Masson tried to make him laugh, but without success.
Presently Raymond said he was going for a stroll on the beach.
I asked him where he proposed to go, and he mumbled something about “wanting to take the air.” We—Masson and I—then said we’d go with him, but he flew into a rage and told us to mind our own business. Masson said we mustn’t insist, seeing the state he was in.
However, when he went out, I followed him.
It was like a furnace outside, with the sunlight splintering into flakes of fire on the sand and sea.
We walked for quite a while, and I had an idea that Raymond had a definite idea where he was going; but probably I was mistaken about this.
At the end of the beach we came to a small stream that had cut a channel in the sand, after coming out from behind a biggish rock.
There we found our two Arabs again, lying on the sand in their blue dungarees.
They looked harmless enough, as if they didn’t bear any malice, and neither made any move when we approached.
The man who had slashed Raymond stared at him without speaking.
The other man was blowing down a little reed and extracting from it three notes of the scale, which he played over and over again, while he watched us from the corner of an eye.
For a while nobody moved; it was all sunlight and silence except for the tinkle of the stream and those three little lonely sounds.
Then Raymond put his hand to his revolver pocket, but the Arabs still didn’t move.
I noticed the man playing on the reed had his big toes splayed out almost at right angles to his feet.
Still keeping his eyes on his man, Raymond said to me:
“Shall I plug him one?”
I thought quickly. If I told him not to, considering the mood he was in, he might very well fly into a temper and use his gun.
So I said the first thing that came into my head.
“He hasn’t spoken to you yet.
It would be a lowdown trick to shoot him like that, in cold blood.”
Again, for some moments one heard nothing but the tinkle of the stream and the flute notes weaving through the hot, still air.
“Well,” Raymond said at last, “if that’s how you feel, I’d better say something insulting, and if he answers back I’ll loose off.”
“Right,” I said.
“Only, if he doesn’t get out his knife you’ve no business to fire.”
Raymond was beginning to fidget.
The Arab with the reed went on playing, and both of them watched all our movements.
“Listen,” I said to Raymond. “You take on the fellow on the right, and give me your revolver.
If the other one starts making trouble or gets out his knife, I’ll shoot.”
The sun glinted on Raymond’s revolver as he handed it to me.
But nobody made a move yet; it was just as if everything had closed in on us so that we couldn’t stir.
We could only watch each other, never lowering our eyes; the whole world seemed to have come to a standstill on this little strip of sand between the sunlight and the sea, the twofold silence of the reed and stream.
And just then it crossed my mind that one might fire, or not fire—and it would come to absolutely the same thing.
Then, all of a sudden, the Arabs vanished; they’d slipped like lizards under cover of the rock.
So Raymond and I turned and walked back.
He seemed happier, and began talking about the bus to catch for our return.
When we reached the bungalow Raymond promptly went up the wooden steps, but I halted on the bottom one. The light seemed thudding in my head and I couldn’t face the effort needed to go up the steps and make myself amiable to the women.
But the heat was so great that it was just as bad staying where I was, under that flood of blinding light falling from the sky.
To stay, or to make a move—it came to much the same.
After a moment I returned to the beach, and started walking.
There was the same red glare as far as eye could reach, and small waves were lapping the hot sand in little, flurried gasps.
As I slowly walked toward the boulders at the end of the beach I could feel my temples swelling under the impact of the light.
It pressed itself on me, trying to check my progress.
And each time I felt a hot blast strike my forehead, I gritted my teeth, I clenched my fists in my trouser pockets and keyed up every nerve to fend off the sun and the dark befuddlement it was pouring into me.
Whenever a blade of vivid light shot upward from a bit of shell or broken glass lying on the sand, my jaws set hard.
I wasn’t going to be beaten, and I walked steadily on.
The small black hump of rock came into view far down the beach. It was rimmed by a dazzling sheen of light and feathery spray, but I was thinking of the cold, clear stream behind it, and longing to hear again the tinkle of running water. Anything to be rid of the glare, the sight of women in tears, the strain and effort—and to retrieve the pool of shadow by the rock and its cool silence!
But when I came nearer I saw that Raymond’s Arab had returned.
He was by himself this time, lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his face shaded by the rock while the sun beat on the rest of his body.
One could see his dungarees steaming in the heat.
I was rather taken aback; my impression had been that the incident was closed, and I hadn’t given a thought to it on my way here.