The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [380]
was too intense and too concrete to make the thought seem more than of secondary importance — for art really means freedom, and it was this which was at stake. At last the words came. ‘Never mind. Today I’ve seen the little blue cross of Lorraine flowering everywhere.’
‘You understand’ he murmured and squeezed my hand again.
‘I knew you would understand. Even when you most criticized her you knew that she meant as much to you as to us.’ He blew his nose suddenly, with startling loudness, in a clean handker-chief and leaned back on the stone bench. With amazing sudden-ness he had become his old self again, the timid, fat, irrepressible Pombal of the past. ‘There is so much to tell you. You will come with me now. At once. Not a word. Yes, it is Nessim’s car. I bought it to save it from the Egyptians. Mountolive has fixed you an excellent post. I am still in the old flat, but now we have taken the building. You can have the whole top floor. It will be like old times again.’ I was carried off my feet by his volubility and by the bewildering variety of prospects he described so rapidly and con-fident ly, without apparently expecting comment. His English had become practically perfect.
‘Old times’ I stammered.
But here an expression of pain crossed his fat countenance and he groaned, pressing his hands between his knees as he uttered the word: ‘Fosca!’ He screwed up his face comically and stared at me. ‘You do not know.’ He looked almost terrified. ‘I am in love with her.’
I laughed. He shook his head rapidly. ‘No. Don’t laugh.’
‘I must, Pombal.’
‘I beseech you.’ And leaning forward with a look of despair on his countenance he lowered his voice and prepared to confide something to me. His lips moved. It was clearly something of tragic importance. At last he brought it out, and the tears came into his eyes as he spoke the words: ‘You don’t understand. Je suis fidèle malgré moi. ’ He gasped like a fish and repeated ‘ Malgré
moi. It has never happened before, never. ’ And then abruptly he broke into a despairing whinny with the same look of awed be-wilderment on his face. How could I forbear to laugh? At a blow he had restored Alexandria to me, complete and intact — for no memory of it could be complete without the thought of Pombal
in love. My laughter infected him. He was shaking like a jelly.
‘Stop’ he pleaded at last with comic pathos, interjecting into the forest of bearded chuckles the words. ‘And I have never slept with her, not once. That is the insane thing.’ This made us laugh more than ever.
But the chauffeur softly sounded the horn, recalling him to himself abruptly, reminding him that he had duties to perform.
‘Come’ he cried. ‘I have to take a letter to Pordre before nine. Then I’ll have you dropped at the flat. We can lunch together. Hamid is with me, by the way; he’ll be delighted. Hurry up.’
Once more my doubts were not given time to formulate them-selves. Clutching my parcel I accompanied him to the familiar car, not icing with a pang that its upholstery now smelt of expensive cigars and metal-polish. My friend talked rapidly all the way to the French Consulate, and I was surprised to find that his whole attitude to the Chief had changed. All the old bitterness and resentment had vanished. They had both, it seemed, abandoned their posts in different capitals (Pombal in Rome) in order to join the Free French in Egypt. He spoke of Pordre now with tender affection. ‘He is like a father to me. He has