Paul Bowles: Spider's House

The road had dipped down to the river and climbed up again, it had gone near to the ramparts, past the arches of Bab Fteuh, veered off into the country, still descending through deserted terrain, as though it would never stop. When it flattened out, the pace slowed a little, and later, when it began to wind upward once more, the driver occasionally cracked his whip, calling a lengthy, falsetto: “Eeeee!” to the tired horses. “Don’t let him whip them, please,” she implored, as the long leather thong descended with the sound of a firecracker for the fifth or sixth time. Stenham knew the uselessness of arguing with an Arab about anything at all, and particularly if it had to do with the performance of his daily work, but he leaned forward, saying in a tone of authority: “Allèche bghitsi darbou? Khallih.” The fat man turned halfway around and said laughing: “They’re lazy. They always have to be beaten.” “What does he say?” she inquired. Taking a chance, he replied: “He says if you don’t want him to whip them he’ll stop, but they go faster if they hear the whip.” “But he’s actually hitting them with it. It’s awful.” To the driver in Arabic he said: “The lady is very unhappy to see you beat the horses, so stop it.” This did not please the fat man, who made an involved speech about letting people do their work the way they always did it; if the lady knew a great deal about horses he expected to see her driving a carriage one day soon. Stenham secretly sympathized with the man, but there was nothing to do save forbid the use of the whip—if he could manage it. “Put it away, please. Khabaeuh.” The man was now definitely in bad spirits; he went off into a muttered monologue, addressing it to the horses. The latter continued to go ahead with decreasing speed, until the carriage was moving approximately at the pace of a man walking. Stenham said nothing; he was determined that if there were to be any further suggestions for the driver, they should be made by her. They could never have got back to the hotel by five o’clock in any case; that he had known from the beginning. And at this rate it would be dark before they completed the tour. Stones and bushes moved past in leisurely fashion. The air smelled clean and dry. He turned to her. “This is a strange situation,” he said, smiling. She looked a little startled. “What do you mean?” “Do you realize that I don’t even know your name?” “My name? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s spelled V-e-y-r-o-n.” “Oh, I know that,” he said with impatience. “I mean, your own name. After all, you’re not living with your husband, are you?” “Actually, the idea of using George’s last name only occurred to me here in Morocco. And I’ve found it makes everything so much easier. I don’t know why I didn’t do it before. My maiden name is Burroughs, and the French can’t get anywhere near it, either in spelling or pronunciation.” “You have a first name, I suppose.” He smiled, to offset the dryness of his remark. She sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. It’s Polly, and I loathe it.