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Funny to think of someone like himself and Adams, hanging around together just because they were Americans. But their goodnight twenty minutes later, on the hotel grounds, was warm. Adams wished him a happy stay, as if he had moved in permanently, or as if, Ingham thought, he were a newcomer to an expedition, doomed to a different and rather lonely life for months to come. But Ingham had no duties at all except those he assigned himself, and he was free to go hundreds of miles anywhere in his car.
    Before he went to bed that night, Ingham looked through his personal and his business address books, and found two people to whom he might write in regard to John. (He hadn ’ t Miles Gallust ’ s address, or he had left it in New York, and reproached himself for this oversight.) The two people were William McHhenny, an editor in the New York office of Paramount, and Peter Langland, a free-lance photographer whom John knew pretty well, Ingham remembered. Ingham thought of cabling, but decided a cable would look too dramatic, so he wrote Peter Langland a short, friendly note (they had met at a party with John, and Ingham remembered him more clearly now, a chunky blond fellow with glasses), asking him to prod John and ask John to cable, in case he had not yet written. The probably four or five days until the letter reached New York seemed an aeon to wait, but Ingham tried to make himself be patient. This was Africa, not Paris or London. The letter had to get to Tunis before it could be put on a plane.
    Ingham posted the letter the next mor ni ng.

 

     
     

    4
     
     
    Two or three days went by. Ingham worked.
    In the mornings, Mokta brought his continental breakfast around nine-fifteen or nine-thirty. Mokta always had a question:
    ‘ The refrigerator works well? ’ Or ‘ Hassim has brought you enough towels? ’ Always Mokta asked these things with a disarming smile. He was more blond than brunette, and he had grey-blue eyes with long lashes.
    Ingham supposed Mokta was popular with both women and men, and though he was only seventeen or so, he had probably had experience with both. At any rate, with his good looks and his manner, he was not going to spend the rest of his life carrying breakfast-trays and stacks of towels across the sand. ‘ Only one thing I ’ d like, my friend .’ Ingham said. ‘ If you see a letter for me in that madhouse, would you bring it immediately? ’
    Mokta laughed. ‘ Bien s û r, m ’ sieur! Je regarde tout le temps — tout le temps pour vous ! ’
    Ingham waved a casual good-bye and poured himself some coffee, which was strong enough but not hot. Sometimes it was the other way around. He pulled on his pyjama top. He slept only in the pants. The nights were warm, too. He thought of the desk in the bungalow manager ’ s office. Dare he hope for a letter today by ten-thirty — eleven? Ingham had been told by the hotel ’ s main office that mail came twice a day to the bungalow headquarters and was delivered as soon as it arrived, but this was patently not so, because Ingham had seen people going to the office in the bungalow headquarters and looking through the post there, post that sometimes sorted and sometimes not. How could he expect Arab boys, or even the harassed, ill-tempered German directrice to care very much about people ’ s mail? There was never anyone at the desk. Stacks of towels filled one comer of the office — although when Ingham had asked for a clean towel, having used his for more than a week, the boy had told him he hadn ’ t changed it because it didn ’ t look dirty . Mysterious grey metal files stood against the walls. The absurdity of the contents of this office had given it a Kafka-like futility to Ingham. He felt that he never would, never could receive any letter of significance there. And it was maddening to Ingham to find the door sometimes locked for no apparent reason, no one around to open it, or no one with the key. This would send him forging across