With each day as it passed Dyar had been feeling a little further from the world; it was inevitable that at some point he should make a voluntary effort to put himself back in the middle of it again. To be able to believe fully in the reality of the circumstances in which a man finds himself, he must feel that they bear some relation, however distant, to other situations he has known. If he cannot find this connection, he is cut off from the outside. But since his inner sense of orientation depends for its accuracy on the proper functioning, at least in his eyes, of the outside world, he will make any readjustment consciously or otherwise, to restore the sense of balance. He is an instrument that strives to adapt itself to the new exterior; he must get those unfamiliar contours more or less into focus once again. And now the outside was very far away — so far that the leg of Chocron’s desk could have been something seen through a telescope from an observatory. He had the feeling that if he made a terrible effort he could bring about a change: either the leg of the desk would disappear, or, if it stayed, he would be able to understand what its presence meant. He held his breath. Through the dizziness that resulted he heard Chocron’s voice saying something that made no sense. «Cientocuarenta. Mire». He was holding up a piece of paper for him to look at. With the sense of lifting a tremendous weight, Dyar raised his eyes and saw figures written on it, conscious at the same time that inside himself a vast and irresistible upheaval was taking place. «Huh?» he said. Chocron had written «140».
«All right».
«One minute,» said Chocron; he rose, took the box of money, and went into another room, closing the door behind him.
Dyar did not move. He stared out the window at the wall of the building opposite. The quake was quieting down; the principal strata had shifted positions, and their new places seemed more comfortable. It was as if something which had been in his line of vision had now been removed, something that had been an obstacle to discovering how to change the external scene. But he distrusted this whole series of private experiences that had forced themselves upon him since he had come here. He was used to long stretches of intolerable boredom punctuated by small crises of disgust; these violent disturbances inside himself seemed no part of his life. They were much more a part of this senseless place he was in. Still, if that were the way the place was going to affect him, he had better get used to the effects and learn how to deal with them.
When Chocron returned he carried the box with him, but this time the bills in it were smaller, brownish-green, violet, and there were fewer of them. He set the box on the desk and still standing, wrote in his notebook for Dyar to see: 1260 @ l000p. «Count,» he said.
It took him a long time, even though most of the bills were new and crisp.
Well, this is fine, he thought, when he had finished. Twenty-five thousand two hundred bucks or thereabouts and no one to stop you. You just walk out. He looked up at Chocron’s face, curiously, for a second. No one but Wilcox. It was true. And Wilcox alone — not Wilcox with the police. By God, what a situation, he thought. It’s almost worth playing, just for the hell of it.
He did not pay much attention to Chocron’s handshake and to the steep stairs that led down into the street. Walking along slowly, being jostled by water carriers and elderly Jewish women in fringed shawls, he kept his eyes on the pavement, not thinking. But he felt the glossy paper around the box, and knew that Chocron had wrapped it carefully, that it was once again a parcel from the Galeries Lafayette. He went beneath a high arch where Arabs hawked bananas and thick glassware; to the left he recognized Thami’s café.
When he looked inside the door the radio was not playing. It was dark in the café, and he had the impression that the place was practically empty.
«Quiere algo?» said the qaouaji.
«No, no». The air was aromatic with kif smoke. A hand grasped his arm, squeezed it gently. He turned.
«Hello,» said Thami.
«Hi!» It was almost like seeing an old friend; he did not know why, except that he had been alone all during a day that had seemed endless. «I didn’t think you’d be here».
«I told you I’m always here».
«What d’you have a home for?»
Thami made a face and spat. «To sleep when I have no other place».
«And a wife? What d’you have a wife for?»
«Same thing. Sit down. Take a glass of good tea».
«I can’t. I have to go». He looked at his watch: it was quarter of four. «I have to go fast». The walk down to the Crédit Fonder was only a three-minute one, but he wanted to be sure and get there before they shut that iron grille.
«Are you going up or down?»
«To the Zoco Chico».
«I’ll walk with you».
«Okay». He did not want Thami along, but there was no way out of it, and anyway, he thought they might have a drink afterward.
As they walked, Thami looked disparagingly down at his own trousers, which were very much out of press and smeared with grease.
«My old clothes,» he remarked, pointing. «Very old. For working on my boat».
«Oh, you bought that boat?»
«Of course I bought it. I told you I was going to». He grinned. «Now I have it. Mister Thami Beidaoui, propietario of one old boat. One very old boat, but it goes fast».
«Goes fast?» Dyar repeated, not paying attention.
«I don’t know how fast, but faster than the fishing boats down there. You know, it’s an old boat. It can’t go like a new one».
«No. Of course».
They passed Ramlal’s shop. It was closed. Ramlal had added six batteries for portable radios to the array of fountain pens, celluloid toys and wrist watches. They passed El Gran Paris, its show windows a chaos of raincoats. It was always difficult to navigate the Zoco Chico with its groups of stationary talkers like rocks in the sea, around which the crowd surged in all directions. Arrived at what Dyar thought was the entrance to the Crédit Foncier, at the top of some steps between two cafés, he saw that even the way into the outer courtyard was barred by high gates which were closed.
«This isn’t it,» he said, looking uneasily up and down the plaza.
«What do you want?» Thami asked, perhaps slightly annoyed that Dyar had not already told him exactly where he was going and on what errand. Dyar did not reply; his heart sank, because he knew now that this was the Crédit Foncier and that it was closed. He ran up the steps and shook the gate, pounded on it, wondering if the sound could be heard through the vast babble of voices that floated in from the zoco.
Thami slowly climbed the steps, frowning. «Why do you want to get in? You want to go to the bank?»
«It’s not even five of four yet. It shouldn’t be closed».
Thami smiled pityingly. «Ha! You think this is America, people looking at their watches all the time until they see if it is exactly four o’clock, or exactly ten o’clock? Today they might stay open until twenty minutes past four, tomorrow they might lock the door at ten minutes before four. The way they feel. You know. Sometimes you have a lot of work. Sometimes not much».
«God damn it, I’ve got to get in there!» Dyar pounded on the gate some more, and called out: «Hey!»
Thami was used to this urgency on the part of foreigners. He smiled. «You can get in tomorrow morning».
«Tomorrow morning hell. I have to get in now».
Thami yawned and stretched. «Well, I would like to help you, but I can’t do anything».