Hamdi had stepped quickly backward
into the lift, and given a sign to the attendant. The door
slammed and all I could do was to shake my fist at Hamdi's boots
as they disappeared upwards.
I remember once in Italy seeing a cat playing with a partially
stunned bat which, flying low, she had brought to the ground.
She crouched, patted it, made it move a little, patted it again
and retired on her haunches preparing for a spring. Suddenly the
bat shot vertically into the air.
I stared at the ascending lift with the cat's expression of
impotent dismay and stupefaction. It was inconceivably
grotesque. It brought into my tragedy an element of infernal
farce. I became conscious of peals of laughter, and looking
round beheld the American doubled up in a saddlebag chair. I
fled from the vestibule of the hotel clothed from head to foot in
derision.
I am at home, sitting at my work-table, walking restlessly about
the room, stepping out into the raw air on the balcony and
looking for a sign down the dark and silent road.
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