The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [340]
‘As many as may be found acceptable, pasha.’
‘I am sorry we did not meet before. Great regrets.’
‘Great regrets.’
But now he became the host again and turned aside. The wide circle of uncomfortable stiff-backed chairs had been almost
filled by his other visitors. Nessim selected one at the end of the line as Memlik reached his yellow divan and climbed slowly upon it with the air of a swimmer reaching a raft in mid-ocean. He gave a signal and the servants came forward to remove the coffee-cups and sweetmeats; they brought with them a tall and elegant high-backed chair with carved arms and green upholstery which they set for the preacher a little to one side of the room. A gue st rose and with mutterings of respect led the blind man to his seat. Retiring in good order the servants closed and bolted the tall doors at the end of the room. The Wird was about to begin. Memlik formally opened the proceedings with a quotation from Ghazzali the theologian — a surprising innovation for someone, like Nessim, whose picture of the man had been formed entirely from hearsay. ‘The only way’ said Memlik ‘to become united with God is by constant intercourse with him.’ Having uttered the words he leaned back and closed his eyes, as if ex-hausted by the effort. But the phrase had the effect of a signal, for as the blind preacher raised his scraggy neck and inhaled deeply before commencing, the company responded like one man. At once all cigarettes were extinguished, every leg was uncrossed, coat buttons formally done up, every negligent attitude of body and address corrected.
They waited now with emotion for that old voice, melodious and worn with age, to utter the opening strophes of the Holy Book, and there was nothing feigned in the adoring attention of the circle of venal faces. Some licked their lips and leaned forward eagerly, as if to take the phrases upon their lips; others lowered their heads and closed their eyes as if against a new experience in music. The old preacher sat with his waxen hands folded in his lap and uttered the first sura, full of the soft warm colouring of a familiar understand ing, his voice a little shaky at first but gathering power and assurance from the silence as he proceeded. His eyes now were as wide and lustreless as a dead hare’s. His listeners followed the notation of the verses as they fell from his lips with care and rapture, gradually seeking the ir way together out into the main stream of the poetry, like a school offish following a leader by instinct out into the deep sea. Nessim’s own constraint and unease gave place to a warmth about the heart, for he loved the suras, and the old preacher had a magnificent
speaking voice, although the tone was as yet furry and unaccen-tuated. But it was a ‘voice of the inmost heart’ — his whole spiritual presence coursed like a bloodstream in the magnificent verses, filling them with his own ardour, and one could feel his audience tremble and respond, like the rigging of a ship in the wind. ‘ Allah! ’ they sighed at every newly remembered felicity of phrasing, and these little gasps increased the confidence of the old voice with its sweet high register. ‘A voice whose melody is sweeter than charity’ says the proverb. The recitation was a dramatic one and very varied in style, the preacher changing his tone to suit the substance of the words, now threatening, now pleading, now declaiming, now admonishing. It was no surprise that he should be word-perfect, for in Egypt the blind preachers have a faculty for memorizing which is notorious, and moreover the whole length of the Koran is about two-thirds that of the New Testament. Nessim listened to him with tenderness and ad-miration, staring down upon the carpet, half-entranced by the ebb and flow of the poetry which distracted his mind from the tireless speculations he had been entertaining about Memlik’s possible response to the pressures which Mountolive had been forced to bring upon him.
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