The air’s clarity and the sun’s strength made him whistle in the shower, made him note, while he was shaving, that he was very hungry. Wilcox came at five minutes of nine, pounded heavily on the door and sat down panting in the chair by the window.
«Well, today’s the big day,» he said, trying to look both casual and jovial. «Hated to get you up so early. But it’s better to get these things done as fast as possible».
«What things?» said Dyar into his towel as he dried his face.
«Ashcombe-Danvers’s money is here. You’re taking it from Ramlal’s to the Crédit Fonder. Remember?»
«Oh». An extra and unwelcome complication for the day. He did not sound pleased, and Wilcox noticed it.
«What’s the matter? Business breaking into your social life?»
«No, no. Nothing’s the matter,» Dyar said, combing his hair in front of the mirror. «I’m just wondering why you picked me to be messenger boy».
«What d’you mean?» Wilcox sat up straight. «It’s been understood for ten days that you were going to take the job off my hands. You’ve been raising hell to start work. The first definite thing I give you to do, and you wonder why I give it to you! I asked you to do it because it’ll be a lot of help to me, that’s why!»
«All right, all right, all right. I haven’t raised any objection, have I?»
Wilcox looked calmer. «But Jesus, you’ve got a screwy attitude about the whole thing».
«You think so?» Dyar stood in the sunlight looking down at him, still combing his hair. «It could be the whole thing’s a little screwy».
Wilcox was about to speak. Then, thinking better of it, he decided to let Dyar continue. But something in his face must have warned Dyar, for instead of going ahead and bringing in the British currency restrictions as he had intended, just to let Wilcox see that by «screwy» he meant «illegal» (since Wilcox seemed to think he was wholly ignorant of even that detail), said only: «Well, it ought not to take long, at any rate».
«Five minutes,» said Wilcox, rising. «Have you had coffee?» Dyar shook his head. «Let’s get going, then».
«God, what sun!» Dyar cried as they stepped out of the hotel. It was the first clear morning he had seen, it made a new world around him, it was like emerging into daylight after an endless night. «Smell that air,» he said, stopping to stand with one hand on the trunk of a palm tree, facing the beach, sniffing audibly.
«For Christ’s sake, let’s get going!» Wilcox cried, making a point of continuing to walk ahead as fast as he could. He was letting his impatience run away with him. Dyar caught up with him, glanced at him curiously; he had not known Wilcox was so nervous. And in his insistence upon taking great strides, Wilcox stepped into some dog offal and slipped, coming down full length on the pavement. Picking himself up, even before he was on his feet, he snarled at Dyar. «Go on, laugh, God damn you! Laugh!» But Dyar merely looked concerned. There was no way of laughing in such a situation. (The sudden sight of a human being deprived of its dignity did not strike him as basically any more ludicrous and absurd than the constant effort required for the maintenance of that dignity, or than the state itself of being human in what seemed an undeniably non-human world.) But this morning, to be agreeable, he smiled as he helped dust off Wilcox’s topcoat. «Did it get on me?» demanded Wilcox.
«Nope».
«Well, come on, God damn it».
They stopped for coffee at the place where Dyar had taken breakfast the previous day, but Wilcox would not sit down.
«We haven’t got time».
«We? Where are you going?»
«Back to the Atlantide as soon as I know you’re really on your way to Ramlal’s, and not down onto the beach to sun-bathe».
«I’m on my way. Don’t worry about me».
They walked to the door. «I’ll leave you, then,» Wilcox said. «You got everything straight?»
«Don’t worry about me!»
«Come up to the hotel when you’re finished. We can have some breakfast then».
«Fine».
Wilcox walked up the hill feeling exhausted. When he got to the Metropole he undressed and went back to bed. He would have time for a short nap before Dyar’s arrival.
Following the Avenida de Espaiia along the beach toward the old part of town, Dyar toyed with the idea of going to the American Legation and laying the whole story of Madame Jouvenon before them. But who would «they» be? Some sleek-jowled individual out of the Social Register who would scarcely listen to him at first, and then would begin to stare at him with inimical eyes, put a series of questions to him in a cold voice, making notes of the replies. He imagined going into the spotless office, receiving the cordial handshake, being offered the chair in front of the desk.
«Good morning. What can I do for you?»
The long hesitation. «Well, it’s sort of hard. I don’t quite know how to tell you. I think I’ve gotten into some trouble».
The consul or vice-consul would look at him searchingly. «You think?» A pause. «Perhaps you’d better begin by telling me your name». Whereupon he would give him not only his name, but the whole stupid story of what had happened yesterday noon at the Empire. The man would look interested, clear his throat, put his hand out on the desk, say: «First of all, let’s have the check».
«I haven’t got it. I deposited it in the bank».
«That was bright!» (Angrily.) «Just about ten times as much work for us».
«Well, I needed money».
The man’s voice would get unpleasant. «Oh, you needed money, did you? You opened an account and drew on it, is that it?»
«That’s right».