Free The Delicate Prey by Paul Bowles

unpleasant surprise to find the new one swarming with people. Their new boat was a two-decked ferry painted white, with an enormous paddle wheel at the stern. On the lower deck, which rested not more than two feet above the surface of the river, passengers and freight stood ready to travel, packed together indiscriminately. The upper deck had a salon and a dozen or so narrow staterooms. In the salon the first-class passengers undid their bundles of pillows and opened their paper bags of food. The orange light of the setting sun flooded the room.
    They looked into several of the staterooms.
    â€œThey all seem to be empty,” she said.
    â€œI can see why. Still, the privacy would be a help.”
    â€œThis one’s double. And it has a screen in the window. This is the best one.”
    â€œI’ll look for a steward or somebody. Go on in and take over.” He pushed the bags out of the passageway where the cargador had left them, and went off in search of an employee. In every corner of the boat the people seemed to be multiplying. There were twice as many as there had been a few moments before. The salon was completely full, its floor space occupied by groups of travelers with small children and elderly women, who were already stretched out on blankets and newspapers.
    â€œIt looks like Salvation Army headquarters the night after a major disaster,” he said as he came back into the stateroom. “I can’t find anybody. Anyway, we’d better stay in here. The other cubicles are beginning to fill up.”
    â€œI’m not so sure I wouldn’t rather be on deck,” she announced. “There are hundreds of cockroaches.”
    â€œAnd probably worse,” he added, looking at the bunks.
    â€œThe thing to do is take those filthy sheets off and just lie on the mattresses.” She peered out into the corridor. Sweat was trickling down her neck. “Do you think it’s safe?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAll those people. This old tub.”
    He shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œIt’s just one night. Tomorrow we’ll be at Cienaga. And it’s almost night now.”
    She shut the door and leaned against it, smiling faintly.
    â€œI think it’s going to be fun,” she said.
    â€œThe boat’s moving!” he cried. “Let’s go on deck. If we can get out there.”
    Slowly the old boat pushed across the bay toward the dark east shore. People were singing and playing guitars. On the bottom deck a cow lowed continuously. And louder than all the sounds was the rush of water made by the huge paddles.
    They sat on the deck in the middle of a vociferous crowd, leaning against the bars of the railing, and watched the moon rise above the mangrove swamps ahead. As they approached the opposite side of the bay, it looked as if the boat might plow straight into the shore, but a narrow waterway presently appeared, and the boat slipped cautiously in. The people immediately moved back from the railing, crowding against the opposite wall. Branches from the trees on the bank began to rub against the boat, scraping along the side walls of the cabins, and then whipping violently across the deck.
    They pushed their way through the throng and walked across the salon to the deck on the other side of the boat; the same thing was happening there.
    â€œIt’s crazy,” she declared. “It’s like a nightmare. Whoever heard of going through a channel no wider than the boat! It makes me nervous. I’m going in and read.”
    Her husband let go of her arm. “You can never enter into the spirit of a thing, can you?”
    â€œYou tell me what the spirit is, and I’ll see about entering into it,” she said, turning away.
    He followed her. “Don’t you want to go down onto the lower deck? They seem to be going strong down there. Listen.” He held up his hand. Repeated screams of laughter came up from below.
    â€œI certainly