The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [398]
‘I don’t know. I worry less.’
‘But you will be happy this time, I feel it; much has changed but much has remained the same. Mountolive tells me he has recommended you for a censorship post, and that you will pro-bably live with Pombal, until you have had a chance to look round a bit.’
‘Another mystery! I hardly know Mountolive. Why has he suddenly constituted himself my benefactor?’
‘I don’t know, possibly because of Liza.’
‘Pursewarden’s sister?’
‘They are up at the summer legation for a few weeks. I gather you will be hearing from him, from them both.’
There was a tap at the door and a servant entered to tidy the flat; Balthazar propped himself up and issued his orders. I stood up to take my leave.
‘There is only one problem’ he said ‘which occupies me. Shall I leave my hair as it is? I look about two hundred and seventy when it isn’t dyed. But I think on the whole it would be better to leave it to symbolize my return from the dead with a vanity chastened by experience, eh? Yes, I shall leave it. I think I shall definitely leave it.’
‘Toss a coin.’
‘Perhaps I will. This evening I must get up for a couple of hours and practise walking about; extraordinary how weak one feels simply from lack of practice. After a fortnight in bed one loses the power of one’s legs. And I mustn’t fall down tomorrow
or the people will think I am drunk again and that would never do. As for you, you must find Clea.’
‘I’ll go round to the studio and see if she is working.’
‘I’m glad you are back.’
‘In a strange way so am I.’
And in the desultory brilliant life of the open street it was hard not to feel like an ancient inhabitant of the city, returning from the other side of the grave to visit it. Where would I find Clea?
* * * * *
V
he was not at the flat, though her letter-box was empty, which suggested that she had already collected her mail S and gone out to read it over a café crème, as had been her wont in the past. There was nobody at the studio either. It fitted in with my mood to try and track her down in one of the familiar cafés and so I dutifully walked down Rue Fuad at a leisurely pace towards Baudrot, the Café Zoltan and the Coquin. But there was no sign of her. There was one elderly waiter at the Coquin who remembered me however, and he had seen her walking down Rue Fuad earlier in the morning with a portfolio. I continued my circuit, peering into the shop-windows, examining the stalls of second-hand books, until I reached the Select on the seafront. But she was not there. I turned back to the flat and found a note from her saying that she would not be able to make contact before the later afternoon, but that she would call there for me; it was annoying, for it meant that I should have to pass the greater part of the day alone, yet it was also useful, for it enabled me to visit Mnemjian’s redecorated emporium and indulge in a post-Pharaonic haircut and shave. (‘The natron-bath’ Pursewarden used to call it.) It also gave me time to unpack my belongings.
But we met by chance, not design. I had gone out to buy some stationery, and had taken a short cut through the little square called Bab El Fedan. My heart heeled ha lf-seas over for a moment,
for she was sitting where once (that first day) Melissa had been sitting, gazing at a coffee cup with a wry reflective air of amuse-ment, with her hands supporting her chin. The exact station in place and time where I had once found Melissa, and with such difficulty mustered enough courage at last to enter the place and speak to her. It gave me a strange sense of unreality to repeat this