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of missing a fragment of reality which one knows in advance will be trivial, even meaningless, had given our friend the conventional tic one sees in children who want to go to the lavatory — shifting about in a chair, crossing and uncrossing of legs. After a few moments of conversation he would nervously rise and say ‘I’ve just forgotten something — I won’t be a minute.’ In the street he would expel his breath in a swish of relief. He never went far but simply walked around the block to still the unease. Everything always seemed normal enough, to be sure. He would wonder whether to phone Mahmoud Pasha about the defence estimates or wait till Tomorrow…. He had a pocketful of peanuts which he cracked in his teeth and spat out, feeling restless, unnerved, he did not know why. After a walk he would come trotting back into the café, or barber’s shop, beaming shyly, apologetically: an ‘Agency Man’ — our best-integrated modern type. There was nothing wrong with John except the level on which he had chosen to live his life — but you could say the same about his famous namesake, could you not?

I owe this faded photograph to him. The mania to perpetuate, to record, to photograph everything! I suppose this must come

from the feeling that you don’t enjoy anything fully, indeed are taking the bloom off it with every breath you draw. His ‘files’

were enormous, bulging with signed menus, bands off memorial cigars, postage stamps, picture postcards…. Later this proved useful, for somehow he had captured some of Pursewarden’s obiter dicta.

Farther to the east sits good old big-bellied Pombal, under each eye a veritable diplomatic bag. Now here is someone on whom one can really lavish a bit of affection. His only preoccupation is with losing his job or being impuissant: the national worry of every Frenchman since Jean-Jacques. We quarrel a good deal, though amicably, for we share his little flat which is always full of un-considered trifles and trifles more considered: les femmes. But he is a good friend, a tender-hearted man, and really loves women. When I have insomnia or am ill: ‘ Dis donc, tu vas bien? ’ Roughly, in the manner of a bon copain. ‘ Ecoute — tu veux une aspirine? ’ or else ‘ Ou bien — j’ ai une jeune amie dans ma chambre si tu veux…. ’

(Not a misprint: Pombal called all poules ‘ jeunes femmes’ . ) ‘ Hein?

Elle n’ est pas mal — et c’ est tout payé, mon cher. Mais ce matin, moi je me sens un tout petit peu antiféministe — j’ en ai marre, hein! ’

Satiety fell upon him at such times. ‘ Je deviens de plus en plus anthropophage’ he would say, rolling that comical eye. Also, his job worried him; his reputation was pretty bad, people were beginning to talk, especially after what he calls ‘ l’ affaire Sveva’; and yesterday the Consul-General walked in on him while he was cleaning his shoes

on the Chancery curtains…. ‘ Monsieur Pombal! Je suis obligé de vous faire quelques observations sur votre comportement officiel! ’

Ouf! A reproof of the first grade….

It explains why Pombal now sits heavily in the photograph, debating all this with a downcast expression. Lately we have be-come rather estranged because of Melissa. He is angry that I have fallen in love with her, for she is only a dancer in a night-club, and as such unworthy of serious attention. There is also a question of snobbery, for she is virtually living at the flat now and he feels this to be demeaning: perhaps even diplomatically unwise.

‘Love’ says Toto ‘is a liquid fossil’ — a felicitous epigram in all conscience. Now to fall in love with a banker’s wife, that would be forgivable, though ridiculous…. Or would it? In Alexandria, it is

only intrigue per se which is wholeheartedly admired; but to fall in love renders one ridiculous in society. (Pombal is a provincial at heart.) I think of the tremendous repose and dignity of Melissa in death, the slender body bandaged and swaddled as if after some consuming and irreparable accident. Well.

And Justine? On the day this picture was taken, Clea’s painting was interrupted by a kiss, as Balthazar says. How