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Show 230 the sink, already butchered. The two paper packages of necks, gizzards and livers. The little pile of shorn chicken fat, the veiny traces of chicken blood here and there on the white porcelain. "Oh, Philip," she said, "I'm beginning to worry about you." This was not exactly true; she had been worrying about him, and saying so, for months. Philip shaded his eyes against the brilliant sun. It could make a man go blind, this desert whiteness. "It's Sunday," he said, "no hurry, no rush." The bay wandered over McAllister's field next door, looking for green grass which did not exist; this drought, Philip thought, was probably hardest on animals. "What I mean, sweetheart, is that there are people out there waiting for the drinks you promised them . . . half an hour ago. Remember?" "Drinks," he said, then remembered: the three trucks loaded high with blankets from Mauritania, drifting slowly north, toward Morocco. He, Philip, on top of the last truck. From below and in front came the sound of the Arab drivers and families, laughing and shouting as the trucks were buffeted like wooden boats by the sudden desert winds; and from behind came the sound of the dogs, barking and yapping and howling as they trailed the little convoy like scavenger gulls. From where he was, on top of a thousand blankets, fifteen feet above the white shifting sand, Philip could see and hear everything. "Drinks," he repeated. "Yes, darling, drinks. Sunrises. Would you like me to make |
