Free The Spider's House by Paul Bowles

man said. It cost him an effort to go on, but he managed it. After all, he told himself, it was surely Allah who had made him take the boy on; he had not believed he was a Cherif and had the baraka , and he could not remember now what had prompted him to be friendly to him. If Allah were involved it would be safer to be generous. “Suppose I double your wages.”
    “If it is Allah’s will,” said Amar, “I should be very happy.”
    The man pulled a small ring from his pocket and held it forth to Amar. “Put this on your finger,” he said. “A little gift. No one can ever say that Said is not grateful for favors shown him by Allah.”
    “Thank you very much,” said Amar, slipping the ring on to various fingers to try the size and appearance. “There’s one thing I’d like to know. When does the new wage go into effect? Beginning today or beginning the first day I came to work for you?”
    The man stared at him, was about to say something harsh, but decided not to, and instead shrugged his shoulders.
    “It can begin at the beginning if you like,” he said; in spite of the fact that he did not particularly like Amar, he was determined to keep him on with him if possible. It was not only the divine favor of which the boy seemed to be a symbol, but also the fact of the sales. Although the two could be considered facets of the same thing, he preferred to try to think of them separately: it was more acceptable to Allah.
    “If it’s not worth it to you …” Amar began.
    “Of course it is. Of course it is,” he protested.
    “The day you have no money, I’ll work for you without pay, twice as hard, so that Allah may favor us with money again.”
    The potter thanked him for his generosity and turned to go out.
    “Six days at twenty rial,” Amar was thinking. “He gave me fifty. He still owes me seventy. And twenty-five still for Yazami … bel haq , not yet … Why doesn’t he just pay, instead of talking so much?” And he determined to get the money that night.
    “Master!” he cried, to stop the man from going through thedoor. The potter looked at him, surprised. Now Amar had to go on. It was an unheard-of thing, but he was going to ask his employer to sit with him in a café. And the words he heard himself saying probably astonished him more than they did the older man.
    “All right,” said the potter. When the day was finished they went together to a café near Bab Sidi bou Jida, where there was a small garden in the back, through which one of the myriad channels of the river had been directed. Weeping willows and young plum trees edged the stream, and one small light bulb hung from a trellis overhead, almost buried in grape leaves. The mat where they seated themselves was only a few centimeters from the swift surface of the water.
    Amar ordered the tea with dignity; he was bursting with a pride and a delight which he took pains to conceal. It occurred to him that he would be still happier if he did not have ahead of him the problem of finding the right chink in the conversation where he could gain a foothold for reasonably requesting the money, and he was momentarily tempted to let it go for this time, and relax in the pleasure of the occasion. But then he reminded himself that the only reason for the invitation was to get his wages, and sighing, he steeled himself to go through with the business at hand.
    The potter told him about his two sons, his altercation with a neighbor which had amounted almost to a feud, and finally about his great dream, which was to make the hadj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. Amar became enthusiastic; his eyes shone.
    “To go there by Allah’s grace, and then die happy in your heart,” Amar whispered, a beatific smile on his lips. He leaned back, closed his eyes. “A l-lah!”
    “Not this year,” said the potter meaningfully.
    “Perhaps next year there will be enough money. Incha’Allah.”
    The man snorted. Then he leaned forward, putting his lips close to Amar’s ear.