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Authors: Paul Bowles
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heart.”
The man was looking at him now with mingled wonder and suspicion. Amar saw this, and decided to come to the point.
“With five days’ pay in advance I would leave here this evening the happiest man in the world.”
“Yes,” the potter said, “and have I got my own policeman to go and find you tomorrow and drag you here? How do I know you’ll ever come back? I’d probably find you down in Dar Debbagh carrying hides to the river, trying the same trick on them there.”
Amar was convinced the man would give him the money; without further words he turned away and climbed back down to his sunken seat to resume his work. When he had the wheel going, he looked up and said: “Forgive me, sidi.”
The man stood perfectly still. Finally he said, almost plaintively: “How do I know you’ll come back tomorrow?”
“Ya, sidi,” Amar said. “Since the world began has any man ever been able to know what would happen tomorrow? The world of men is today. I’m asking you to open your heart today. Tomorrow belongs to Allah, and incha’Allah” —he said the words with great feeling—”I shall come back tomorrow and every day after that. Incha’Allah!”
The man reached into his choukra and pulled out the money.
“Here is your father’s buttermilk,” he said. “May he get well quickly.”
The waste land at the foot of the cemetery opposite Bab Fteuh was not on his way home, nevertheless Amar contrived to pass by it when he had finished his day’s work, on the slim chance that the younger Yazami might possibly be among the two dozen or more boys practicing there with a football. He did not find him, but he found a student who claimed to know where he was, and in his company began a quest which led through the dampstreets of El Mokhfia and across the river to a small café he had never seen before. El Yazami was here, seated among a group of boys his age, playing checkers. When he saw Amar his face fell: the only reason Amar could have for seeking him out so soon was to tell him the money was not to be forthcoming. After urging Amar to have a Coca-Cola, which he politely refused—for, this being an expensive café with tables and chairs instead of mats, he did not want in any way to get involved—El Yazami took his arm and propelled him outside, where they stood in the dark under a high plane tree and talked.
Amar’s principal interest was in keeping the other away from his place of work, where the boy’s presence would immediately arouse the suspicions of the potter. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to have made that the meeting-place.
“It would be better if you didn’t come tomorrow,” he said. Then he added: “He only gave me twenty-five rial.” In the darkness he handed over the coins; the other went to the doorway to count them by the dim light that came from within. It was an agreeable surprise because he had expected nothing.
“I still owe you twenty-five,” Amar was saying, “and you’ll get them as soon as I do. But try and bring in some more business, yes? You’ll get the rest sooner.” This seemed sensible enough to El Yazami, and he agreed to do what he could. They parted, each one reasonably pleased with the outcome of the meeting.
Surprisingly enough, during the days that followed, El Yazami did make efforts to find customers for Amar’s employer, and these were not in vain. Indeed, they were so successful that one evening at the end of the week the potter came down into Amar’s little workroom. He stood a moment looking at the boy before he spoke. When he did begin to speak, it was with satisfaction and a slight awe in his voice. “ Sidi ,” he said. (Amar smiled inwardly: he had never addressed him thus before.) “Since you have been here with me Allah has favored me with more success than I had ever thought was possible.”
“Hamdoul’lah ,” said Amar.
“Do you like your work?”
“Yes, master.”
“I hope you’ll stay with me,” the
The man was looking at him now with mingled wonder and suspicion. Amar saw this, and decided to come to the point.
“With five days’ pay in advance I would leave here this evening the happiest man in the world.”
“Yes,” the potter said, “and have I got my own policeman to go and find you tomorrow and drag you here? How do I know you’ll ever come back? I’d probably find you down in Dar Debbagh carrying hides to the river, trying the same trick on them there.”
Amar was convinced the man would give him the money; without further words he turned away and climbed back down to his sunken seat to resume his work. When he had the wheel going, he looked up and said: “Forgive me, sidi.”
The man stood perfectly still. Finally he said, almost plaintively: “How do I know you’ll come back tomorrow?”
“Ya, sidi,” Amar said. “Since the world began has any man ever been able to know what would happen tomorrow? The world of men is today. I’m asking you to open your heart today. Tomorrow belongs to Allah, and incha’Allah” —he said the words with great feeling—”I shall come back tomorrow and every day after that. Incha’Allah!”
The man reached into his choukra and pulled out the money.
“Here is your father’s buttermilk,” he said. “May he get well quickly.”
The waste land at the foot of the cemetery opposite Bab Fteuh was not on his way home, nevertheless Amar contrived to pass by it when he had finished his day’s work, on the slim chance that the younger Yazami might possibly be among the two dozen or more boys practicing there with a football. He did not find him, but he found a student who claimed to know where he was, and in his company began a quest which led through the dampstreets of El Mokhfia and across the river to a small café he had never seen before. El Yazami was here, seated among a group of boys his age, playing checkers. When he saw Amar his face fell: the only reason Amar could have for seeking him out so soon was to tell him the money was not to be forthcoming. After urging Amar to have a Coca-Cola, which he politely refused—for, this being an expensive café with tables and chairs instead of mats, he did not want in any way to get involved—El Yazami took his arm and propelled him outside, where they stood in the dark under a high plane tree and talked.
Amar’s principal interest was in keeping the other away from his place of work, where the boy’s presence would immediately arouse the suspicions of the potter. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to have made that the meeting-place.
“It would be better if you didn’t come tomorrow,” he said. Then he added: “He only gave me twenty-five rial.” In the darkness he handed over the coins; the other went to the doorway to count them by the dim light that came from within. It was an agreeable surprise because he had expected nothing.
“I still owe you twenty-five,” Amar was saying, “and you’ll get them as soon as I do. But try and bring in some more business, yes? You’ll get the rest sooner.” This seemed sensible enough to El Yazami, and he agreed to do what he could. They parted, each one reasonably pleased with the outcome of the meeting.
Surprisingly enough, during the days that followed, El Yazami did make efforts to find customers for Amar’s employer, and these were not in vain. Indeed, they were so successful that one evening at the end of the week the potter came down into Amar’s little workroom. He stood a moment looking at the boy before he spoke. When he did begin to speak, it was with satisfaction and a slight awe in his voice. “ Sidi ,” he said. (Amar smiled inwardly: he had never addressed him thus before.) “Since you have been here with me Allah has favored me with more success than I had ever thought was possible.”
“Hamdoul’lah ,” said Amar.
“Do you like your work?”
“Yes, master.”
“I hope you’ll stay with me,” the
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