The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles Page A

tonight.”
    “Yes.”
    She looked at the bottle where he had set it on the floor. Characteristically, she decided at once that it was the magic object which was going to save her, that through its power she might escape the disaster. She drained her cup. He refilled it.
    “We must make it last,” she cautioned, suddenly fearful lest the magic give out.
    “You think so? Why?” He pulled out the valise and opened it again. “Look.” There were five more bottles. “That’s why I made such a fuss about carrying this bag myself,” he said, smiling to make his dimples deep. “You probably thought I was nuts.”
    “I didn’t notice,” she said faintly, not even noticing the dimples she disliked so strongly. The sight of so much magic had somewhat overcome her.
    “So, drink up. Fast and furious.”
    “Don’t you worry about me,” she laughed. “I don’t need any exhortations.” She felt absurdly happy much too happy for the occasion, she reminded herself. But it was always a pendulum; in another hour she would be back where she had been a minute ago.
    The train came slowly to a stop. Beyond the window it was black night; there was not a light to be seen. Somewhere outside, a voice was singing a strange, repetitious melody. Always beginning high and wandering downward until the breath gave out, only to recommence again at the top of the scale, the song had the pattern of a child’s weeping.
    “Is that a man?” said Kit incredulously.
    “Where?” said Tunner, looking around.
    “Singing.”
    He listened a moment. “Hard to tell. Drink up.”
    She drank, and smiled. Soon she was staring out the window at the black night. “I think I was never meant to live,” she said ruefully.
    He looked worried. “Now see here, Kit. I know you’re nervous. That’s why I brought the fizz-water along. But you’ve just got to calm down. Take it easy. Relax. Nothing’s that important, you know. Who was it said—”
    “No. That’s something I don’t want,” she interrupted. “Champagne, yes. Philosophy, no. And I think you were incredibly sweet to have thought of it, especially now that I see why you brought it along.”
    He stopped chewing. His face changed expression; his eyes grew a little bit hard. “What do you mean?”
    “Because you realized I was a nervous fool on trains. And you couldn’t possibly have done anything I’d have appreciated more.”
    He chewed again, and grinned. “Oh, forget it. I’m doing all right by it, too, you may have noticed. So here’s to good old Mumm!” He uncorked the second bottle. Painfully the train started up again.
    The fact that they were moving once more exhilarated her.
“Dime ingrato, porqui me abandonaste, y sola me dejaste . . .”
she sang.
    “More?” He held the bottle.
    “Claro que si,”
she said, downing it at one gulp, and stretching forth her cup again, immediately.
    The train jolted along, stopping every little while, each time in what looked like empty countryside. But always there were voices out beyond in the darkness, shouting in the guttural mountain tongue. They completed their supper; as Kit was eating her last fig, Tunner bent over to pull out another bottle from the valise. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she reached into the space where she had hidden her sandwich, drew it out and stuffed it into her handbag on top of her compact. He poured her some champagne.
    “The champagne’s not as cool as it was,” she said, sipping it.
    “Can’t have everything.”
    “Oh, but I love it! I don’t mind it warm. You know, I think I’m getting quite high.”
    “Bah! Not on the little bit you’ve had.” He laughed.
    “Oh, you don’t know me! When I’m nervous or upset, right off I’m high.”
    He looked at his watch. “Well, we’ve got another eight hours at least. We might as well dig in. Is it all right with you if I change seats and sit with you?”
    “Of course. I asked you to when we first got on, so you wouldn’t have to