Let It Come Down: A Novel by Paul Bowles

Author:Paul Bowles
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Tags: General, New York (N.Y.), Fiction
ISBN: 9780061137396
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1980-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

Eunice left the American Legation about four o’clock. They had been most civil, she reflected. (She was always expecting to intercept looks of derision.) They had listened to her, made a few notes, and thanked her gravely. She on her side thought she had done rather well: she had not told them too much, —just enough to whet their interest. “Of course, I’m passing on this information to you for what it may be worth,” she had said modestly. “I have no idea how much truth there is in it. But I have a distinct feeling that you’ll find it worth your while to follow it up.” (When she had gone Mr. Doan, the Vice-Consul, had heaved an exaggerated sigh, remarked in a flat voice: “Oh, Death, where is thy sting?” and his secretary had smirked at him appreciatively.)

At the Metropole desk the manager handed Eunice an envelope which she opened on her way upstairs. It was a very short note written in French on the hotel stationery, suggesting that she meet the sender alone in the reading-room of the hotel at seven o’clock that evening. It added the hope that she would agree to receive the most distinguished sentiments of the signer, whose name when she saw it gave her an agreeable start. “Thami Beidaoui,” she read aloud, with satisfaction. At the moment she recalled only the two brothers who lived in the palace; the entrance of the third brother had been effected too late in her evening to make any lasting impression on her. Indeed, at the moment she did not so much as suspect his existence. If she had not been so completely preoccupied with worry about Hadija she would have been delighted with the message.

When she opened the door of her room the first thing she noticed was that the note she had left was gone and the bowl of chrysanthemums had been moved back to the center of the table. Then she heard splashing in the bathtub, and the familiar wobbling vocal line of the chant that habitually accompanied Hadija’s ablutions. “Thank God,” she breathed. That stage of the ordeal was over, at least. There remained the extraction of the admission of guilt, and the scene. Because there was going to be a scene, of course— Eunice would see to that. Only it was rather difficult to make a scene with Hadija; she was inclined to sit back like a spectator and watch it, rather than participate in it.

Eunice sat down to wait, to calm herself, and to try to prepare a method of operations. But when Hadija emerged in a small cloud of steam, clad in the satin and mink neglige, it was she who led the attack. Shrilling in Spanish, she accused Eunice of thinking only of herself, of taking her to the Beidaoui Palace and embarrassing her in front of a score of people by passing out, leaving her not only to extricate herself from the unbelievably humiliating situation, but to see to the removal of Eunice’s prostrate body as best she could.

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