The Stories of Paul Bowles (63 page)

V
NLESS IT WAS
raining very hard, Mrs. Pritchard spent roughly half of each day working outdoors in the garden. It was a garden to be admired, but not a place where one could sit. Her house was at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea; the winds sweeping through the Strait of Gibraltar struck the spot first, and blew harder there. If Ahmed thought of Madame in the garden, he saw her with her skirt fluttering in the wind and her hand over her hair, trying vainly to keep it in place.

The land sloped off at a moderate angle for a few hundred feet before the sheer drop, and the terraced garden followed it down to the end. On some levels there were long tiled pools full of goldfish; others were bounded by arbors sheltering small fountains whose water dribbled from the mouths of marble fish into basins.

She had planted the land in such a way that the flowers were superb throughout the year, thus transforming the bleak and forbidding strip of land, and she took pride in the result. Recently, however, certain large shrubs she had imported from England seemed to be doing very poorly, and since they were within sight of the house, she was upset by their
sickly aspect. If guests peered out of a window she would beg them not to look, saying sadly: I’m ashamed of my garden this year.

Her friends commiserated with her, most of them advising her to find a new gardener. This worried her, for she shrank from the idea of getting rid of Ahmed. He had kept her garden in order for the past eleven years. In that time, she wondered how many hundreds of hours she had spent squatting beside him as, working together with trowels and clippers, they discussed the ways of plants. She felt that they knew and understood one another in a basic and important fashion, even though Ahmed never had learned even to pronounce her name. For him she was Madame.

One day she came to him in excitement and said she had just bought a large number of beautiful plants from a man in the city who would bring them in a truck tomorrow and, she added, help her plant them. Seeing Ahmed’s expression of hurt surprise, she explained to him that this service was included in the price of the plants. The cost, she confessed, had been extremely high, and she saw no reason not to take advantage of the man’s offer to assist in the work. Ahmed was unable to follow her logic; he understood only that she was allowing an outsider to come in and work in the garden. Yes, Madame, he said; no more.

The following morning a stout man in a gray business suit appeared with Madame at the top of the garden. They talked and occasionally pointed. Ahmed, squatting on a terrace some distance below, stared up at the man and recognized him as the chief gardener for the municipality. A little later, returning from a trip to the toolshed, he was able to pass near enough to the new plants to recognize them as having come from the Jardin Municipal. For a moment he was impelled to go and tell Madame that she had bought stolen goods, but then he thought better of it. During the years of working for her he had observed that if one Moroccan spoke ill of another Moroccan to her, she automatically took the side of the accused rather than that of the complainer. When the time came, he might make use of what he knew about the plants.

A second man was carrying in more pots from the truck outside, setting them down in rows on the top terrace. Madame was saying to the stout man: Now these will go here along the wall, and those there in that circular bed, and I think the tuberoses should go all the way down at the end of this path by themselves.

I know the best place for each plant, Madame, the fat man told her. You’ll see.

Wait! she cried nervously, glancing around as if for help. I’ll send my gardener up.

The man rejected this suggestion. No, no! My assistant and I will do everything. Each plant will be in the right place. You leave it to me.

Mrs. Pritchard seemed to wilt. She turned and went inside the house.

The thief had taken command of the garden, not even allowing Madame to have her plants where she wanted them. From the lower terrace where he knelt, Ahmed watched the two men. They were putting the plants in hurriedly, paying little heed to what they were doing. When they had finished, they began to walk back and forth along the two topmost terraces, examining the flowers. He tried to hear what they were saying, but they spoke too low. On seeing their prolonged stop beside the giant hibiscus Madame had brought from Hawaii, he suspected that the fat man would find a pretext for returning to see Madame.

After the truck had driven away, Madame came out of the house and called to Ahmed. Together they surveyed the hasty workmanship. Madame laughed. It doesn’t matter. We can replant them later. Give them plenty of water.

He glanced at the row of agapanthus without interest. When she mentioned the price she had paid for them, he was indignant. You could have bought bulbs, he said reproachfully.

But I wouldn’t have had the flowers until next year.

He nodded gloomily.

THAT EVENING JOHARA
,
the black cook, stopped him as he passed the kitchen door. Do you know what he was telling Madame, that man? He told her you weren’t a real gardener, and she should get rid of you and let him work here.

He’s a criminal! Ahmed shouted.

In the shack where he lived behind the greenhouse, Ahmed sat and thought. He must save his job, and he must save the garden. Again he recalled the visitors’ scrutiny of the hibiscus bushes. If they came there to work they would methodically strip the garden of its most valuable plants.

Once he had convinced himself that he was acting partially in Madame’s interest, he felt less guilt about what he was planning to do. It was simple enough. He waited until long after all the lights in the main house had been put out. Then, taking up a sack into which he dropped a sharp knife, he stole out into the garden, to the end of the topmost terrace, and knelt down among the newly interred plants. One after the other he yanked them up, severed their roots or tubers with a swift stroke of the blade, and carefully replanted them exactly where they had been. The sack was full of roots and bulbs when he took it back to his room. He built a fire in his mijmah and charred them beyond recognition before carrying them out and scattering them over the compost heap. Then he went to bed.

In the morning Madame was out looking at the new plants. They’re very pretty, she said to Ahmed. Each one needs to be watered with a sprinkling can, and before the sun hits them. Just sprinkle a little around each stalk so it can soak in.

She watched for a while as Ahmed, in resentful silence, carried out her instructions. Then, apparently satisfied, she went inside. It was many years since she had stood over him like that, waiting to see if he did as he was told, and he understood that the fat man’s poison was working in her, that in spite of his open indifference to her wishes she had not rejected the idea of hiring him to run her garden.

By mid-afternoon some of the flowers were not looking as crisp as they had looked in the morning. Ahmed noted their state as he passed by them, and decided to put off reporting it until evening, when the sun would have carried its destructive work still further.

It was Madame herself who first remarked on the poor complexion of the transplants. She called to Ahmed, who came up from the bottom of the garden.

I don’t know, she said, shaking her head. As she pulled at a leaf of one of the plants, it fell over, a dry stick exposing its rootless base. She seized the next plant and lifted it up.

Ahmed! she cried. These things are just stems stuck into the ground. They’re not growing plants at all!

He examined the two plants, and gazed at her, feeling sorry for her. The wind was blowing her hair all across her face, and she seemed ready to burst into tears.

They looked so healthy, she said.

Together they went to examine the agapanthus, the tuberoses. The filthy swine! cried Madame. No wonder he didn’t want me around while he planted them!

Suddenly she stared at Ahmed. He’s coming back. He said he was going to bring me some rose bushes.

He won’t dare come back after what he’s done, Ahmed declared.

Madame looked even more distraught. And to think—she began, checking herself as she realized that up to a few minutes ago she still had been considering the possibility of dismissing Ahmed and hiring the man. She could not admit to such disloyalty. Ahmed knew what she had stopped herself from saying, and he smiled grimly.

If he comes back, don’t let him in. Don’t even talk to him. Call me and I’ll take care of him.

I’d much prefer that, she said. I don’t want to see that disgusting face again.

The wind blew, the dead plants were dumped onto the compost heap, and the brief scandal was no longer mentioned. Ahmed was certain, however, that the man would return.

One day he did. Johara came to the toolshed to say that the bad man was at the door, and Madame was very nervous.

Ahmed put on his djellaba and walked out to the entrance door. He opened it, and looking sternly at the fat man, intoned, as though repeating an order he had learned by rote: Madame said to tell you she knows where you got the flowers, and not to come back here unless you want to explain it to the police.

Then he shut the door and listened while the truck drove away. Madame was waiting in the doorway of the entrance hall.

He’s gone, he said.

Ahmed, what would I do without you? She stared at him for a moment, shaking her head. What did you say to him?

I told him no true Moslem would play tricks on a woman with no husband.

Mrs. Pritchard reflected. I’m sure that was exactly the right thing to say. I’m afraid I should have insulted him and gone to bed with a headache afterward. I’m very grateful to you.

Still uneasy because of the deception he had practised upon Madame,
and more than a little guilty for having destroyed so many healthy, expensive plants, he found that it made him feel better to say: Everybody plays tricks nowadays, Madame. Everybody.

For him it served as a comforting admission of his wrongdoing, but she took it as a hint. Oh, I shan’t do it again, I promise you, she said. He glanced at her approvingly and turned to go.

You’re right, Madame, he told her. Don’t believe anybody.

(1980)

K
ITTY LIVED IN
a medium-sized house with a big garden around it. She loved some things, like picnics and going to the circus, and she hated other things, like school and going to the dentist’s.

One day she asked her mother: “Why is my name Kitty?”

“Your name is really Catherine,” her mother said. “We just call you Kitty.”

This reply did not satisfy Kitty, and she decided that her mother did not want to tell her the truth. This made her think even more about her name. Finally she thought she had the answer. Her name was Kitty because some day she was going to grow up into a cat. She felt proud of herself for having found this out, and she began to look into the mirror to see if perhaps she was beginning to look like a cat, or at least like a kitten.

For a long time she could see nothing at all but her own pink face. But one day when she went up to the glass she could hardly believe what she saw, for around her mouth tiny gray whiskers were beginning to sprout. She jumped up and down with delight, and waited for her mother to say something about them. Her mother, however, had no time for such things, and so she noticed nothing.

Each day when Kitty looked at her reflection she saw more wonderful changes. Slowly the whiskers grew longer and stood out farther from her face, and a soft gray fur started to cover her skin. Her ears grew pointed and she had soft pads on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. All this seemed too good to be true, and Kitty was sad to find that nobody had said a word about the marvelous change in her. One day as she was playing she turned to her mother and said: “Meow. I’m Kitty. Do you like the color of my fur?”

“I don’t know,” her mother said. “What color is it?”

“It’s gray!”

“Oh, gray. Very pretty,” said her mother, and Kitty saw with a sinking heart that she did not care what color the fur was.

After that she tried to make several neighbors remark on her fine whiskers, her velvety ears and her short fluffy tail, and they all agreed that these things were very nice, and then paid no more attention to them. Kitty did not care too much. If
they
could not see how different she had become, at least she herself could.

One summer morning when Kitty awoke, she discovered that her fingernails and toenails had been replaced by splendid new pearly gray claws that she could stick out or pull in as she chose. She jumped out of bed and ran into the garden. It was still very early. Her mother and father were asleep, but there were some birds walking around on the lawn.

She slipped behind some bushes and watched. After a long time she began to crawl forward. The branches caught her nightgown, so she tore it off. When one of the birds came very close to her, she sprang forward and caught it. And at that moment she knew that she was no longer a girl at all, and that she would never have to be one again.

The bird tasted good, but she decided not to eat it. Instead, she rolled on her back in the sun and licked her paws. Then she sat up and washed her face. After a while she thought she would go over to Mrs. Tinsley’s house and see if she could get some breakfast. She climbed up to the top of the wall and ran quickly along it to the roof of the garage. From there she scrambled down the trellis into Mrs. Tinsley’s backyard. She heard sounds in the kitchen, so she went up to the screen door and looked in. The she said: “Meow.” She had to keep saying it for quite a while before Mrs. Tinsley came and saw her.

“Well, if that isn’t the cutest kitten!” Mrs. Tinsley said, and she called to her husband and her sister. They came and saw the small gray kitten
with one paw raised, scratching at the screen. Of course they let her in, and soon Kitty was lapping up a saucer full of milk. She spent the day sleeping, curled up on a cushion, and in the evening she was given a bowl of delicious raw liver.

After dinner she decided to go back home. Mr. Tinsley saw her at the kitchen door, but instead of opening the door for her, he picked her up and locked her into the cellar. This was not at all what Kitty wanted, and she cried all night.

In the morning they let her go upstairs, and gave her a big bowl of milk. When she had drunk it she waited in the kitchen until Mrs. Tinsley opened the door to go out into the yard. Then she ran as fast as she could between Mrs. Tinsley’s feet, and climbed up onto the roof of the garage. She looked down at Mrs. Tinsley, who was calling: “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” Then she turned and ran the other way. Soon she was in her own garden. She went up to all the doors and looked in. There were policemen inside the house with her mother and father. They were holding Kitty’s torn nightgown in their hands, and her mother was crying and sobbing. No one paid the slightest attention to Kitty.

She went sadly back to Mrs. Tinsley’s house, and there she stayed for many weeks. Sometimes she would go over to her own house and peek again through the doors, and often she saw her mother or her father. But they looked very different from the way they had looked before, and even if they noticed her, they never came to the door to let her in.

It was nice not having to go to school, and Mr. and Mrs. Tinsley were very good to her, but Kitty loved her mother and father more than she could love anyone else, and she wanted to be with them.

Mr. and Mrs. Tinsley let her go out whenever she pleased now, because she always came back. She would go to her house at night and look in through the window to see her father sitting alone reading the paper. This was how she knew that her mother had gone away. Even if she cried and pushed her claws against the window, her father paid no attention to her, and she knew that he would never let her in. Only her mother would do that. She would come and open the door and take her in her arms and rub the fur on her forehead and kiss her.

One day several months later when Kitty climbed over the wall into her own garden, she saw her mother sitting in a chair outside. She looked much better, almost the way she had used to look. Kitty walked slowly toward her mother over the grass, holding her tail in the air. Her mother
sat up straighter, watching as she came nearer. Then she put out her hand and wriggled her fingers at Kitty. “Well, the pretty pussycat,” she said. “Where did
you
come from?”

Kitty went near enough so that her mother could rub her head and scratch her cheeks. She waved her tail and purred with delight as she felt her mother’s fingers stroking her fur. Then she jumped up into her mother’s lap and lay curled up there, working her claws joyously in and out. After a long time her mother lifted her up and held her against her face, and then she carried her into the house.

That evening Kitty lay happily in her mother’s lap. She did not want to try her father’s lap because she was afraid he might push her off. Besides, she could see that it would not be very comfortable.

Kitty knew that her mother already loved her, and that her father would learn to love her. At last she was living exactly the life she always had wished for. Sometimes she thought it would be nice if she could make them understand that she was really Kitty, but she knew there was no way of doing that. She never heard them say the word
Kitty
again. Instead, because her fur was so long and fine that when she moved she seemed to be floating, they named her Feather. She had no lessons to worry about, she never had to go to the dentist’s, and she no longer had to wonder whether her mother was telling her the truth or not, because she knew the truth. She was Kitty, and she was happy.

(1980)