Dusk and Other Stories Read Free Page B

with a faint, golden down. Two Spanish youths are strolling past along the sea.
    She is talking to the sky. If she goes to America, she recites, is it worthwhile to bring her car? After all, she got it at a very good price, she could probably sell it if she didn’t want to keep it and make some money.
    “America is full of Volkswagens,” Malcolm says.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s filled with German cars, everyone has one.”
    “They must like them,” she decides. “The Mercedes is a good car.”
    “Greatly admired,” Malcolm says.
    “That’s the car I would like. I would like a couple of them. When I have money, that will be my hobby,” she says. “I’d like to live in Tangier.”
    “Quite a beach there.”
    “Yes? I will be black as an Arab.”
    “Better wear your suit,” Malcolm says.
    Inge smiles.
    Nico seems asleep. They lie there silent, their feet pointed to the sun. The strength of it has gone. There are only passing moments of warmth when the wind dies all the way and the sun is flat upon them, weak but flooding. An hour of melancholy is approaching, the hour when everything is ended.
    At six o’clock Nico sits up. She is cold.
    “Come,” Inge says, “we’ll go for a walk up the beach.”
    She insists on it. The sun has not set. She becomes very playful.
    “Come,” she says, “it’s the good section, all the big villas are there. We’ll walk along and make the old men happy.”
    “I don’t want to make anyone happy,” Nico says, hugging her arms.
    “It isn’t so easy,” Inge assures her.
    Nico goes along sullenly. She is holding her elbows. The wind isfrom the shore. There are little waves now which seem to break in silence. The sound they make is soft, as if forgotten. Nico is wearing a gray tank suit with an open back, and while Inge plays before the houses of the rich, she looks at the sand.
    Inge goes into the sea. Come, she says, it’s warm. She is laughing and happy, her gaiety is stronger than the hour, stronger than the cold. Malcolm walks slowly in behind her. The water is warm. It seems purer as well. And it is empty, as far in each direction as one can see. They are bathing in it alone. The waves swell and lift them gently. The water runs over them, laving the soul.
    At the entrance to the cabins the young Spanish boys stand around waiting for a glimpse if the shower door is opened too soon. They wear blue woolen trunks. Also black. Their feet appear to have very long toes. There is only one shower and in it a single, whitened tap. The water is cold. Inge goes first. Her suit appears, one small piece and then the other, draped over the top of the door. Malcolm waits. He can hear the soft slap and passage of her hands, the sudden shattering of the water on concrete when she moves aside. The boys at the door exalt him. He glances out. They are talking in low voices. They reach out to tease each other, to make an appearance of play.
    The streets of Sitges have changed. An hour has struck which announces evening, and everywhere there are strolling crowds. It’s difficult to stay together. Malcolm has an arm around each of them. They drift to his touch like horses. Inge smiles. People will think the three of them do it together, she says.
    They stop at a café. It isn’t a good one, Inge complains.
    “It’s the best,” Nico says simply. It is one of her qualities that she can tell at a glance, wherever she goes, which is the right place, the right restaurant, hotel.
    “No,” Inge insists.
    Nico seems not to care. They wander on separated now, and Malcolm whispers, “What is she looking for?”
    “Don’t you know?” Nico says.
    “You see these boys?” Inge says. They are seated in another place, a bar. All around them, tanned limbs, hair faded from the long, baking afternoons, young men sit with the sweet stare of indolence.
    “They have no money,” she says. “None of them could take you to dinner. Not one of them. They have nothing. This is Spain,” she says.
    Nico