The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [267]
And I conclude with Melissa, disguised as an 18th Century Dresden China shepherdess.
The mountainless green wilds among,
Here ends she her unechoing song
With amber tears and odorous sighs
Mourned by the desert where she dies!
So much for Darley! But as for Justine’s part in the matter I can find no rhyme, no reason, unless we accept one of Pombal’s epigrams at its face value. He says, with fat seriousness: ‘ Les femmes sont fidèles au fond, tu sais? Elles ne trompent que les autres femmes! ’ But it seems to me to offer no really concrete reason
for Justine wishing to tromper the pallid rival Melissa. This would be infra dig for a woman with her position in society. See what I mean?
Well, then, it is upon Darley that our Maskelyne keeps his baleful ferret’s eyes fixed; apparently Selim tells us that all the real information on Nessim is kept in a little wall-safe at the house and not in the office. There is only one key to this safe which Nessim always carries on his person. The private safe, says Selim, is full of papers. But he is vague as to what the papers can be. Love letters? Hum. At any rate, Selim has made one or two attempts to get at the safe, but without any luck. One day the bold Maske-lyne himself decided to examine it at close range and take, if necessary, a wax squeeze. Selim let him in and he climbed the back stairs — and nearly ran into Darley, our cicisbeo, and Justine in the bedroom! He just heard their voices in time. Never tell me after this that the English are puritans. Some time later I saw a short story Darley published in which a character exclaims: ‘In his arms I felt mauled, chewed up, my fur coated with saliva, as if between the paws of some great excited cat.’ I reeled. ‘Crumbs!’ I thought. ‘This is what Justine is doing to the poor bugger — eating him alive!’
I must say, it gave me a good laugh. Darley is so typical of my compatriots — snobbish and parochial in one. And so good! He lacks devil. (Thank God for the Irishman and the Jew who spat in my blood.) Well, why should I take this high and mighty line?
Justine must be awfully good to sleep with, must kiss like a rainbow and squeeze out great sparks — yes. But out of Darley?
It doesn’t hold water. Nevertheless ‘this rotten creature’ as Maske-lyne calls her is certainly his whole attention, or was when I was last there. Why?
All these factors were tumbling over and over in my mind as I drove up to Alexandria, having secured myself a long duty week-end which even the good Errol found unexceptionable. I never dreamed then, that within a year you might find yourself engaged by these mysteries. I only knew that I wanted, if possible, to demolish the Maskelyne thesis and stay the Chancery’s hand in the matter of Nessim. But apart from this I was somewhat at a loss. I am no spy, after all; was I to creep about Alexandria dressed in a pudding-basin wig with concealed earphones, trying
to clear the name of our friend? Nor could I very well present myself to Nessim and, clearing my throat, say nonchalant ly:
‘Now about this spy-net you’ve got here….’ However, I drove steadily and thoughtfully on. Egypt, flat and unbosomed, flowed back and away from me on either side of the car. The green changed to blue, the blue to peacock’s eye, to gazelle-brown, to panther-black. The desert was like a dry kiss, a flutter of eyelashes against the mind. Ahem! The night became horned with stars like branches of almond-blossom. I gibbered into the city after a drink or two under a new moon which felt as if it were drawing half its brilliance from the open sea. Everything smelt good again. The iron band that Cairo puts round one’s head (the consciousness of being completely surrounded by burning desert?) dissolved, relaxed — gave place to the expectation of an open sea, an open road leading one’s mind back to Europe…. Sorry. Off the point. I telephoned the house, but they were both out at a reception; feeling somewhat relieved I betook myself to the Café Al Aktar in the hope of finding congenial company