The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [123]
After a while he woke again from this deeper sleep, shook him-self and rose, knuckling his eyes. We made our way together to the sordid purlieus of the town where he lived, in Tatwig Street, in a couple of tumbledown rooms. ‘And yet’ he said once more, carry-ing his chain of thought perfectly, ‘it’s all very well for you to say I shouldn’t tell them. But I wonder.’ (Here he paused to inhale the draught of cooking Arab bread from the doorway of a shop and the old man exclaimed ‘It smells like mother’s lap!’) His ambling walk kept pace with his deliberations. ‘You see the Egyptians are marvel-lous, old man. Kindly. They know me well. From some points of
view, they might look like felons, old man, but felons in a state of grace, that’s what I always say. They make allowances for each other. Why, Nimrod Pasha himself said to me the other day
“Peddyrasty is one thing — hashish quite another.” He’s serious, you see. Now I never smoke hashish when I’m on duty — that would be bad. Of course, from another point of view, the British couldn’t do anything to a man with an official pos ition like me. But if the Gyppos
once thought they were — well, critical about me — old man, I might lose both jobs, and both salaries. That’s what troubles me.’
We mounted the fly-blown staircase with its ragged rat-holes.
‘It smells a bit’ he agreed, ‘but you get quite used to it. It’s the mice. No, I’m not going to move. I’ve lived in this quarter for years now — years! Everybody knows me and likes me. And besides, old Abdul is only round the corner.’
He chuckled and stopped for breath on the first land ing, taking off his flowerpot the better to mop his brow. Then he hung down-wards, sagging as he always did when he was thinking seriously as if the very weight of the thought itself bore down upon him. He sighed. ‘The thing’ he said slowly, and with the air of a man who wishes at all costs to be explicit, to formulate an idea as clearly as lies within his power, ‘the thing is about Tendencies — you only realize it when you’re not a hot-blooded young sprig any more.’
He sighed again. ‘It’s the lack of tenderness, old man. It all de-pends on cunning somehow, you get lonely. Now Abdul is a true friend.’ He chuckled and cheered up once more. ‘I call him the Bui Bui Emir. I set him up in his business, just out of friendly affection. Bought him everything: his shop, his little wife. Never laid a finger on him nor ever could, because I love the man. I’m glad I did now, because though I’m getting on, I still have a true friend. I pop in every day to see them. It’s uncanny how happy it makes me. I really do enjoy their happiness, old man. They are like son and daughter to me, the poor perishing coons. I can’t hardly bear to hear them quarrel. It makes me anxious about their kids. I think Abdul is jealous of her, and not without cause, mark you. She looks flirty to me. But then, sex is so powerful in this heat
— a spoonful goes a long way as we used to say about rum in the Merchant Navy. You lie and dream about it like ice-cream, sex, not rum. And these Moslem girls — old boy — they circumcise
them. It’s cruel. Really cruel. It only makes them harp on the subject. I tried to get her to learn knitting or crewel-work, but she’s so stupid she didn’t understand. They made a joke of it. Not that I mind. I was only trying to help. Two hundred pounds it took me to set Abdul up — all my savings. But he’s doing well now —
yes, very well.’
The monologue had had the effect of allowing him to muster his energies for the final assault. We addressed