Whitfield peered along one leg of the arch at the couple in back and then straightened up again.
“You’re now worried she’ll go to bed with him.”
“Don’t be trivial, Whitfield.”
“All right,” said Whitfield, feeling bored. “I shall pressure the government of the United States of America to expedite this stowaway’s removal, because the mayor and so forth of Okar-I’ll have to explain to them where Okar is-that the mayor feels a certain shakiness in his position and…”
“You ignore this,” said Remal. “I am not shaky in my position and, besides, the outside officials are gone. But you ignore this. Our traveler was clearly part of a large organization. And they punished him. Or they tried. Once they find out, dear Whitfield, that he did not complete his tour, his tour of penitude…”
“I think you mean penitence.”
“His punishment, Whitfield, then they will look to see where he is.”
“And you would sooner have the officials hanging around than those American organization men.”
“Officials I can buy.”
“My fizz is getting warm, Remal.”
“Go take care of him,” said the mayor, “while he is still here.”
“No problem. He’s a lot like a child.”
Remal did not answer and left after making his habitual bow.
Whitfield went back to the table and sat down. He saw that Beatrice had her chin in her hand and was smoking her cigarette too short. He found that his fizz was warm, and he saw that Quinn sat with his hands in his lap, quiet and patient.
“I want to sell my cans,” said Quinn.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to sell my water cans, the ones I brought in the box.”
A child, thought Whitfield. A child with the brain of an operator.
Chapter 6
They first walked to the house Beatrice had because the car was parked there. The car was a Giulietta, small and fast, and an Arab from Beatrice’s house stood by the garden wall to see that nobody stole anything out of the car or took off the wheels. The garden wall was very solid and high and the house behind was not visible.
“Come in for a drink,” said Beatrice. “You’ll have a long drive.”
“Which is why I don’t want to come in,” said Whitfield.
“I want to go down to the pier first,” said Quinn.
“All right,” said Whitfield.
“I think you could use the drink,” said Beatrice.
“Never mind, never mind. Siesta going to be shot and everything if we don’t get cracking.”
“I can drive,” said Quinn. “You can sleep in the car.”
“I take a bath during siesta. I don’t sleep.”
Whitfield got behind the wheel in a fair state of irritation, and when Quinn had slammed his own door Whitfield got the car down to the main street in something like leaps and bounds, as if inventing a new way to shift gears.
“You’re not turning towards the water,” said Quinn.
“Eh?”
“I want to check on those cans.”
“Preserve me, yes.”
“But you’re not turning…”
“Quinn, baby, listen. I must first stop by a store.”
“For what?”
“A preservative.” And then Whitfield shot down the main street until it petered out and stopped at the mouth of an alley where no car could enter.
“Native quarter,” said Whitfield. “Note the native craft of whitewash, the rustic filth on steps and cobbles, the aboriginal screams of joy and of anger as they chat in the street. Wait here, I’m buying me a bottle of wine. If you please.”
Quinn watched Whitfield go into a door. Or into a window, thought Quinn, because Whitfield had both to stoop down and step over a high stone sill all at the same time. Quinn got out and leaned by a stone wall and smelled the street and looked at the confusion of people. There were windows in the walls reminding one of gunslits, and a goat sat in the middle of the street looking at a butcher shop.
“Ah, the new one,” said somebody next to Quinn. Quinn gave a start which was close to fright.
“You’re Quinn, no?”
The Arab had a young face but an old-looking mouth because so many teeth were missing in the front. But he smiled just the same. He wore pants and an old army jacket.
“Now what?” said Quinn.
“I mean you just came, right?”
“You seem to know everything.”
“If I know your name, wouldn’t I know you are here?”
That sounds like an old Arab proverb, thought Quinn. And the guy looks like a cadaver which is still young. Quinn could think all this but he didn’t know what to say.
“Call me Turk,” said the Arab.
“That’s a fine old Arab name.”
“My good Arab name you couldn’t pronounce.”
“You want something?” asked Quinn. “You live here?”
Which he said to get just something or other straight.
“I live,” said Turk and kept smiling.
“Where’d you learn so much English?”
“Like this,” said Turk, and counted off on his fingers. “I once drove for the French. Then I went to France. There I soon moved to Paris. In Paris are Americans, and I learn to speak.”
“How’d you know who I was? You a friend of the mayor’s, too?”
“Who?”
“Remal.”
“Oh no.”
“That seems strange. All I ever meet…”
“He doesn’t trust me. Not at all,” and Turk laughed.
Quinn looked away to see if Whitfield was coming back yet.
“It always takes fifteen minutes,” said Turk. “Because of the talking you do with the purchase.”
“You sound like a guide,” said Quinn.
“Oh I could. Would you like to see the streets?”
“The mayor and I both don’t trust you,” said Quinn.
Turk shrugged and leaned by the wall, next to Quinn.
“You have a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” said Quinn.
“I meant for me, not you. Ah well,” and he scratched himself. “Anyway,” and now he looked earnest. “If you do want to see the native quarter, you know you should do it now.”
Quinn waited because he did not follow the man.
“You know that Remal won’t let you come here again.”
“What’s that?” said Quinn. He understood even less now. But somehow he felt he understood this Turk rather well, not the man perhaps, but the type. New arrival in town, little sucker play, a quick piaster or dinar or franc or whatever they use here, that type, and Quinn felt familiar with it. Not the pleasure of familiarity, just familiar “You
