down in any way you’re asking for trouble. I don’t imagine
the doctors over there are any too good, either, and the
hospital conditions must be very primitive.
I shall be on tenterhooks until I hear from you. Please
give Jack Wilcox my best. I hope he is able to make a go of
his business. What with all the difficulties placed in the
way of travel nowadays, both your father and I are very
dubious about it. However, he must know whether he is making
money or not. I don’t see how he can.
May and Wesley Godfrey were in the other evening, told
them all about your venture. They said to wish you good luck,
as you’d probably need it. Your father and I join with them
in the hope that everything goes off as you expect it to.
Well, here is the end of my paper so I will quit.
Love to you from
Mother
P.S. It seems it was Algiers that Louise Mott was in, not
Tangier. Has never been in the latter. Your father told me
just now when he came home for lunch. He is disgusted with
me. Says I always get everything mixed up!
Love again.
When he had finished reading he folded the letter slowly and put it back into the envelope. He raised his head and looked around him. A little Arab boy, his face ravaged by a virulent skin disease, stood near him, studying him silently — his shoes, his raincoat, his face. A man wearing a tattered outmoded woman’s coat, high-waisted, with peaked shoulders and puffed sleeves, walked up and stopped near the boy, also to stare. In one hand he carried a live hen by its wings; the hen was protesting noisily. Annoyed by its squawks, Dyar rose and went back into the street. Reading the letter had left him in an emotional no-man’s land. The street looked insane with its cheap bazaar architecture, its Coca-Cola signs in Arabic script, its anarchic assortment of people in damp garments straggling up and down. It had begun to rain slightly. He put his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and walked ahead looking down at the pavement, slowly climbing the hill. An idea had been in his mind, he had intended to do something this morning, but now since reading his mother’s letter he did not have the energy to stop and try to recall what it had been. Nor was he certain whether or not he would keep the luncheon appointment with the unpleasant woman he had met last night. He felt under no particular obligation to put in an appearance; she had given him no chance to accept or refuse, had merely ordered him to be at the Empire at two o’clock. He would either go or not go when the time came. He did not really believe Daisy’s fantastic story about her being a Russian agent — as a matter of fact, he rather hoped she would turn out to be something of the sort, something a little more serious than the rest of the disparate characters he had met here so far, and a spy for the Soviet Government would certainly be that.
Under the trees of the Zoco de Fuera the chestnut vendors’ fires made a fog of heavy, rich smoke. From time to time a rough gust of wind reached down and scooped the top layer out into the air above the trees, where it dissolved. He looked suspiciously at the objects offered for sale, spread out in patterns and mounds on the stone slabs of the market. There were little truncated bamboo tubes filled with kohl, an infinite variety of roots, resins and powders; rams’ horns and porcupine skins, heavy with quills, and an impressive assortment of claws, bones, beaks and feathers. As the rain fell with more determination, those women whose wares were not protected by umbrellas began to gather them up preparatory to moving off toward more sheltered places. He still felt coreless — he was no one, and he was standing here in the middle of no country. The place was counterfeit, a waiting room between connections, a transition from one way of being to another, which for the moment was neither way, no way. The Arabs loped by in their rehabilitated European footgear which made it impossible for them to walk in a natural fashion, jostled him, stared at him, and tried to speak with him, but he paid them no attention. The new municipal buses moved into the square, unloaded, loaded, moved out, on their way to the edges of the city. A little way beyond the edges of the city was the border of the International Zone, and beyond that were the mountains. He said to himself that he was like a prisoner who had broken through the first bar of his cell, but was still inside. And freedom was not on sale for $390.
He decided it would do no harm to stop in and see Wilcox. A week or so, he had said, and this was the seventh day. He approached the entrance of the building with a rapidly increasing sensation of dread, although a moment ago he had not been conscious of any at all. Suddenly he found himself inside the pastry shop, sitting down at a table, ordering coffee. Then he asked himself what was worrying him. It was not so much that he realized Wilcox would be annoyed to see him come around without waiting to be telephoned, but that he knew the time had come to bring up the subject of money. And he knew that Wilcox knew it, would be expecting it, and so he was worried. He lit a cigarette to accompany his coffee; the hot liquid reinforced the savor of the smoke. When he had finished the coffee he slapped his knee and rose with determination. «We’ve got to have a showdown,» he thought. But the Europe-Africa Tourist Service might as well have been a dentist’s office for the reluctance with which he climbed the stairs and drew near its door.
He knocked. «Sí!» cried Wilcox. He turned the knob; the door was locked. «Quién?» Wilcox called, with an edge of vexation or nervousness to his voice. Dyar hesitated, and was about to say: «Jack?» when the door was flung open.
As Dyar looked into Wilcox’s face, he saw the expression in his eyes change swiftly to one of annoyance. But the first emotion he had caught there had been one of unalloyed fear. Involuntarily Wilcox made a loud clicking sound of exasperation. Then he stepped back a little.
«Come in».
They remained standing in the ante-room, one on each side of the low table.
«What can I do for you?»
«I’ve got all that stuff you gave me down pat, pretty much. I thought I’d drop around and say hello».
«Yeah». Wilcox paused. «I thought we said I’d call you. I thought you understood that».
«I did, but you didn’t call».
«Any objection to waiting a few days? I’ve still got a lot of stuff here I’ve got to clear up. There’s no room for you here now».
Dyar laughed; Wilcox broke in on his laughter, his voice a bit higher in pitch. «I don’t want you here. Can’t you get that through your head? I’ve got special reasons for that».
Dyar took a deep breath. «I’ve got special reasons for coming here. I need some cash».
Wilcox narrowed his eyes. «What happened to all those express checks you had last week? Damn it, I told you you were Working for me. Do I have to sign a contract? I owe you a week’s wages, right? Well, I’d planned to pay you by the month, but if you want, I can make it twice a month. I know you’re short. It’s a nuisance to me, but I can do it that way if you like».
«But Jesus Christ, I need it now».
«Yeah, but I can’t give it to you now. I haven’t got it».
«What do you mean, you haven’t got it? It’s not that much». Dyar leered a bit as he said this.
«Listen, Nelson,» began Wilcox, his face taking on a long-suffering look — («Fake,» thought Dyar) — «I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t got it to give you. I’ve got a back bill at the Atlantide that would sink a ship. Whatever comes in goes to them now. If it didn’t I’d be in the street. You can see for yourself how much business I’m doing in here».