The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [371]
‘Nessim?’ I was startled. The little man nodded self-importantly. This new, this unforeseen image of my friend struck me like a bullet. ‘Good God’ I said, and the barber nodded as if to approve the appropriateness of the oath. ‘It was bad’ he said. ‘It is the war, Darley.’ Then suddenly a happier thought came into his mind and he smiled the infant smile once more which reflected only the iron material values of the Levant. Taking my arm he continued: ‘But the war is also good business. My shops are cutting the armies’ hair day and night. Three saloons, twelve assistants! You will see, it is superb. And Pombal says, as a joke,
“Now you are shaving the dead while they are still alive.” ’ He doubled up with soundless refined laughter.
‘Is Pombal back there?’
‘Of course. He is a high man of the Free French now. He has conferences with Sir Mountolive. He is also still there. Many others too have remained from your time, Darley, you will see.’
Mnemjian seemed delighted to have been able to astonish me so easily. Then he said something which made my mind do a double somersault, I stood still and asked him to repeat it, thinking that I had misheard him. ‘I have just visited Capodistria.’ I stared at him. Capodistria! ‘But he died! ’ I exclaimed, though I had not forgotten Balthazar’s enigmatic phrase about the false teeth. The barber leaned far back, as if on a rocking-horse, and tittered profusely. It was a very good joke this time and lasted him a full minute. Then at last, still sighing luxuriously at the memory of it, he slowly took from his breast-pocket a postcard such as one buys upon any Mediterranean seafront and held it out to me, saying:
‘Then who is this?’
It was a murky enough photograph with the heavy developing-marks which are a feature of hasty street-photography. It depicted two figures walking along a seafront. One was Mnemjian. The other … I stared at it in grow ing recognition….
Capodistria was clad in tubular trousers of an Edwardian style and very pointed black shoes. With this he wore a long academ-ician’s topcoat with a fur collar and cuffs. Finally, and quite fan-tastically, he was sporting a chapeau melon which made him look rather like a tall rat in some animal cartoon. He had grown a thin Rilkean moustache which drooped a little at the corner of his mouth. A long cigarette-holder was between his teeth. It was unmistakably Capodistria. ‘What on earth …’ I began, but the smiling Mnemjian shut one eye and laid a finger across his lips.
‘Always’ he said ‘there are mysteries’; and in the act of guarding them he swelled up toad-like, staring into my eyes with a mis-chievous content. He would perhaps have deigned to explain but at that minute a ship’s siren rang out from the direction of the village. He was flustered. ‘Quickly’; he began his trudging walk.
‘I mustn’t forget to give you the letter from Hosnani.’ It was carried in his breast pocket and he fished it out at last. ‘And now good-bye’ he said. ‘All is arranged. We will meet again.’
I shook his hand and stood looking after him for a moment, surprised and undecided. Then I turned back to the edge of the olive grove and sat down on a rock to read the letter from Nessim. It was brief and contained the details of the travel arrangements he had made for us. A little craft would be coming to take us off the island. He gave approximate times and instructions as to
where we should wait for it. All this was clearly set out. Then, as a postcript Nessim added in his tall hand: ‘It will be good to meet again, without reserves. I gather that Balthazar has recounted all our misadventures. You won’t exact an unduly heavy repentance from people who care for you so much? I hope not. Let the past remain a closed book for us all.’
That was how it fell out.
For those last few days the island regaled us nobly with the best of its weather and those austere Cycladean simplicities which were like a fond embrace — for