ludicrously elegant. Heloise washed her hands and face in her quick and efficient way, and set about unpacking, while Tom surveyed the scene from the windows. They were on the fourth floor by European counting. Tom looked down on a busy panorama of grayish and white buildings, none more than six stories high, a disorder of hanging laundry, some tattered and unidentifiable flags from a few roof poles, television aerials aplenty, and more laundry spread out on the rooftops. Directly below, visible from another window in the room, the moneyed class, of which he was presumably one, sunned itself and sprawled on hotel grounds. The sun had disappeared from the area around the Minzah’s swimming pool. Beyond the horizontal forms in bikinis and swimming trunks was a border of white tables and chairs, and beyond these, pleasant and well-cared-for palm trees, bushes, and bougainvilleas in bloom.
At the level of Tom’s thighs, an air-conditioner blew up cool air, and he held out his hands, letting the coolness go up his sleeves.
“Cheri!” A cry of mild distress. Then a short laugh. “L’eau est coupee! Tout d’un coup!” She continued, “Just as Noelle said. Remember?”
“For four hours a day in toto, didn’t she say?” Tom smiled. “And what about the toilet? And the bath?” Tom went into the bathroom. “Didn’t Noelle say—yes, look at this! A bucket of clean water! Not that I’d want to drink it, but to wash with—“
Tom did manage to wash his hands and face in cold water, and between them they unpacked nearly everything. Then they went out for a stroll.
Tom jingled strange coins in his right-hand trouser pocket, and wondered what to buy first. A cafe, postcards? They were at the Place de France, an intersection of five streets, including the Rue de la Liberte, where their hotel was, according to Tom’s map.
“This!” said Heloise , pointing at a tooled leather purse. It hung outside a shop along with scarves and copper bowls of questionable utility. “Pretty, Tome? Unusual.”
“Um-m—won’t there be other shops, my sweet? Let’s look around.” It was already nearly 7 p.m. And a couple of shopkeepers were starting to close for the day, Tom observed. He took Heloise ‘s hand suddenly. “Isn’t it terrific? A new country!”
She smiled back at him. He saw the curious dark lines in her lavender eyes that went from the pupil like spokes from a hub; a heavy image for something as beautiful as Heloise ‘s eyes.
“I love you,” Tom said.
They walked into the Boulevard Pasteur, a broad street which sloped slightly downward. More shops, and denser everything. Girls and women in long gowns swept by, their bare feet in sandals, while the boys and young men seemed to prefer blue jeans and sneakers and summer shirts.
“Would you like an iced tea, my pet? Or a kir? I bet they know how to make a kir.”
Back toward their hotel then, and at the Place de France, according to Tom’s undetailed map in the brochure, found the Cafe de Paris, which had a long and noisy row of tables and chairs along the pavement. Tom captured what seemed the last little round table, and wangled a second chair from a table nearby.
“Some money, my dear,” Tom said, pulling out his wallet and offering Heloise half the paper dirhams.
She had a graceful way of opening her handbag—this one was something like a saddlebag, but smaller—and making the banknotes or whatever disappear instantly, yet in the right place. “And what is this?”
“About—four hundred French. I’ll change more this evening at the hotel. The Minzah has the same rate, I noticed, as at the airport.”
Heloise showed no sign of interest in his remark, but Tom knew she would remember. He heard no French around him, only Arabic or what he had read was a Berber dialect. Either way, it was unintelligible to Tom. The tables were taken almost entirely by men, several middle-aged and a bit heavy, in short-sleeved shirts. Only one distant table, in
At the level of Tom’s thighs, an air-conditioner blew up cool air, and he held out his hands, letting the coolness go up his sleeves.
“Cheri!” A cry of mild distress. Then a short laugh. “L’eau est coupee! Tout d’un coup!” She continued, “Just as Noelle said. Remember?”
“For four hours a day in toto, didn’t she say?” Tom smiled. “And what about the toilet? And the bath?” Tom went into the bathroom. “Didn’t Noelle say—yes, look at this! A bucket of clean water! Not that I’d want to drink it, but to wash with—“
Tom did manage to wash his hands and face in cold water, and between them they unpacked nearly everything. Then they went out for a stroll.
Tom jingled strange coins in his right-hand trouser pocket, and wondered what to buy first. A cafe, postcards? They were at the Place de France, an intersection of five streets, including the Rue de la Liberte, where their hotel was, according to Tom’s map.
“This!” said Heloise , pointing at a tooled leather purse. It hung outside a shop along with scarves and copper bowls of questionable utility. “Pretty, Tome? Unusual.”
“Um-m—won’t there be other shops, my sweet? Let’s look around.” It was already nearly 7 p.m. And a couple of shopkeepers were starting to close for the day, Tom observed. He took Heloise ‘s hand suddenly. “Isn’t it terrific? A new country!”
She smiled back at him. He saw the curious dark lines in her lavender eyes that went from the pupil like spokes from a hub; a heavy image for something as beautiful as Heloise ‘s eyes.
“I love you,” Tom said.
They walked into the Boulevard Pasteur, a broad street which sloped slightly downward. More shops, and denser everything. Girls and women in long gowns swept by, their bare feet in sandals, while the boys and young men seemed to prefer blue jeans and sneakers and summer shirts.
“Would you like an iced tea, my pet? Or a kir? I bet they know how to make a kir.”
Back toward their hotel then, and at the Place de France, according to Tom’s undetailed map in the brochure, found the Cafe de Paris, which had a long and noisy row of tables and chairs along the pavement. Tom captured what seemed the last little round table, and wangled a second chair from a table nearby.
“Some money, my dear,” Tom said, pulling out his wallet and offering Heloise half the paper dirhams.
She had a graceful way of opening her handbag—this one was something like a saddlebag, but smaller—and making the banknotes or whatever disappear instantly, yet in the right place. “And what is this?”
“About—four hundred French. I’ll change more this evening at the hotel. The Minzah has the same rate, I noticed, as at the airport.”
Heloise showed no sign of interest in his remark, but Tom knew she would remember. He heard no French around him, only Arabic or what he had read was a Berber dialect. Either way, it was unintelligible to Tom. The tables were taken almost entirely by men, several middle-aged and a bit heavy, in short-sleeved shirts. Only one distant table, in
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