The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [330]
When he reached his office it was to find the desk-lamp burning and Errol seated in the armchair, smiling benignly and holding the pink telegram in his fingers. ‘It has just come in, sir’ he said, passing it to his Chief as if it were a bouquet of flowers specially gathered for him. Mountolive cleared his throat loudly — attemp-ting by the physical action to clear his mind and attention at the same time. He was afraid that his fingers might tremble as he held it, so he placed it elaborately on his blotter, thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, and leaned down to study it, registering (he hoped) little beyond polite nonchalance. ‘It is pretty clear, sir’
said Errol hopefully, as if to strike an echoing spark of enthusiasm from his Chief. But Mountolive read it slowly and thoughtfully twice before looking up. He suddenly wanted to go to the lavatory very much. ‘I must do a pee’ he said hastily, practically driving the younger man out of the door ‘and I’ll come down in a little while to discuss it. It seems clear enough, though. I shall have to act tomorrow. In a minute, eh?’ Errol disappeared with an air of disappointment. Mountolive rushed to the toilet; his knees were shaking. Within a quarter of an hour, however, he had composed himself once more and was able to walk lightly down the staircase to where Errol’s office was; he entered softly with the telegram in his hand. Errol sat at his desk; he had just put the telephone down and was smiling.
Mountolive handed over the pink telegram and sank into an armchair not icing with annoyance the litter of untidy personal objects on Errol’s desk — a china ashtray in the likeness of a Sealyham terrier, a Bible, a pin-cushion, an expensive fountain-pen whose holder was embedded in a slab of green marble, a lead paperweight in the shape of a statue of Athene…. It was
the sort of jumble one would find in an old lady’s work-basket; but then, Errol was something of an old lady. He cleared his throat.
‘Well, sir’ said Errol, taking off his glasses, ‘I’ve been on to Protocol and said you would like an interview with the Foreign Minister tomorrow on a matter of great urgency. I suppose you’ll wear uniform?’
‘Uniform?’ said Mountolive vague ly.
‘The Egyptians are always impressed if one puts on a Tiger Tim.’
‘I see. Yes, I suppose so.’
‘They tend to judge the importance of what you have to say by the style in which you dress to say it. Donkin is always rubbing it into us and I expect it’s true.’
‘It is, my dear boy.’ (There! The avuncular note again! Damn.)
‘And I suppose you’ll want to support the verbal side with a definitive aide-mémoire. You ’ll have to give them all the infor-mation to back up our contention, won’t you, sir?’
Mountolive nodded briskly. He had been submerged sud-denly by a wave of hate for Nessim so unfamiliar that it surprised him. Once again, of course, he recognized the root of his anger —
that he should be forced into such a position by his friend’s in-discretion : forced to proceed against him. He had a sudden little series of mental images — Nessim fleeing the country, Nessim in Hadra Prison, Nessim in chains, Nessim poisoned at his lunch-table by a servant…. With the Egyptians one never knew where one was. Their ignorance was matched by an excess of zeal which might land one anywhere. He sighed.
‘Of course I shall wear uniform’ he said gravely.
‘I’ll draft the aide-mémoire. ’’
‘Very good.’
‘I should have a definite time for you within half an hour.’
‘Thank you. And I’d like to take Donkin with me. His Arabic is much better than mine and he can take minutes of the meeting so that London can have a telegram giving a full account of it. Will you send him up when he has seen the brief? Thank you.’
All the next morning he hung about in his office, turning over papers in a desultory fashion, forcing himself to work. At mid-day the