“It astounds me,” Frances said. “Well, come on, Rickie, if the British aren’t interested in getting rich, what are they interested in?”
“Oh, they say they’re interested in living quiet lives. Eight percent even say that they’re interested in working on behalf of society. It’s no wonder you people are in postimperial decline, with a set of attitudes like that.”
“You’ve changed a lot,” Frances said. “Since you were in Peace Corps.”
“Don’t remind him,” Carla said. “He hates to think of when he used to ride around Gaborone on a bicycle.”
“Come on then,” Andrew said. “Let’s have facts and figures, young man. Now what percentage of the Japanese—”
Frances’s thoughts had been drifting all evening. “Twelve percent of Japanese—” Rickie was saying; but she was back with Yasmin, the badly lit hallway, her downcast face, the secrets on the tip of her tongue. Samira had laughed at Yasmin for being so pious. Was she really? Was it repentance? Was it hypocrisy? Hypocrisy is a science, here. The pure youth and chaste married men go to Bangkok, and bring back foul diseases. The Princes excoriate America, and beg it for missiles. And so is it possible that this moral city is just a network of pretenses and counterpretenses? Is it possible that this holy city has the best liars in the world?
“Frances, are you listening?” Andrew said. “When the rich were surveyed, eighty-five percent of them thought they hadn’t taken any particular risk to get their money.”
“Not like us,” she said. “Andrew wants a flat in London, did he tell you? We have to stick it out here till we save up a healthy deposit.”
“The Brits think the rich are lazy,” Rickie said, “and they think that they’re ruthless and greedy. Sixty-two percent think that they are snobbish.”
“You have to admit,” Andrew said, “that unlimited cash doesn’t seem to be good for people. I mean, if you judge by this place.”
“So what do you want, more than you want to be rich?”
“Peace,” Andrew said.
“Freedom,” Frances said.
“Yeah,” Rickie said. “These are the abstractions the typical Brit goes for.”
“I’d settle for fifty percent peace,” Andrew said. “And say, seventy percent freedom.”
“Freedom’s indivisible,” Carla said. She leaned forward, holding out her glass for a refill. “At least, that’s what we were told in high school, but I’ve never known what it means.”
At one A.M. the Zussmans rolled up their carpet and departed. “I’m tired,” Andrew said. He cleaned his teeth, dropped his clothes on the floor, fell into bed and into sleep. Within the space of five minutes she seemed to find herself alone, passed from polite chatter to restless isolation; she was wide awake, thoughts chasing each other like snapping dogs. She washed the glasses, went into the bathroom, and took a vitamin C tablet, as a precaution against a hangover. I will let myself out and go up on to the roof, she said; because every time I go up on to the roof, life gets more exciting.
She slipped the bunch of keys into her pocket, closing the front door quietly behind her; even the pressure of her finger on the hall light switch was slow and easy, as if just a click could galvanize Dunroamin, make the hibernating monster mutter and stir.
The walls watched her, each separate tile with its own maleficent stare. She climbed the main stairs, climbed the half flight, and opened the door to the roof. The air was cool. She took a deep breath. The whole city seemed to lie below her, as if she had climbed much farther than she thought; blank roads like distant snakes, and a million tiny lights. Somewhere, above the hazy emanations of light from factories and apartment blocks, there must be the stars. Samira had shown her a book, some ancient desert poet: “The evening is a black bride, wearing silver necklaces.” But now what lights the night sky? An alien zodiac: SANYO SANYO SANYO. What sparkles over Arabia, silver and green, what leaches the darkness from the night? A sign blinks and flickers over the Mecca Road, above the route to the Holy Places, over the path to the Ka’aba: 7-UP 7-UP 7-UP.
Frances stood for a while; then turned and went back down the stairs, onto the top landing. The workmen had nearly finished; there were a few planks of wood about, and empty paint tins. She stopped between the two closed doors; then moved toward the door of the empty flat, and put her ear to it.
Someone was in there. She could hear them speak; she could hear their movements. But not Yasmin, because Yasmin was entertaining: a buffet for twenty-five. She would have no chance to get away. Shams would not be asleep yet; she would be scrubbing pots in the kitchen, waiting for her billet on the dining room floor. And mother- in-law, too, would not be asleep; she ranges through the world, seeking whom she may devour.
I am sorry for what I thought, she says to herself, making a mental apology to Yasmin; how could I think you would be so reckless? Someone is in there, but it is not you. But I must know. Who walks about in the dark?
She lifted her hand, as if to knock. Then let it fall by her side. Listened for a further moment, head inclined toward the door. Went downstairs. Let herself in, and shut and locked the door behind her. Double-locked the door, and slammed on the bolt. Once, she thought, this bunch of keys was a persecution, but now it is my friend. Her pulse, which had been racing, began to slow.
One evening the wind changed. The moon
