The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [124]
The largest was the old Arab room which served as a bedroom and reception-room in one. It was furnished by an uncomfortable looking truckle bed and an old-fashioned cake-stand. A few joss-sticks, a police calendar, and Clea’s as yet unfinished portrait of the pirate stood upon the crumbling mantelpiece. Scobie switched on a single dusty electric light bulb — a recent innovation of which he was extremely proud (‘Paraffin gets in the food’) — and looked round him with unaffected pleasure. Then he tiptoed to the far corner. In the gloom I had at first overlooked the room’s other occupant: a brilliant green Amazonian parrot in a brass cage. It was at present shrouded in a dark cloth, and this the old man now removed with a faintly defensive air.
‘I was telling you about Toby’ he said ‘because last week he came through Alex on the Yokohama run. I got this from him —
he had to sell — the damn bird caused such a riot. It’s a brilliant conversationalist, aren’t you Ron, eh? Crisp as a fart, aren’t you?’
The parrot gave a low whistle and ducked. ‘That’s the boy’ said Scobie with approval and turning to me added ‘I got Ron for a very keen price, yes, a very keen price. Shall I tell you why?’
Suddenly, inexplicably, he doubled up with laughter, nearly joining nose to knee and whizzing soundlessly like a small human top, to emerge at last with an equally soundless slap on his own thigh — a sudden paroxysm. ‘You ’d never imagine the row Ron caused’ he said. ‘Toby brought the bird ashore. He knew it could talk, but not Arabic. By God. We were sitting at a café yarning (I haven’t seen Toby for five whole years) when Ron suddenly started. In Arabic. You know, he recited the Kalima, a very sacred, not to mention holy, text from the Koran. The Kalima. And at every
other word, he gives a fart, didn’t you Ron?’ The parrot agreed with another whistle. ‘It’s so sacred, the Kalima’ explained Scobie grave ly, ‘that the next thing was a raging crowd round us. It was lucky I knew what was going on. I knew that if a non-Moslem was caught reciting this particular text he was liable to Instant Circumcision!’ His eye flashed. ‘It was a pretty poor out-look for Toby to be circumcised like that while one was taking shore leave and I was worried. (I’m circumcised already.) How-ever, my presence of mind didn’t desert me. He wanted to punch a few heads, but I restrained him. I was in police uniform you see, and that made it easier. I made a little speech to the crowd saying that I was going to take the infidel and this perishing bird into chokey to hand them over to the Parquet. That satisfied them. But there was no way of silencing Ron, even under his little veil, was there Ron? The little bastard recited the Kalima all the way back here. We had to run for it. My word, what an experience!’
He was changing out of his police rig as he talked, placing his tarbush on the rusty iron nail above his bed, above the crucifix in the little alcove where a stone jar of drinking-water also stood. He put on a frayed old blazer with tin buttons, and still mopp ing his head went on: ‘I must say — it was wonderful to see old Toby again after so long. He had to sell the bird, of course, after such a riot. Didn’t dare go through the dock area again with it. But now I’m doubtful, for I daren’t take it out of the room hardly for fear of what more it knows.’ He sighed. ‘Another good thing’ he went on ‘was the recipe Toby brought for Mock Whisky — ever heard of it? Nor had I. Better than Scotch and dirt cheap, old man. From now on I’m going to brew all my own drinks, thanks to Toby. Here. Look at this.’ He indicated a grubby bottle full of some fiery-Iooking liquid. ‘It’s home-made beer’ he said, ‘and jolly good too. I made three, but the other two exploded. I’m going to call it Plaza beer.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to sell it?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ said Scobie. ‘Just for