the road gradually settled with the gravitational grace of a mass of feathers descending from a burst pillow. In the Source des Poissons, a single girl with delicate coffee-colored tattoos on her hands floated on her back. She looked up at the clusters of unripe dates on the undersides of the palms that were reflected in the water, then spread her hands through the cold water and thought of a certain boy, who at that very moment was driving goats into the shade of a tree. A dragonfly skimmed the water. The cicadas died off and the girl closed her eyes. When the dragonflies mated an inch above the water, they looked as if they were strangling each other to death. She watched them danceacross the black surface, their wings making a quietly desperate, vicious sound that was pleasing to the ear.
The trees went silent and from afar she could hear the hum of the generators inside the foreigners’ ksour . The old men sitting on the wall under the tamarisks lit their cheap cigarettes. For three hours, no one would do anything. It was like night. In the garage, the air conditioners hummed and Richard stood alone with the body, anxiously glancing at his watch. His skin prickled with the heat that penetrated even into this secluded place. His back was wet and he marveled at how dry the dead boy’s skin was. It was like writing paper.
By the gate, meanwhile, a man stood with his hand on the bolt, listening carefully. The small crowd had finally dispersed, driven off by the seasonable temperatures, and its members now lay under trees, on lice-ridden mattresses, on pieces of palm bark. They lay awake waiting for the sun to decline. All it needed was a certain eager patience. The guests inside the ksour did much the same. Some lay on floating mattresses in the pool, half asleep; others made love in their rooms, taking care not to make too much noise. A few read books with an iced orange juice at their side. They had tracked their position on maps, some of them, and on GPS devices, but their sense of place was not yet firm. Their minds drifted easily. They ironed their lips with lip balm and evened the tanning oil on their noses, wondering what they were going to do next. There was a fancy dress ball in the evening—costumes provided—but would they be expected to dance? Would they be expected to be themselves or to impersonate people they were not? Would it be fun or the reverse of fun, whatever that was?
IN THE HIGHEST ROOM OF THE HOUSE, A PRIVATE DRAWING room painted with apple-green geometrical tile designs where Dally and Richard spent hours alone reading and tipping bottles ofLaphraoig before sunset, the two men stood by the great plate-glass window watching a swirl of dust rising from the distant road.
“Looks like a car,” Dally said hopefully.
“It isn’t the police. They said they were dealing with a morgue, but I haven’t heard from them.”
Richard wondered if he should call Hamid. The afternoon was winding down and the trees were spreading their shadows around the cliffs. They had been sleeping for two hours and the nightmares had not completely blown off. But what would Hamid do? He decided to wait and see. When the body was finally taken away, the cloud hanging over them would presumably be lifted at a stroke. All they had to do was remove it circumspectly, without desecration of custom.
“It’s definitely a car, Dick.”
“The mint suppliers?”
“They came this morning. Maybe someone from the morgue.”
“But which morgue?”
Dally shrugged. He had no idea what morgues there were in the neighborhood of Azna. He didn’t know if they had morgues at all. Didn’t they just throw the body into a pit or something?
Richard had to handle Dally carefully sometimes. He was liable to go off if arrangements carefully made suddenly came unstuck.
“There’s a morgue in Errachidia. Might be a pickup from them.”
Dally did go off. “I wish you hadn’t invited those English people. What a bore they are. And
The trees went silent and from afar she could hear the hum of the generators inside the foreigners’ ksour . The old men sitting on the wall under the tamarisks lit their cheap cigarettes. For three hours, no one would do anything. It was like night. In the garage, the air conditioners hummed and Richard stood alone with the body, anxiously glancing at his watch. His skin prickled with the heat that penetrated even into this secluded place. His back was wet and he marveled at how dry the dead boy’s skin was. It was like writing paper.
By the gate, meanwhile, a man stood with his hand on the bolt, listening carefully. The small crowd had finally dispersed, driven off by the seasonable temperatures, and its members now lay under trees, on lice-ridden mattresses, on pieces of palm bark. They lay awake waiting for the sun to decline. All it needed was a certain eager patience. The guests inside the ksour did much the same. Some lay on floating mattresses in the pool, half asleep; others made love in their rooms, taking care not to make too much noise. A few read books with an iced orange juice at their side. They had tracked their position on maps, some of them, and on GPS devices, but their sense of place was not yet firm. Their minds drifted easily. They ironed their lips with lip balm and evened the tanning oil on their noses, wondering what they were going to do next. There was a fancy dress ball in the evening—costumes provided—but would they be expected to dance? Would they be expected to be themselves or to impersonate people they were not? Would it be fun or the reverse of fun, whatever that was?
IN THE HIGHEST ROOM OF THE HOUSE, A PRIVATE DRAWING room painted with apple-green geometrical tile designs where Dally and Richard spent hours alone reading and tipping bottles ofLaphraoig before sunset, the two men stood by the great plate-glass window watching a swirl of dust rising from the distant road.
“Looks like a car,” Dally said hopefully.
“It isn’t the police. They said they were dealing with a morgue, but I haven’t heard from them.”
Richard wondered if he should call Hamid. The afternoon was winding down and the trees were spreading their shadows around the cliffs. They had been sleeping for two hours and the nightmares had not completely blown off. But what would Hamid do? He decided to wait and see. When the body was finally taken away, the cloud hanging over them would presumably be lifted at a stroke. All they had to do was remove it circumspectly, without desecration of custom.
“It’s definitely a car, Dick.”
“The mint suppliers?”
“They came this morning. Maybe someone from the morgue.”
“But which morgue?”
Dally shrugged. He had no idea what morgues there were in the neighborhood of Azna. He didn’t know if they had morgues at all. Didn’t they just throw the body into a pit or something?
Richard had to handle Dally carefully sometimes. He was liable to go off if arrangements carefully made suddenly came unstuck.
“There’s a morgue in Errachidia. Might be a pickup from them.”
Dally did go off. “I wish you hadn’t invited those English people. What a bore they are. And
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