The September sunsets were at their reddest the week the Professor
decided to visit Aïn Tadouirt, which is in the warm country. He came
down out of the high, flat region in the evening by bus, with two small
overnight bags full of maps, sun lotions and medicines. Ten years ago
he had been in the village for three days; long enough, however, to
establish a fairly firm friendship with a café-keeper, who had written
him several times during the first year after his visit, if never
since.
“Ha**an Ramani,” the Professor said over and over, as the bus bumped
downward through ever warmer layers of air. Now facing the flaming sky
in the west, and now facing the sharp mountains, the car followed the
dusty trail down the canyons into air which began to smell of other
things besides the endless ozone of the heights: orange blossoms,
pepper, sun-baked excrement,burning olive oil, rotten fruit. He closed
his eyes happily and lived for an instant in a purely olfactory world.
The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.