The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [404]
Only once had Postlethwaite failed to live up to his reputation, and that was when Toby said that there was a fortune to be made in Spanish fly if only Scobie could secure a large quantity of it for export. ‘But the perisher didn’t explain what it was or how, and it was the only time Postlethwaite had me beat. D’you know what he says about it, under Cantharides? I found it so mysterious I memorized the passage to repeat to Toby when next he came through. Old Postle says this: “Cantharides when used internally are diuretic and stimulant; when applied externally they are epispastic and rubefacient.” Now what the devil can he mean, eh?
And how does this fit in with Toby’s idea of a flourishing trade in the things? Sort of worms, they must be. I asked Abdul but I don’t know the Arabic word.’
Refreshed by the interlude he once more advanced to the mirror to admire his wrinkled old tortoise-frame. A sudden thought cast a gloom over his countenance. He pointed at a portion of his own wrinkled anatomy and said: ‘And to think that that is what old Postlethwaite describes as “merely erectile tissue”. Why the merely,
I always ask myself. Sometimes these medical men are a puzzle in their language. Just a sprig of erectile tissue indeed! And think of all the trouble it causes. Ah me; if you’d seen what I’ve seen you wouldn’t have half the nervous energy I’ve got today.’
And so the saint prolonged his birthday celebrations by putting on pyjamas and indulging in a short song-cycle which included many old favourites and one curious little ditty which he sang only on birthdays. It was called ‘The Cruel Cruel Skipper’ and had a chorus which ended:
So he was an old sky plant, tum tum,
So he was an old meat loaf, tum tum,
So he was an old cantankeroo.
And now, having virtually exhausted his legs by dancing and his singing-voice with song, there remained a few brief conun-drums which he enunciated to the ceiling, his arms behind his head.
‘Where did King Charles’s executioner dine, and what did he order?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well he took a chop at the King’s Head.’
Delighted clucks and chuckles!
‘When may a gentleman’s property be described as feathers?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give in?’
‘Yes.’
‘When his estates are all entails (hen-tails, see?)’
The voice gradually fading, the clock running down, the eyes clos ing, the chuckles trailing away languorously into sleep. And it was thus that the saint slept at last, with his mouth open, upon St George’s Day.
So we walked back, arm in arm, through the shadowy archway, laughing the compassionate laughter which the old man’s image deserved — laughter which in a way regilded the ikon, refuelled the lamps about the shrine. Our footfalls hardly echoed on the street’s floor of tamped soil. The partial blackout of the area had cut off the electric light which so brilliantly illuminated it under normal conditions, and had been replaced by the oil lamps which flickered wanly everywhere, so that we walked in a dark forest by glow-worm light which made more than ever mysterious the voices and the activities in the buildings around us. And at the end of the street, where the rickety gharry stood awaiting us, came the stirring cool breath of the night-sea which would gradually infiltrate the town and disperse the heavy breathless damps from the lake. We climbed aboard, the evening settling itself about us cool as the veined leaves of a fig.
‘And now I must dine you, Clea, to celebrate the new laughter!’
‘No. I haven’t finished yet. There is another tableau I want you to see, of a different kind. You see,