«Ah, Hugo,» she said when he appeared. «If the telephone rings this evening while Mr. Dyar is here, I’ve gone out to dinner and you don’t know where, or what time I’ll be back». After he had closed the door she got out of bed, wincing a little, more in anticipation of pain than because she felt it, and walked across the room to the window. It was a little before six and almost dark, the water down there was black and choppy, and the fading colorless sky made it look cold. Spain had disappeared, there were only the rocks and the sea, and soon there would be less than that: only the roar of the waves in the darkness. She pulled the curtains across all the windows carefully and turned on an electric heater by her dressing table. The little spotlights came on. She seated herself in front of the mirror and set to work on her face. It would be quicker than usual tonight because she knew exactly what light she would be in all during the evening. As she worked she found herself wondering exactly what this rather strange Mr. Dyar thought of her. «An aging nymphomaniac, most likely,» she suggested, determining to be as realistic and ruthless with herself as she could. But then she asked herself why she was being so violent; it could only be in order to kill whatever hope might be lurking within — hope that somehow he might find her attractive. «But that’s nonsense,» she objected. «What do I want of a callow, dull man like that? He’s a definite bore». However, she could not convince herself. He did not bore her; he was like an unanswered riddle, a painting seen in semi-darkness, its subject only guessed at, which could prove to be of something quite different once one looked at it in the light. When she reminded herself that he could not possibly turn out to be anything worthwhile or interesting, even if she did manage to understand him, the fact that he was mysterious remained, and that, for her, was the important thing about him. But why should she find any mystery in a person like that? Again she experienced a feeling of misgiving, a pleasurable little shudder of fear. «I can manage him,» she said to the half-finished face in the blinding mirror, «but can I manage you?»
The distant, multiple sounds of domestic activity came through the thick walls of the house, a series of muted, scarcely audible thuds rather than as noises actually distinguishable from one another; she, nevertheless, had learned through the years to interpret them. The pantry door swinging to, Mario’s evening tour of the lower floor, closing the shutters and drawing the curtains, Inez climbing the staircase, Paco going out to the kennels with the dogs’ dinner, she knew without question when each was happening, as the usher in a theatre knows from the dialogue exactly how the stage looks at any given moment, without needing to glance at it. Above these muffled sounds now emerged another, heard through the window: an automobile coming up the main road, turning into the driveway, stopping somewhere between the gate and the front door. Unconsciously she waited to hear it continue, to hear the car doors slam shut, the faint buzz of the bell in the kitchen, and the business of Hugo’s getting to the front entrance. But nothing happened. The silence outside went on for so long that she began to doubt she had really heard any car come into the driveway; it must have continued up the mountain.
When she had finished she turned off the spots, slipped into a new black and white négligée that Balenciaga had made for her in Madrid, rearranged the pillows, and got back into bed, thinking that perhaps it had been a very bad idea, after all, to invite Mr. Dyar alone for dinner. He might easily be made shy by the absence of other guests, and particularly by the fact that Luis was not there. «If he’s tongue-tied, what in God’s name shall I talk to him about?» she thought. With drinks enough he might be more at ease, but there was the worse danger of his having too many. Spurred on by her nervousness to speculations of disaster, she began to wish she had not acted so quickly on her impulse to invite him. But he would arrive at any moment now. She shut her eyes and tried to relax in the way a Yogi at Benares had taught her to do. It was only partially successful; nevertheless, the effort made time pass.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Hugo entered, announcing Mr. Dyar.
XVIII
Daisy struggled to a sitting position, a little resentful at having been caught unawares. Dyar held a brief case in his hand; he looked more wide-awake than she remembered him. She wondered in passing why Hugo had not taken the brief case from him along with his coat, and even more fleetingly she wondered why she had not heard the taxi arrive, but he was advancing toward the bed, and Hugo was going out and closing the door.
«Hi!» he said, shaking her hand vigorously. «I hope you’re sicker than you look, because you look fine,» He bent over and pushed the brief case under the table beside the bed.
«I’m not really sick at all. It’s just a twinge of sciatica that comes now and then. Nothing at all, darling. But I’m such a God-damned crybaby and I loathe pain so, that I simply pamper myself. And here I am. Sit down». She indicated the foot of the bed.
He obeyed, and she looked at him attentively. It seemed to her that his eyes were unusually bright, that his whole face shone with an unaccustomed physical glow. At the same time he struck her as being nervous and preoccupied. None of these things tallied with what she remembered about him; he had been restless at the Beidaoui party, but it was a restlessness that came from boredom or apathy, whereas at the moment he looked uneasy, intense, almost apprehensive. They talked a bit; his remarks were not the sort she would have expected from him; neither more intelligent nor more stupid, they nevertheless seemed to come from a different person. «But then, how do I know what he’s like? I scarcely know him at all,» she reflected.
«It feels good to get inside where it’s warm,» he said. «It’s chilly out».
«I take it your taxi wasn’t heated. Unless the car was delivered last week the heater would be broken by now. The Arabs have an absolute genius for smashing things. If you want to get rid of anything, just let an Arab touch it, and it’ll fall to pieces as he hands it back to you. They’re fantastic! What destructive people! God! Drinks will be along any minute. Tell me about yourself in the meantime». She pushed herself further back into the mound of pillows behind her and peered out at him with the expression of one about to be told a long story.
Dyar glanced at her sharply. «About myself,» he said, looking away again. «Nothing much to tell. More of the same. I think you know most of it». Now that everything was arranged, with Thami waiting in the mimosa scrub below the garden, and the Jilali dispatched to fetch the boat and bring it to the beach at Oued el Ihud at the foot of the cliffs, he was eager to be off, anxious lest some unforeseen event occur which could be a snag in his plans. The arrival of Wilcox, for instance, to pay an unexpected after-dinner call — that was one idea whose infinite possibilities of calamity paralyzed him; he forced himself to think of something else.