The Delicate Prey: And Other Stories by Paul Bowles
“Where? Barranquilla?”
“No. Here.” He pointed down the dark road.
“Where? Can I walk?”
“Sure. I go you.”
“No! No thanks. You stay here. Thank you. I can go all right. Where is it? How far?”
“O.K.”
“What is it? A bar? What’s the name?”
“They got music. La Gloria. You go. You hear music. You look for two ladies. They drinking.”
She went inside again and checked the bags with an airline employee who insisted on accompanying her. They strode in silence along the back road. The walls of vegetation on each side sheltered insects that made an occasional violent, dry noise like a wooden ratchet being whirled. Soon there was the sound of drums and trumpets playing Cuban dance music.
“La Gloria,” said her escort triumphantly.
La Gloria was a brilliantly lighted mud hut with a thatch-covered veranda giving onto the road. The juke box was outside, where a few dnmken Negroes sprawled.
“Are they here?” she said out loud, but to herself.
“La Gloria,” he answered, pointing.
As they came opposite the front of the building, she caught a glimpse of a woman in blue jeans, and although instantaneously she knew it was Prue, her mind for some reason failed to accept the fact, and she continued to ask herself, “Are they here or not?”
She turned to go toward the veranda. The record had finished playing. The ditch lay in the dark between the road and the porch. She fell forward into it and heard herself cry out. The man behind her said, “Cuidado!” She lay there panting with fury and pain, and said, “Oh! My ankle!” There was an exclamation inside the bar. Her mother’s voice cried, “That’s Aileen!” Then the juke box began to scratch and roar again. The Negroes remained stationary. Someone helped her up. She was inside the bar in the raw electric glare.
“I’m all right,” she said, when she had been eased into a chair.
“But darling, where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for you since eight, and we’d just about given up. Poor Prue’s ill.”
“Nonsense, I’ll recover,” said Prue, still seated at the bar. “Been having a touch of the trots, that’s all.”
“But darting, are you all right? This is absurd, landing here this way.”
She looked down at Aileen’s ankle.
“Is it all right?”
Prue came over from the bar to shake her hand.
“A dramatic entrance, gal,” she said.
Aileen sat there and smiled. She had a curious mental habit. As a child she had convinced herself that her head was transparent, that the thoughts there could be perceived immediately by others. Accordingly, when she found herself in uncomfortable situations, rather than risk the danger of being suspected of harboring uncomplimentary or rebellious thoughts, she had developed a system of refraining from thinking at all. For a while during her childhood this fear of having no mental privacy had been extended to anyone; even persons existing at a distance could have access to her mind. Now she felt open only to those present. And so it was that, finding herself face to face with Prue, she was conscious of no particular emotion save the familiar vague sense of boredom. There was not a thought in her head, and her face made the fact apparent.
Mornings were hard to believe. The primeval freshness, spilled down out of the jungle above the house, was held close to the earth by the mist. Outside and in, it was damp and smelled like a florist’s shop, but the dampness was dispelled each day when the stinging sun burned through the thin cape of moisture that clung to the mountain’s back. Living there was like living sideways, with the land stretching up on one side and down on the other at the same angle. Only the gorge gave a feeling of perpendicularity; the vertical walls of rock on the opposite side of the great amphitheatre were a reminder that the center of gravity lay below and not obliquely to one side. Constant vapor rose from the invisible pool at the bottom, and the distant, indeterminate calling of water was like the sound of sleep itself.
For a few days Aileen lay in bed listening to the water and the birds, and to the nearby, unfamiliar, domestic sounds. Her mother and Prue both had breakfast in bed, and generally appeared just before the midday meal for a few minutes of conversation until Concha brought the invalid’s lunch tray. In the afternoons she thumbed through old magazines and read at murder mysteries. Usually it began to rain about three; the sound at first would be like an augmentation of the waterfall in the distance, and then as its violence increased it came unmistakably nearer—a great roar all around the house that covered every other sound. The black clouds would close in tightly around the mountain, so that it seemed that night would soon arrive. She would ring a small bell for Concha to come and light the oil lamp on the table by the bed. Lying there looking at the wet banana leaves outside the window, with the rain’s din everywhere, she felt completely comfortable for the precarious moment. There was no necessity to question the feeling, no need to think—only the subsiding of the rain, the triumphant emergence of the sun into the steaming twilight and an early dinner to look forward to. Each evening after dinner her mother came for a lengthy chat, usually about the servants. The first three nights Prue had come too, carrying a highball, but after that her mother came alone.
Aileen had asked to be put into the old part of the house, rather than into a more comfortable room in the new wing. Her window looked onto the garden, which was a small square of lawn with young banana trees on either side. At the far end was a fountain; behind it was the disordered terrain of the mountainside with its recently cut underbrush and charred stumps, and still further beyond was the high jungle whose frontier had been sliced in a straight line across the slopes many years ago to make the plantation. Here in her room she felt at least that the earth was somewhere beneath her.
When her ankle ceased to pain her, she began going downstairs for lunch, which was served out on the terrace at a table with a beach umbrella stuck in its center. Prue was regularly late in coming from her studio, and she arrived in her blue jeans, which were caked with clay, with smears of dirt across her face. Because Aileen could not bring herself to think what she really felt, which was that Prue was ungracious, ugly and something of an interloper, she remained emotionally unconscious of Prue’s presence, which is to say that she was polite but bored, scarcely present in the mealtime conversations. Then, too, Aileen was definitely uncomfortable on the terrace. The emptiness was too near and the balustrade seemed altogether too low for safety. She liked the meals to be as brief as possible, with no unnecessary time spent sipping coffee afterward, but it never would have occurred to her to divulge her reasons. With Prue around she felt constrained to behave with the utmost decorum. Fortunately her ankle provided her with a convenient excuse to get back upstairs to her room.
She soon discovered a tiny patio next to the kitchen where heavy vines with sweet-smelling flowers grew up an arbor that had been placed at one side. The air was full of the humming of hundreds of bees that clung heavily to the petals and moved slowly about in the air. After lunch she would pull a deck chair into the arbor’s shade and read until the rain began. It was a stifling, airless spot, but the sound of the bees covered that of the waterfall. One afternoon Prue followed her there and stood with her hands in her hip pockets looking at her.
“How can you take this heat?” she asked Aileen.
“Oh, I love it.”
“You do?” She paused. “Tell me, do you really like it here, or do you think it’s a bloody bore?”
“Why, I think it’s absolutely wonderful.”
“Mm. It is.”
“Don’t you like it?”
Prue yawned. “Oh, I’m all for it. But I keep busy. Wherever I can work, I get on, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Aileen. Then she added, “Are you planning on staying long?”
“What the hell do you mean?” said Prue, leaning backward against the house, her hands still behind her. “I live here.”
Aileen lau
ghed shortly. To anyone but Prue it would have sounded like a merry, tinkling laugh, but Prue narrowed her eyes and thrust her jaw forward a bit.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I think you’re funny. You’re so tied up in knots. You get upset so easily. Perhaps you work too hard out there in your little house.”
Prue was looking at her with astonishment.
“God Almighty,” she said finally, “your I.Q.’s showing, gal.”
“Thank you,” said Aileen with great seriousness. “Anyway, I think it’s fine that you’re happy here, and I hope you go on being happy.”
“That’s what I came to say to you.”
“Then everything’s fine.”
“I can’t make you out,” said Prue, frowning.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Aileen, fingering the pages of her book impatiently. “It’s the most pointless conversation I’ve ever had.”
“That I don’t think,” Prue said, going into the kitchen.
The same evening, when her mother came for her usual after-dinner chat, she looked a little unhappy.
“You don’t seem to be getting on very well with Prue,” she said reproachfully, as she sat down at the foot of the bed.
“Why, we get on perfectly well. Oh. You’re talking about this afternoon, probably.”
“Yes, I am, probably. Really, Aileen. You simply can’t be rude to a woman her age. She’s my guest, and you’re my guest, and you’ve got to be civil to each other. But she’s always civil and I have a feeling you’re not.”
Aileen caught her breath and said, “I’m your guest . . .”
“I invited you here for your vacation and I want things pleasant, and I don’t see the slightest reason why they shouldn’t be.”
Suddenly Aileen cried, “She’s a maniac!”
Her mother rose and quickly left the room.
In the quiet days that followed, the incident was not mentioned by any of them. Aileen continued to haunt the little patio after lunch.
There came a morning sweeter than the rest, when the untouched early mist hung inside her bedroom, and the confusion of shrill bird cries came down with perfect clarity from the uncut forest. She dressed quickly and went out. There was a white radiance in the air that she had never seen before. She walked along the path that led by the native huts. There was life stirring within; babies were crying and captive parrots and songbirds laughed and sang. The path swung into a stretch of low trees that had been planted to shield the coffee bushes. It was still almost nocturnal in here; the air was streaked with chill, and the vegetable odors were like invisible festoons drooping from the branches as she walked through. A huge bright spider walked slowly across the path at her feet. She stood still and watched it until it had disappeared in the leaves at one side. She put her hand over her heart to feel how insistently it was beating. And she listened to its sound in her head for a moment, not wanting to break into its rhythm by starting to walk again. Then she began to walk ahead fast, following the path upward toward the lightest part of the sky. When it came out suddenly onto an eminence directly above the plantation, she could barely discern the cluster of roofs through the mist. But here the sound of the waterfall was stronger; she supposed she was near the gorge, although there was no sign of it. The path turned here and went along rough open ground upward. She climbed at a steady gait, breathing slowly and deeply, for perhaps half an hour, and was surprised to find that the jungle had been cut away on all sides in this portion of the mountain-side. For a time she thought the sky was growing brighter, and that the sun was about to break through, but as the path leveled out and she was able to see for some distance ahead, she saw that the mist was even thicker up here than down below.
At certain points there was a steep declivity on each side of the path. It was impossible to see how deeply the land fell away. There were a few nearby plants and rocks, the highest fronds of a tree-fem a little beyond, and white emptiness after that. It was like going along the top of a wall high in the air. Then the path would make a wide turn and go sharply upward and she would see a solitary tree above her at one side.
Suddenly she came up against a row of huts. They were less well made than those down at the plantation, and smaller. The mist was full of woodsmoke; there was the smell of pigs. She stood still. A man was singing. Two small naked children came out of the door of one hut, looked at her a moment in terror, and ran quickly back inside. She walked ahead. The singing came from behind the last hut. When she came opposite the hut, she saw that it was enclosed by a tangled but effective fence of barbed wire which left a runway about six feet wide all the way around. A young man appeared from the farther side of the closed-in space. His shirt and pants were tattered; the brown skin showed in many places. He was singing as he walked toward her, and he continued to sing, looking straight into her face with bright, questioning eyes. She smiled and said, “Buenos dias.” He made a beckoning gesture, rather too dramatically. She stopped walking and stood still, looking hesitantly back at the other huts. The young man beckoned again and then stepped inside the hut. A moment later he came out, and still staring fascinatedly at her, made more summoning motions. Aileen stood perfectly quiet, not taking her eyes from his face. He walked slowly over to the fence and grasped the wire with both hands, his eyes growing wider as he pressed the barbs into his palms. Then he leaned across, thrusting his head toward her, his eyes fixing hers with incredible intensity. For several seconds they watched each other; then she stepped a little nearer, peering into his face and frowning. At that point with a cry he emptied his mouth of the water he had been holding in it, aiming with force at Aileen’s face. Some of it struck her cheek, and the rest the front of her dress. His fingers unclenched themselves from around the wire, and straightening himself, he backed slowly into the hut, watching her face closely all the while.
She stood still an instant, her hand to her cheek. Then she bent down, and picking up a large stone from the path she flung it with all her strength through the door. A terrible cry came from within; it was like nothing she had ever heard. Or yes, she thought as she began to run back past the other huts, it had the indignation and outraged innocence of a small baby, but it was also a grown man’s cry. No one appeared as she passed the huts. Soon she was back in the silence of the empty mountain-side, but she kept running, and she was astonished to find that she was sobbing as well. She sat down on a rock and calmed herself by watching some ants demolish a bush as they cut away squares of leaf and carried them away in their mouths. The sky was growing brighter now; the sun would soon be through. She went on. By the time she got back to the high spot above the plantation the mist had turned into long clouds that were rolling away down the mountainside into the ravines. She was horrified to see how near she stood to the ugly black edge of the gorge. And the house looked insane down there, leaning out over as if it were trying to see the bottom. Far below the house the vapor rose up from the pool. She followed the sheer sides of the opposite cliff upward with her eye, all the way to the top, a little above the spot where she stood. It made her feel ill, and she stumbled back down to the house with her hand to her fore-head, paying no attention to the natives who greeted her from their doorways.
As she ran past the garden a voice called to her. She turned and saw Prue washing her hands in the fountain’s basin. She stood still.
“You’re up early. You must feel better,” said Prue, drying her hands on her hair. “Your mother’s been having a fit. Go in and see her.”
Aileen stared at Prue a moment before she said, “I was going in. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Oh, I thought I did.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I think I can manage all right without your help.”
“Help isn’t exactly what I’d like to give you,” said Prue, putting her hands into her pockets. “A swift kick in the teeth would be more like it. How do you think I like to see your mother worrying about you? First you’
re sick in bed, then you just disappear into the goddamn jungle. D’you think I like to have to keep talking about you, reassuring her every ten minutes? What the hell d’you think life is, one long coming-out party?”
Aileen stared harder, now with unmasked hatred. “I think,” she said slowly, “that life is pretty awful. Here especially. And I think you should look once in the mirror and then jump off the terrace. And I think Mother should have her mind examined.”
“I see,” said Prue, with dire inflection. She lit a cigarette and strode off to her studio. Aileen went into the house and up to her room.
Less than an hour later, her mother knocked at her door. As she came into the room, Aileen could see she had been crying only a moment before.
“Aileen darling, I’ve got something to say to you,” she began apologetically, “and it just breaks my heart to say it. But I’ve got to.”
She stopped, as though waiting for encouragement.
“Mother, what is it?”
“I think you probably know.”
“About Prue, I suppose. No?”
“It certainly is. I don’t know how I can ever make it right with her. She told me what you said to her, and I must say I found it hard to believe. How could you?”
“You mean just now in the garden?”
“I don’t know where you said it, but I do know this can’t go on. So I’m just forced to say this. . . . You’ll have to go. I can’t be stirred up this way, and I can tell just how it’ll be if you stay on.”
“I’m not surprised at all,” said Aileen, making a show of calm. “When do you want me to leave?”
“This is terribly painful . . .”
“Oh, stop! It’s all right. I’ve had a vacation and I can get a lot of work done before the term starts. Today? Tomorrow?”
“I think the first of the week. I’ll go to Barranquilla with you.”
“Would you think I was silly if I had all my meals up here?”
“I think it’s a perfect idea, darling, and we can have nice visits together, you and I, between meals.”
“No. Here.” He pointed down the dark road.
“Where? Can I walk?”
“Sure. I go you.”
“No! No thanks. You stay here. Thank you. I can go all right. Where is it? How far?”
“O.K.”
“What is it? A bar? What’s the name?”
“They got music. La Gloria. You go. You hear music. You look for two ladies. They drinking.”
She went inside again and checked the bags with an airline employee who insisted on accompanying her. They strode in silence along the back road. The walls of vegetation on each side sheltered insects that made an occasional violent, dry noise like a wooden ratchet being whirled. Soon there was the sound of drums and trumpets playing Cuban dance music.
“La Gloria,” said her escort triumphantly.
La Gloria was a brilliantly lighted mud hut with a thatch-covered veranda giving onto the road. The juke box was outside, where a few dnmken Negroes sprawled.
“Are they here?” she said out loud, but to herself.
“La Gloria,” he answered, pointing.
As they came opposite the front of the building, she caught a glimpse of a woman in blue jeans, and although instantaneously she knew it was Prue, her mind for some reason failed to accept the fact, and she continued to ask herself, “Are they here or not?”
She turned to go toward the veranda. The record had finished playing. The ditch lay in the dark between the road and the porch. She fell forward into it and heard herself cry out. The man behind her said, “Cuidado!” She lay there panting with fury and pain, and said, “Oh! My ankle!” There was an exclamation inside the bar. Her mother’s voice cried, “That’s Aileen!” Then the juke box began to scratch and roar again. The Negroes remained stationary. Someone helped her up. She was inside the bar in the raw electric glare.
“I’m all right,” she said, when she had been eased into a chair.
“But darling, where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for you since eight, and we’d just about given up. Poor Prue’s ill.”
“Nonsense, I’ll recover,” said Prue, still seated at the bar. “Been having a touch of the trots, that’s all.”
“But darting, are you all right? This is absurd, landing here this way.”
She looked down at Aileen’s ankle.
“Is it all right?”
Prue came over from the bar to shake her hand.
“A dramatic entrance, gal,” she said.
Aileen sat there and smiled. She had a curious mental habit. As a child she had convinced herself that her head was transparent, that the thoughts there could be perceived immediately by others. Accordingly, when she found herself in uncomfortable situations, rather than risk the danger of being suspected of harboring uncomplimentary or rebellious thoughts, she had developed a system of refraining from thinking at all. For a while during her childhood this fear of having no mental privacy had been extended to anyone; even persons existing at a distance could have access to her mind. Now she felt open only to those present. And so it was that, finding herself face to face with Prue, she was conscious of no particular emotion save the familiar vague sense of boredom. There was not a thought in her head, and her face made the fact apparent.
Mornings were hard to believe. The primeval freshness, spilled down out of the jungle above the house, was held close to the earth by the mist. Outside and in, it was damp and smelled like a florist’s shop, but the dampness was dispelled each day when the stinging sun burned through the thin cape of moisture that clung to the mountain’s back. Living there was like living sideways, with the land stretching up on one side and down on the other at the same angle. Only the gorge gave a feeling of perpendicularity; the vertical walls of rock on the opposite side of the great amphitheatre were a reminder that the center of gravity lay below and not obliquely to one side. Constant vapor rose from the invisible pool at the bottom, and the distant, indeterminate calling of water was like the sound of sleep itself.
For a few days Aileen lay in bed listening to the water and the birds, and to the nearby, unfamiliar, domestic sounds. Her mother and Prue both had breakfast in bed, and generally appeared just before the midday meal for a few minutes of conversation until Concha brought the invalid’s lunch tray. In the afternoons she thumbed through old magazines and read at murder mysteries. Usually it began to rain about three; the sound at first would be like an augmentation of the waterfall in the distance, and then as its violence increased it came unmistakably nearer—a great roar all around the house that covered every other sound. The black clouds would close in tightly around the mountain, so that it seemed that night would soon arrive. She would ring a small bell for Concha to come and light the oil lamp on the table by the bed. Lying there looking at the wet banana leaves outside the window, with the rain’s din everywhere, she felt completely comfortable for the precarious moment. There was no necessity to question the feeling, no need to think—only the subsiding of the rain, the triumphant emergence of the sun into the steaming twilight and an early dinner to look forward to. Each evening after dinner her mother came for a lengthy chat, usually about the servants. The first three nights Prue had come too, carrying a highball, but after that her mother came alone.
Aileen had asked to be put into the old part of the house, rather than into a more comfortable room in the new wing. Her window looked onto the garden, which was a small square of lawn with young banana trees on either side. At the far end was a fountain; behind it was the disordered terrain of the mountainside with its recently cut underbrush and charred stumps, and still further beyond was the high jungle whose frontier had been sliced in a straight line across the slopes many years ago to make the plantation. Here in her room she felt at least that the earth was somewhere beneath her.
When her ankle ceased to pain her, she began going downstairs for lunch, which was served out on the terrace at a table with a beach umbrella stuck in its center. Prue was regularly late in coming from her studio, and she arrived in her blue jeans, which were caked with clay, with smears of dirt across her face. Because Aileen could not bring herself to think what she really felt, which was that Prue was ungracious, ugly and something of an interloper, she remained emotionally unconscious of Prue’s presence, which is to say that she was polite but bored, scarcely present in the mealtime conversations. Then, too, Aileen was definitely uncomfortable on the terrace. The emptiness was too near and the balustrade seemed altogether too low for safety. She liked the meals to be as brief as possible, with no unnecessary time spent sipping coffee afterward, but it never would have occurred to her to divulge her reasons. With Prue around she felt constrained to behave with the utmost decorum. Fortunately her ankle provided her with a convenient excuse to get back upstairs to her room.
She soon discovered a tiny patio next to the kitchen where heavy vines with sweet-smelling flowers grew up an arbor that had been placed at one side. The air was full of the humming of hundreds of bees that clung heavily to the petals and moved slowly about in the air. After lunch she would pull a deck chair into the arbor’s shade and read until the rain began. It was a stifling, airless spot, but the sound of the bees covered that of the waterfall. One afternoon Prue followed her there and stood with her hands in her hip pockets looking at her.
“How can you take this heat?” she asked Aileen.
“Oh, I love it.”
“You do?” She paused. “Tell me, do you really like it here, or do you think it’s a bloody bore?”
“Why, I think it’s absolutely wonderful.”
“Mm. It is.”
“Don’t you like it?”
Prue yawned. “Oh, I’m all for it. But I keep busy. Wherever I can work, I get on, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Aileen. Then she added, “Are you planning on staying long?”
“What the hell do you mean?” said Prue, leaning backward against the house, her hands still behind her. “I live here.”
Aileen lau
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“I think you’re funny. You’re so tied up in knots. You get upset so easily. Perhaps you work too hard out there in your little house.”
Prue was looking at her with astonishment.
“God Almighty,” she said finally, “your I.Q.’s showing, gal.”
“Thank you,” said Aileen with great seriousness. “Anyway, I think it’s fine that you’re happy here, and I hope you go on being happy.”
“That’s what I came to say to you.”
“Then everything’s fine.”
“I can’t make you out,” said Prue, frowning.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Aileen, fingering the pages of her book impatiently. “It’s the most pointless conversation I’ve ever had.”
“That I don’t think,” Prue said, going into the kitchen.
The same evening, when her mother came for her usual after-dinner chat, she looked a little unhappy.
“You don’t seem to be getting on very well with Prue,” she said reproachfully, as she sat down at the foot of the bed.
“Why, we get on perfectly well. Oh. You’re talking about this afternoon, probably.”
“Yes, I am, probably. Really, Aileen. You simply can’t be rude to a woman her age. She’s my guest, and you’re my guest, and you’ve got to be civil to each other. But she’s always civil and I have a feeling you’re not.”
Aileen caught her breath and said, “I’m your guest . . .”
“I invited you here for your vacation and I want things pleasant, and I don’t see the slightest reason why they shouldn’t be.”
Suddenly Aileen cried, “She’s a maniac!”
Her mother rose and quickly left the room.
In the quiet days that followed, the incident was not mentioned by any of them. Aileen continued to haunt the little patio after lunch.
There came a morning sweeter than the rest, when the untouched early mist hung inside her bedroom, and the confusion of shrill bird cries came down with perfect clarity from the uncut forest. She dressed quickly and went out. There was a white radiance in the air that she had never seen before. She walked along the path that led by the native huts. There was life stirring within; babies were crying and captive parrots and songbirds laughed and sang. The path swung into a stretch of low trees that had been planted to shield the coffee bushes. It was still almost nocturnal in here; the air was streaked with chill, and the vegetable odors were like invisible festoons drooping from the branches as she walked through. A huge bright spider walked slowly across the path at her feet. She stood still and watched it until it had disappeared in the leaves at one side. She put her hand over her heart to feel how insistently it was beating. And she listened to its sound in her head for a moment, not wanting to break into its rhythm by starting to walk again. Then she began to walk ahead fast, following the path upward toward the lightest part of the sky. When it came out suddenly onto an eminence directly above the plantation, she could barely discern the cluster of roofs through the mist. But here the sound of the waterfall was stronger; she supposed she was near the gorge, although there was no sign of it. The path turned here and went along rough open ground upward. She climbed at a steady gait, breathing slowly and deeply, for perhaps half an hour, and was surprised to find that the jungle had been cut away on all sides in this portion of the mountain-side. For a time she thought the sky was growing brighter, and that the sun was about to break through, but as the path leveled out and she was able to see for some distance ahead, she saw that the mist was even thicker up here than down below.
At certain points there was a steep declivity on each side of the path. It was impossible to see how deeply the land fell away. There were a few nearby plants and rocks, the highest fronds of a tree-fem a little beyond, and white emptiness after that. It was like going along the top of a wall high in the air. Then the path would make a wide turn and go sharply upward and she would see a solitary tree above her at one side.
Suddenly she came up against a row of huts. They were less well made than those down at the plantation, and smaller. The mist was full of woodsmoke; there was the smell of pigs. She stood still. A man was singing. Two small naked children came out of the door of one hut, looked at her a moment in terror, and ran quickly back inside. She walked ahead. The singing came from behind the last hut. When she came opposite the hut, she saw that it was enclosed by a tangled but effective fence of barbed wire which left a runway about six feet wide all the way around. A young man appeared from the farther side of the closed-in space. His shirt and pants were tattered; the brown skin showed in many places. He was singing as he walked toward her, and he continued to sing, looking straight into her face with bright, questioning eyes. She smiled and said, “Buenos dias.” He made a beckoning gesture, rather too dramatically. She stopped walking and stood still, looking hesitantly back at the other huts. The young man beckoned again and then stepped inside the hut. A moment later he came out, and still staring fascinatedly at her, made more summoning motions. Aileen stood perfectly quiet, not taking her eyes from his face. He walked slowly over to the fence and grasped the wire with both hands, his eyes growing wider as he pressed the barbs into his palms. Then he leaned across, thrusting his head toward her, his eyes fixing hers with incredible intensity. For several seconds they watched each other; then she stepped a little nearer, peering into his face and frowning. At that point with a cry he emptied his mouth of the water he had been holding in it, aiming with force at Aileen’s face. Some of it struck her cheek, and the rest the front of her dress. His fingers unclenched themselves from around the wire, and straightening himself, he backed slowly into the hut, watching her face closely all the while.
She stood still an instant, her hand to her cheek. Then she bent down, and picking up a large stone from the path she flung it with all her strength through the door. A terrible cry came from within; it was like nothing she had ever heard. Or yes, she thought as she began to run back past the other huts, it had the indignation and outraged innocence of a small baby, but it was also a grown man’s cry. No one appeared as she passed the huts. Soon she was back in the silence of the empty mountain-side, but she kept running, and she was astonished to find that she was sobbing as well. She sat down on a rock and calmed herself by watching some ants demolish a bush as they cut away squares of leaf and carried them away in their mouths. The sky was growing brighter now; the sun would soon be through. She went on. By the time she got back to the high spot above the plantation the mist had turned into long clouds that were rolling away down the mountainside into the ravines. She was horrified to see how near she stood to the ugly black edge of the gorge. And the house looked insane down there, leaning out over as if it were trying to see the bottom. Far below the house the vapor rose up from the pool. She followed the sheer sides of the opposite cliff upward with her eye, all the way to the top, a little above the spot where she stood. It made her feel ill, and she stumbled back down to the house with her hand to her fore-head, paying no attention to the natives who greeted her from their doorways.
As she ran past the garden a voice called to her. She turned and saw Prue washing her hands in the fountain’s basin. She stood still.
“You’re up early. You must feel better,” said Prue, drying her hands on her hair. “Your mother’s been having a fit. Go in and see her.”
Aileen stared at Prue a moment before she said, “I was going in. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Oh, I thought I did.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I think I can manage all right without your help.”
“Help isn’t exactly what I’d like to give you,” said Prue, putting her hands into her pockets. “A swift kick in the teeth would be more like it. How do you think I like to see your mother worrying about you? First you’
Aileen stared harder, now with unmasked hatred. “I think,” she said slowly, “that life is pretty awful. Here especially. And I think you should look once in the mirror and then jump off the terrace. And I think Mother should have her mind examined.”
“I see,” said Prue, with dire inflection. She lit a cigarette and strode off to her studio. Aileen went into the house and up to her room.
Less than an hour later, her mother knocked at her door. As she came into the room, Aileen could see she had been crying only a moment before.
“Aileen darling, I’ve got something to say to you,” she began apologetically, “and it just breaks my heart to say it. But I’ve got to.”
She stopped, as though waiting for encouragement.
“Mother, what is it?”
“I think you probably know.”
“About Prue, I suppose. No?”
“It certainly is. I don’t know how I can ever make it right with her. She told me what you said to her, and I must say I found it hard to believe. How could you?”
“You mean just now in the garden?”
“I don’t know where you said it, but I do know this can’t go on. So I’m just forced to say this. . . . You’ll have to go. I can’t be stirred up this way, and I can tell just how it’ll be if you stay on.”
“I’m not surprised at all,” said Aileen, making a show of calm. “When do you want me to leave?”
“This is terribly painful . . .”
“Oh, stop! It’s all right. I’ve had a vacation and I can get a lot of work done before the term starts. Today? Tomorrow?”
“I think the first of the week. I’ll go to Barranquilla with you.”
“Would you think I was silly if I had all my meals up here?”
“I think it’s a perfect idea, darling, and we can have nice visits together, you and I, between meals.”