The Spider's House by Paul Bowles Page B

take its course? It was asking the impossible.
    Now since this new problem had begun to ferment in his head he no longer experienced the same pleasure when he worked. For him to have felt the accustomed happiness, the work would have had to continue to occupy his consciousness entirely, and that was no longer possible. He felt that he was merely waiting, making the hours pass forcibly by filling them with useless gestures. It was his first indication of what it is like to be truly aware of the passage of time; such awareness can exist only if something is going on in the mind which is not completely a reflection of what is going on immediately outside. Also, for the first time in his life he found himself lying awake at night, staring up into the darkness, turning the problem over and over in his head without ever arriving at any further understanding. Sometimes he would be still awake at three, when his father always rose, dressed, and went to the mosque, first to wash and then to pray, and only after he had heard him go out and the house was quiet once more would he fall suddenly asleep.
    One such night, when his father had closed the door into the street and turned the key twice in the lock, he got up and stole out onto the terrace. Mustapha stood there in the gloom, leaning against the parapet, looking out over the silent town. Amar grunted to him; he was annoyed to see him there in what he considered his own private nocturnal vantage point. Mustapha grunted back.
    “Ah, khai, ‘ch andek?” said Amar. “Can’t you sleep, either?”

    Mustapha admitted that he could not. He sounded miserable.
    It was not thinkable that he could confide in Mustapha; nevertheless there was an absurd note of hope in Amar’s voice as he said: “Why not?”
    Mustapha spat over the edge into the alley below, listening for the sound of its hitting before he answered. “My mottoui’s empty. I didn’t have any money to buy kif.”
    “Kif?” Amar had smoked on many occasions with friends, but a pipe of kif meant less to him than a cigarette.
    “I always have a few pipes before I go to sleep.”
    This was something recent, Amar knew. On various occasions when they had had to share the same room there had been no kif, and Mustapha had slept perfectly well.
    “Ouallah? Can’t you sleep without it? Do you have to smoke it first?”
    Now Mustapha’s initial burst of confidence was over, and he was himself once more. “What are you doing out here, anyway?” he growled. “Go in to bed.”
    Reluctantly Amar obeyed; he had one more thing to think about as he fell asleep.

BOOK 2
SINS ARE FINISHED
    You tell me you are going to Fez.
    Now, if you say you are going to Fez,
    That means you are not going.
    But I happen to know that you are going to Fez.
    Why have you lied to me, you who are my friend?
    –MOROCCAN SAYING

CHAPTER 6
    Ramadan, the month of interminable days without food, drink or cigarettes, had come and gone. The nights—which in other years had always been sheer pleasure, with the Medina brightly lighted, the shops kept open until early morning, the streets filled with men and boys sauntering happily back and forth through the town until it should be time to eat again—were dismal and joyless. It is true that the rhaitas sounded from the minarets as heretofore, the drums were beaten and the rams’ horns blown to call sleepy people to the final meal, the same as always, but they caused no pleasure to those who heard them. The whole feeling of Ramadan, the pride that results from successful application of discipline, the victory of the spirit over the flesh, seemed to bemissing; people observed the fast automatically, passively, without bothering to make the customary jokes about the clothing that was now too big, or the remarks about the number of days left before the feast that marked the end of the ordeal. It was even whispered around that many of the Istiqlal were not even observing Ramadan, that they could be seen any