The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [339]
‘Perfectly.’
‘At some moments, I am not bound to commit myself to particular action. But at others, I may be so bound. Therefore, Nessim Hosnani, the wise man removes the grounds for com-plaints.’
Nessim bowed again gracefully and once more remained silent. It was useless to pursue the dialectics of their relative positions until he had obtained acceptance of his proffered gift. Memlik perhaps sensed this, for he sighed and moved away to another group of visitors, and presently the dinner ended and the company retired once more to the long reception-room. Now Nessim’s pulse beat faster, for Memlik picked up the tissue-wrapped package and excused himself, saying ‘I must compare this with the books in my collection. The sheik of tonight — he of Imbabi — will come soon now. Seat yourselves and take your leisure. I will join you soon.’ He left the room. A desultory conversation began now, in which Nessim tried his best to take part though he realized that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast and his fingers felt shaky as they raised a cigarette to his lips. After a while, the doors were once more opened to admit an old blind sheik who had come to preside over this ‘Night Of God’. The company surrounded him, shaking his hands and uttering compliments. And then Memlik entered abruptly and Nessim saw that his hands were empty: he uttered a prayer of thanksgiving under his breath and mopped his brow.
It did not take him long to compose himself once more. He was standing rather apart from the press of dark-coated gentle-men in whose midst stood the old blind preacher, whose vacant, bewildered face turned from voice to voice with the air of some mechanical contrivance built to register sound-waves; his air of mild confusion suggested all the ghostly contentment of an absolute faith in something which was the more satisfying for not being fully apprehended by the reason. His hands were joined on
his breast; he looked as shy as some ancient child, full of the kinetic beauty of a human being whose soul has become a votive object.
The pasha who entered once more made his way slowly to Nessim’s side, but by stages so delayed that it seemed to the latter he would never reach him. This slow progress was prolonged by compliments and an air of elaborate disinterestedness. At last he was there, at Nessim’s elbow, his long clever fingers still holding the bejewelled fly-whisk. ‘Your gift is a choice one’ the low voice said at last, with the faintest suggestion of honey in its tones. ‘It is most acceptable. Indeed, sir, your knowledge and discrimination are both legendary. To show surprise would betoken vulgar ignorance of the fact.’
The formula which Memlik invariably used was so smooth and remarkably well-turned in Arabic that Nessim could not help looking surprised and pleased. It was a choice turn of speech such as only a really cultivated person would have used. He did not know that Memlik had carefully memorized it against such occasions. He bowed his head as one might to receive an accolade, but remained silent. Memlik flirted his fly-whisk for a moment, before adding in another tone: ‘Of course, there is only one thing. I have already spoken of the complaints which come to me, effendi mine. In all such cases I am bound sooner or later to investigate causes. Great regrets.’
Nessim turned his smooth black eye upon the Egyptian and still smiling said in a low voice: ‘Sir, by the European Christ-mastide — a matter of months — there will be no further grounds for complaint.’ There was a silence.
‘Then time is important’ said Memlik reflective ly.
‘Time is the air we breathe, so says a proverb.’
The pasha half turned now and, speaking as if to the company in general, added: ‘My collection has need of your most dis-criminating