he finally gave voice to it. Smail replied vaguely that the girl lived with some friends at the edge of town.
“But we’re already in the country,” objected Port.
“Yes, it’s the country,” said Smail.
It was perfectly clear that he was being evasive now; his character seemed to have changed again. The beginning of intimacy was gone. To Port he was once more the anonymous dark figure that had stood above him in the garbage at the end of the street, smoking a bright cigarette. You can still break it up. Stop walking. Now. But the combined even rhythm of their feet on the stones was too powerful. The parapet made a wide curve and the ground below dropped steeply away into a deeper darkness. The moat had ended some hundred feet back. They were now high above the upper end of an open valley.
“The Turkish fortress,” remarked Smail, pounding on the stones with his heel.
“Listen to me,” began Port angrily, “where are we going?” He looked at the rim of uneven black mountains ahead of them on the horizon.
“Down there.” Smail pointed to the valley. A moment later he stopped walking. “Here are the stairs.” They leaned over the ledge. A narrow iron staircase was fastened to the side of the wall. It had no railing and led straight downward at a steep angle.
“It’s a long way,” said Port.
“Ah, yes, it’s the Turkish fortress. You see that light down there?” He indicated a faint red glimmer that came and went almost directly beneath them. “That’s the tent where she lives.”
“The tent!”
“There are no houses down here. Only tents. There are a lot of them. On descend?”
Smail went first, keeping close to the wall. “Touch the stones,” he said.
As they approached the bottom, he saw that the feeble glow of light was a dying bonfire built in an open space between two large nomad tents. Smail suddenly stopped to listen. There was an indistinguishable murmur of male voices. “Allons-y,” he muttered; his voice sounded satisfied.
They reached the end of the staircase. There was hard ground beneath their feet. To his left Port saw the black silhouette of a huge agave plant in flower.
“Wait here,” whispered Smail. Port was about to light a cigarette; Smail hit his arm angrily. “No!” he whispered. “But what is it?” began Port, highly annoyed at the show of secrecy. Smail disappeared.
Leaning against the cold rock wall, Port waited to hear a break in the monotonous, low-pitched conversation, an exchange of greetings, but nothing happened. The voices went on exactly as before, an uninterrupted flow of expressionless sounds. “He must have gone into the other tent,” he thought. One side of the farther tent flickered pink in the light of the bonfire; beyond was darkness. He edged a few steps along the wall, trying to see the entrance of the tent, but it faced in the other direction. Then he listened for the sound of voices there, but none came. For no reason at all he suddenly heard Kit’s parting remark as he had left her room: “After all, it’s much more your business than it is mine.” Even now the words meant nothing in particular to him, but he remembered the tone in which she had said it: she had sounded hurt and rebellious. And it was all about Tunner. He stood up straight. “He’s been after her,” he whispered aloud. Abruptly he turned and went to the staircase, started up it. After six steps he stopped and looked around. “What can I do tonight?” he thought. “I’m using this as an excuse to get out of here, because I’m afraid. What the hell, he’ll never get her.”
A figure darted out from between the two tents and ran lightly to the foot of the stairs. “Jean!” it whispered. Port stood still.
“Ah! ti es la! What are you doing up there? Come on!” Port walked slowly back down. Smail stepped out of his way, took his arm.
“Why can’t we talk?” whispered Port. Smail squeezed his arm. “Shh!” he said into his ear. They skirted the nearer tent, brushing past a clump of high thistles, and made their way over the stones to the entrance of the other.
“Take off your shoes,” commanded Smail, slipping off his sandals.
“Not a good idea,” thought Port. “No,” he said aloud.
“Shh!” Smail pushed him inside, shoes still on.
The central part of the tent was high enough to stand up in. A short candle stuck on top of a chest near the entrance provided the light, so that the nether parts of the tent were in almost complete darkness. Lengths of straw matting had been spread on the ground at senseless angles; objects were scattered everywhere in utter disorder. There was no one in the tent waiting for them.
“Sit down,” said Smail, acting the host. He cleared the largest piece of matting of an alarm clock, a sardine can, and an ancient, incredibly greasy pair of overalls. Port sat down and put his elbows on his knees. On the mat next to him lay a chipped enamel bedpan, half filled with a darkish liquid. There were bits of stale bread everywhere. He lit a cigarette without offering one to Smail, who returned to stand near the entrance, looking out.
And suddenly she stepped inside—a slim, wild—looking girl with great dark eyes. She was dressed in spotless white, with a white turban—like headdress that pulled her hair tightly backward, accentuating the indigo designs tattooed on her forehead. Once inside the tent, she stood quite still, looking at Port with something of the expression, he thought, the young bull often wears as he takes the first few steps into the glare of the arena. There was bewilderment, fear, and a passive expectancy in her face as she stared quietly at him.
“Ah, here she is!” said Smail, still in a hushed voice. “Her name is Marhnia.” He waited a bit. Port rose and stepped forward to take her hand. “She doesn’t speak French,” Smail explained. Without smiling, she touched Port’s hand lightly with her own and raised her fingers to her lips. Bowing, she said, in what amounted almost to a whisper: “Ya sidi, la bess alik? Egles, baraka ’Iaou’fik.” With gracious dignity and a peculiar modesty of movement, she unstuck the lighted candle from the chest, and walked across to the back of the tent, where a blanket stretched from the ceiling formed a partial alcove. Before disappearing behind the blanket, she turned her head to them, and said, gesturing: “Agi! Agi menah!” The two men followed her into the alcove, where an old mattress had been laid on some low boxes in an attempt to make a salon. There was a tiny tea table beside the improvised divan, and a pile of small, lumpy cushions lay on the mat by the table. The girl set the candle down on the bare earth and began to arrange the cushions along the mattress.
“Essmah!” she said to Port, and to Smaiclass="underline" “Tsekellem bellatsi.” Then she went out. He laughed and called after her in a low voice: “Fhemtek!” Port was intrigued by the girl, but the language barrier annoyed him, and he was even more irritated by the fact that Smail and she could converse together in his presence. “She’s gone to get fire,” said Smail. “Yes, yes,” said Port, “but why do we have to whisper?” Smail rolled his eyes toward the tent’s entrance. “The men in the other tent,” he said.
Presently she returned, carrying an earthen pot of bright coals. While she was boiling the water and preparing the tea, Smail chatted with her. Her replies were always grave, her voice hushed but pleasantly modulated. It seemed to Port that she was much more like a young nun than a café dancer. At the same time he did not in the least trust her, being content to sit and marvel at the delicate movements of her nimble, henna-stained fingers as she tore the stalks of mint apart and stuffed them into the little teapot.