Then she rose, put on her coat, took the burnous which Tunner had left with her, and without looking back went out the door. She locked it behind her and put the key into her handbag. At the big gate the guard made as if to stop her. She said good evening to him and pushed by. Immediately afterward she heard him call to another in an inner room nearby. She breathed deeply and walked ahead, down toward the town. The sun had set; the earth was like a single ember alone on the hearth, rapidly cooling and growing black. A drum beat in the oasis. There would probably be dancing in the gardens later. The season of feasts had begun. Quickly she descended the hill and went straight to Daoud Zozeph’s shop without once looking around.
She went in. Daoud Zozeph stood behind the counter in the fading light. He reached across and shook her hand.
“Good evening, madame.”
“Good evening.”
“Your valise is here. Shall I call a boy to carry it for you?”
“No, no,” she said. “At least, not now. I came to talk to you.” She glanced around at the doorway behind her; he did not notice.
“I am delighted,” he said. “One moment. I shall get you a chair, madame.” He brought a small folding chair around from behind the counter and placed it beside her.
“Thank you,” she said, but she remained standing. “I wanted to ask you about trucks leaving Sba.”
“Ah, for El Ga’a. We have no regular service. One came last night and left again this afternoon. We never know when the next will come. But Captain Broussard is always notified at least a day in advance. He could tell you better than anyone else.”
“Captain Broussard. Ah, I see.”
“And your husband. Is he better? Did he enjoy the milk?”
“The milk. Yes, he enjoyed it,” she said slowly, wondering a little that the words could sound so natural.
“I hope he will soon be well.”
“He is already well.”
“Ah, hamdoul’lah!”
“Yes.” And starting afresh, she said: “Monsieur Daoud Zozeph, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Your favor is granted, madame,” he said gallantly. She felt that he had bowed in the darkness.
“A great favor,” she warned.
Daoud Zozeph, thinking that perhaps she wanted to borrow money, began to rattle objects on the counter, saying: “But we are talking in the dark. Wait. I shall light a lamp.”
“No! Please!” exclaimed Kit.
“But we don’t see each other!” he protested.
She put her hand on his arm. “I know, but don’t light the lamp, please. I want to ask you this favor immediately. May I spend the night with you and your wife?”
Daoud Zozeph was completely taken aback—both astonished and relieved. “Tonight?” he said.
“Yes.”
There was a short silence.
“You understand, madame, we should be honored to have you in our house. But you would not be comfortable. You know, a house of poor people is not like a hotel or a poste militaire. . . .”
“But since I ask you,” she said reproachfully, “that means I don’t care. You think that matters to me? I have been sleeping on the floor here in Sba.”
“Ah, that you would not have to do in my house,” said Daoud Zozeph energetically.
“But I should be delighted to sleep on the floor. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”
“Ah, no! No, madame! Not on the floor! Quandmime!” he objected. And as he struck a match to light the lamp, she touched his arm again.
“Ecoutez, monsieur,” she said, her voice sinking to a conspiratorial whisper, “my husband is looking for me, and I don’t want him to find me. We have had a misunderstanding. I don’t want to see him tonight. It’s very simple. I think your wife would understand.”
Daoud Zozeph laughed. “Of course! Of course!” Still laughing, he closed the door into the street, bolted it, and struck a match, holding it high in the air. Lighting matches all the way, he led her through a dark inner room and across a small court. The stars were above. He paused in front of a door. “You can sleep here.” He opened the door and stepped inside. Again a match flared: she saw a tiny room in disorder, its sagging iron bed covered with a mattress that vomited excelsior.
“This is not your room, I hope?” she ventured, as the match went out.
“Ah, no! We have another bed in our room, my wife and I,” he answered, a note of pride in his voice. “This is where my brother sleeps when he comes from ColombB&char. Once a year he visits me for a month, sometimes longer. Wait. I shall bring a lamp.” He went off, and she heard him talking in another room. Presently he returned with an oil lamp and a small tin pail of water.
With the arrival of the light, the room took on an even more piteous aspect. She had the feeling that the floor had never yet been swept since the day the mason had finished piling the mud on the walls, the ubiquitous mud that dried, crumbled, and fell in a fine powder day and night.... She glanced up at him and smiled.
“My wife wants to know if you like noodles,” said Daoud Zozeph.
“Yes, of course,” she answered, trying to look into the peeling mirror over the washstand. She could see nothing at all.
“Bien. You know, my wife speaks no French.”
“Really. You will have to be my interpreter.”
There was a dull knocking, out in the shop. Daoud Zozeph excused himself and crossed the court. She shut the door, found there was no key, stood there waiting. It would have been so easy for one of the guards at the fort to follow her. But she doubted that they had thought of it in time. She sat down on the outrageous bed and stared at the wall opposite. The lamp sent up a column of acrid smoke.
The evening meal at Daoud Zozeph’s was unbelievably bad. She forced down the amorphous lumps of dough fried in deep fat and served cold, the pieces of cartilaginous meat, and the soggy bread, murmuring vague compliments which were warmly received, but which led her hosts to press more of the food upon her. Several times during the meal she glanced at her watch. Tunner would be waiting in the public garden now, and when he left there he would go up to the fort. At that moment the trouble would begin; Daoud Zozeph could not help hearing of it tomorrow from his customers.
Madame Daoud Zozeph gestured vigorously for Kit to continue eating; her bright eyes were fixed on her guest’s plate. Kit looked across at her and smiled.
“Tell madame that because I am a little upset now I am not very hungry,” she said to Daoud Zozeph, “but that I should like to have something in my room to eat later. Some bread would be perfect.”
“But of course. Of course,” he said.
When she had gone to her room, Madame Daoud Zozeph brought her a plate piled high with pieces of bread. She thanked her and said good night, but her hostess was not inclined to leave, making it clear that she was interested in seeing the interior of the traveling case. Kit was determined not to open it in front of her; the thousand-franc notes would quickly become a legend in Sba. She pretended not to understand, patted the case, nodded and laughed. Then she turned again toward the plate of bread and repeated her thanks. But Madame Daoud Zozeph’s eyes did not leave the valise. There was a screeching and fluttering of wings outside in the court. Daoud Zozeph appeared carrying a fat hen, which he set down in the middle of the floor.
“Against the vermin,” he explained, pointing at the hen.
“Vermin?” echoed Kit.
“If a scorpion shows its head anywhere along the floor-tac! She eats it!”
“Ah!” She fabricated a yawn.