From TEA ON THE MOUNTAIN
- Paul Bowles

The mail that morning had brought her a large advance from her publishers. At least,it looked large to her there in the International Zone where life was cheap. She had opened the letter at a table of the sidewalk cafe opposite the Spanish post office. The emotion she felt at seeing the figures on the check had made her unexpectedly generous to the beggars that constantly filed past. Then the excitement had worn off, and she felt momentarily depressed. The streets and the sky seemed brighter and stronger than she. She had of necessity made very few friends in the town, and although she worked steadilt every day at her novel, she had to admit that sometimes she was lonely. Driss came by, wearing a spotless mauve djellaba over his shoulders and a new fez on his head.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he said, making an exaggerated bow. He had been paying her assiduous attention for several months, but so far she had been successful in putting him off without losing his friendship; he made a good escort in the evening. This morning she greeted him warmly, let him pay her check and moved up the street with him, conscious of the comment her action had caused among the other Arabs sitting in the cafe.