Paul Bowles: Spider's House

“You don’t drink! Not even wine? Why not?” “Don’t get me started on it,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “Let’s say that for me it’s what we Americans call a low-grade kick. You understand that?” He was looking only at Moss. “Oh, quite! And may I ask what you consider a high-grade kick?” “There are plenty of those,” he replied imperturbably. His tone may have nettled Moss, for he pressed on. “Such as—?” “You’re on the carpet, Mr. Stenham,” said Mme Veyron. Stenham pushed away his plate; he had finished anyway, but he liked the dramatic gesture as an accompaniment to the words he was going to say. A sudden gust of wind from the south swept through the garden, bringing with it the smell of the damp river valley below. A corner of the tablecloth flapped up and covered the serving dishes. Kenzie lifted it and dropped it back where it belonged. “Such as keeping these very things private. After all, one’s thoughts belong to oneself. They haven’t yet invented a machine to make the human mind transparent.” “We’re not discussing thoughts,” said Moss with exasperation. “You’re more English than the English, my dear John. I find it most difficult to understand you. You have all the worst faults of the English, and from what I can see, very few of the virtues we’ve been led to expect from Americans. Sometimes I feel you’re lying. I can’t believe you really are an American at all.” Stenham looked at her. “Won’t you vouch for me?” “Of course,” she said smiling, “but I’ll bet you’re from New England.” “What do you mean, but? Of course I’m a New Englander. I’m American and a New Englander. Like a Frenchman I met once in a jungle town in Nicaragua. He had the only hotel there. ‘Are you French, monsieur?’ I asked him. And he answered: ‘Monsieur, Je suis même Gascon.’ I’m even a Gascon, and I like to keep the state of my finances private. And my politics and religion. They’re all high-grade kicks as far as I’m concerned. But only if they’re kept private.”