The Dividing Stream Read Free Page A

in my son-in-law’s room?’’
    An old woman who had been sleeping in a wicker chair at the other end of the terrace, her straw hat tilted so far over her nose that only her chin was visible, had suddenly awoken, pushed the hat off her face, and tottered to her feet. She was terrifying, and Enzo fled back into the bedroom.
    ‘‘Max, Max! … Oh, you are here! What was that boy doing out on the terrace? What’s going on?’’
    Mrs. Bennett was a woman of over six feet, with large hands and feet, untidy grey hair worn in a bun, and a face whose main features were a long, thin, indeterminately shaped nose, a skin which, except in moments of stress, lacked any of old age’s wrinkles, and a pair of eyes remarkable both for the paleness of their blue and the absence of either lashes or eyebrows. She wore a faded blue cotton-dress, shapeless except for the belt which gathered it at the waist, white plimsolls on her stockingless feet, and dark glasses which dangled round her neck on a piece of knotted twine. ‘‘Who are these people? I was woken up by one of them, on the terrace. He frightened me,’’ she added with a sudden smile.
    ‘‘I met them on the beach and they asked for a cigarette. I hadn’t any on me so I brought them up here.’’
    ‘‘Oh, I see. It was silly of me to be frightened,’’ she said, turning to Enzo. ‘‘But I was having such a strange, confused dream, and then I woke with a start and saw you.… Now that I’m old, I’ve become silly about sleep—always a little afraid to go to sleep, in case I don’t wake up, and when I do wake up, I always think that perhaps I may be dead.… You wouldn’t understand that because you’re young.’’
    Enzo had not understood it; not merely because he was young, as she had suggested, but because the whole speech had been delivered in English. He was still regarding her with terror.
    ‘‘They don’t understand English,’’ Max put in. ‘‘But that one speaks a little French patois —he’s from Tunis.’’
    ‘‘This one? Yes, I’ve been looking at him. Partly Arab, I suppose.… He’s a fine-looking boy.’’
    Hearing the word Arab, Rodolfo leapt up from the bed where he had been squatting. ‘‘Me—Arab?’’ he exclaimed in French. ‘‘ Not on your life!’’
    ‘‘He didn’t like that.’’ She smiled at him, putting one hand on to his shoulder and gently pushing him back on to the bed. Once she had him there, she stared down at him with her strange, faintly blue eyes, and he, with a sullen hostility, stared back, his palms clasped behind his head. Suddenly she bent down and caught one of his wrists. ‘‘ He’ll do. I want to draw him.’’ She began to pull him to his feet and such was her personality, that Rodolfo, mystified and unfriendly, nevertheless rose. ‘‘I’ll take him to my room,’’ she announced, beginning to drag him to the door, and commanding at the same time in an appalling French accent. ‘‘ Venez—venez! Venez avec moi !’’
    ‘‘ Mais, je ne comprends pas ——’’
    ‘‘ Venez, venez !’’
    Enzo began to shamble after them, but she waved him away, crying in English. ‘‘ No, I only want the one. Do explain, Max.’’
    ‘‘You stay here, Enzo,’’ Max said.
    ‘‘But——’’
    ‘‘Stay with the Englishman,’’ Rodolfo commanded. He was not sure what was desired either of him or his friend, but of one thing he was sure; it always paid to do what foreigners asked of one. ‘‘Stay with the Englishman,’’ he repeated.
    ‘‘But——’’ Enzo began again.
    ‘‘Stay!’’ Rodolfo shouted. ‘‘Keep the Englishman company.’’
    Enzo crossed over to the bed, sat stiffly down on it, and began undoing and doing up the top button of his shirt with one large, clumsy hand. His face was red and he was sweating profusely.
    ‘‘What are those white scars?’’ Max asked, saying the first thing that came into his head and then realizing that, even to an Italian and