“I want it all to stop,” she said to them both, very seriously.
“Oui, madame,” said Amar, patting her shoulder.
She drank her coffee and lay back against the wall, looking at them through half-closed eyes. They were talking together, they talked interminably. She did not wonder what it was about. When Amar got up and went outside with the other, she waited a moment, until their voices were no longer audible, and then she too jumped up and walked through a door on the other side of the room. There was a tiny stairway. On the roof it was so hot she gasped. The confused babble from the market was almost covered by the buzzing of the flies around her. She sat down. In another moment she would begin to melt. She shut her eyes and the flies crawled quickly over her face, alighting, leaving, re-alighting with frantic intensity. She opened her eyes and saw the city out there on all sides of her. Cascades of crackling light poured over the terraced roofs.
Slowly her eyes grew accustomed to the terrible brightness. She fixed the objects beside her on the dirt floor: the bits of rags; the dried carcass of a strange gray lizard; the faded, broken matchboxes; and the piles of white chicken feathers stuck together with dark blood. There was somewhere she had to go; someone was expecting her. How could she let the people know she would be late? Because there was no question about it—she was going to arrive far behind schedule. Then she remembered that she had not sent her telegram. At that moment A-mar came through the little doorway and walked toward her. She struggled to her feet. “Wait here,” she said, pushing past him, and she went in because the sun made her feel ill. The man looked at the paper and then at her. “Where do you want to send it?” he repeated. She shook her head dumbly. He handed her the paper and she saw, written on it in her own hand, the words: “CANNOT GET BACK.” The man was staring at her. “That’s not right!” she cried, in French. “I want to add something.” But the man went on staring at her—not angrily, but expectantly. He had a small moustache and blue eyes. “Le destinataire, s’il vous plait,” he said again. She thrust the paper at him because she could not think of the words she needed to add, and she wanted the message to leave immediately. But already she saw that he was not going to send it. She reached out and touched his face, stroked his cheek briefly. “Je vous en prie, monsieur,” she said imploringly. There was a counter between them; he stepped back and she could not reach him. Then she ran out into the street and Amar, the black man, was standing there. “Quick!” she cried, not stopping. He ran after her, calling to her. Wherever she ran, he was beside her, trying to make her stop. “Madame!” he kept saying. But he did not understand the danger, and she could not stop to explain anything. There was no time for that. Now that she had betrayed herself, established contact with the other side, every minute counted. They would spare no effort in seeking her out, they would pry open the wall she had built and force her to look at what she had buried there. She knew by the blue-eyed man’s expression that she had set in motion the mechanism which would destroy her. And now it was too late to stop it. “Vite! Vite!” she panted to Amar, perspiring and protesting beside her. They were in an open space by the road that led down to the river. A few nearly naked beggars squatted here and there, each one murmuring his own short sacred formula for them as they rushed by. No one else was in sight.
He finally caught up with her and took hold of her shoulder, but she redoubled her efforts. Soon, however, she slowed down, and then he seized her firmly and brought her to a stop. She sank to her knees and wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. The expression of terror was still strong in her eyes. He crouched down beside her in the dust and tried to comfort her with clumsy pats on the arm.
“Where are you going like this?” he demanded presently. “What’s the matter?”
She did not answer. The hot wind blew past. In the distance on the flat road to the river, a man and two oxen passed along slowly. Amar was saying: “That was Monsieur Geoffroy. He’s a good man. You should not be afraid of him. For five years he has worked at the Postes et Telegraphes.”
The sound of the last word was like a needle piercing her flesh. She jumped. “No, I won’t! No, no, no!” she wailed.
“And you know,” Amar went on, “that money you wanted to give him is not good here. It’s Algerian money. Even in Tessalit you have to have A.O.F. francs. Algerian money is contraband.”
“Contraband,” she repeated; the word meant absolutely nothing.
“Defendu!” he said laughing, and be attempted to get her up onto her feet. The sun was painful; he, too, was sweating. She would not move at present—she was exhausted. He waited a while, made her cover her head with her haik, and lay back wrapped in his burnous. The wind increased. The sand raced along the flat black earth like white water streaming sideways.
Suddenly she said: “Take me to your house. They won’t find me there.”
But he refused, saying that there was no room, that his family was large. instead he would take her to the place where they had had coffee earlier in the day.
“It’s a café,” she protested.
“But Atallah has many rooms. You can pay him. Even your Algerian money. He can change it. You have more?”
“Yes, yes. In my bag.” She looked around. “Where is it?” she said vacantly.
“You left it at Atallah’s. He’ll give it to you.” He grinned and spat. “Now, shall we walk a little?”
Atallah was in his café. A few turbaned merchants from the north sat in a corner talking. Amar and Atallah stood a moment conversing in the doorway. Then they led her into the living quarters behind the café. It was very dark and cool in the rooms, and particularly in the last one, where Atallah set her valise down and indicated a blanket in the corner on the floor for her to lie on. Even as he went out, letting the curtain fall across the doorway, she turned to Amar and pulled his face down to hers.
“You must save me,” she said between kisses.
“Yes,” he answered solemnly.
He was as comforting as Belqassim had been disturbing.
Atallah did not lift the curtain until evening, when by the light of his lamp he saw them both asleep on the blanket. He set the lamp down in the doorway and went out.
Some time later she awoke. It was silent and hot in the room. She sat up and looked at the long black body beside her, inert and shining as a statue. She laid her hands on the chest: the heart beat heavily, slowly. The limbs stirred. The eyes opened, the mouth broke into a smile.
“I have a big heart,” he said to her, putting his hand over hers and holding it there on his chest.
“Yes,” she said absently.
“When I feel well, I think I’m the best man in the world. When I’m sick, I hate myself. I say: you’re no good at all, Amar. You’re made of mud.” He laughed.
There was a sudden sound in another part of the house. He felt her cringe. “Why are you afraid?” he said. “I know. Because you are rich. Because you have a bag full of money. Rich people are always afraid.”
“I’m not rich,” she said. She paused. “It’s my head. It aches.” She pulled her hand free and moved it from his chest to her forehead.
He looked at her and laughed again. “You should not think. Ca c’est mauvais. The head is like the sky. Always turning around and around inside. But very slowly. When you think, you make it go too fast. Then it aches.”
“I love you,” she said, running her finger along his lips. But she knew she could not really get to him.
“Moi aussi,” he replied, biting her finger lightly.
She wept, and let a few tears fall on him; he watched her with curiosity, shaking his head from time to time.
“No, no,” he said. “Cry a little while, but not too long. A little while is good. Too long is bad. You should never think of what is finished.” The words comforted her, although she could not remember what was finished. “Women always think of what is finished instead of what is beginning. Here we say that life is a cliff, and you must never turn around and look back when you’re climbing. It makes you sick.” The gentle voice went on; finally she lay down again. Still she was convinced that this was the end, that it would not be long before they found her. They would stand her up before a great mirror, saying to her: “Look!” And she would be obliged to look, and then it would be all over. The dark dream would be shattered; the light of terror would be constant; a merciless beam would be turned upon her; the.pain would be unendurable and endless. She lay close against him, shuddering. Shifting his body toward her, he took her tightly in his arms. When next she opened her eyes the room was in darkness.