The Old House on the Corner (29 page)

He went into the black bathroom, ran a lukewarm bath, and scrubbed himself with a loofah and a block of highly scented soap. When he finished, the bottom of the bath held a layer of sand that had collected between his toes, under his arms, in his hair, his ears, and in a fine layer all over his body. He dried himself, saw in the mirror that there were too many crinkles around his eyes for a chap of twenty-two, which had come from squinting too much at the sun and the glistening sand. With an expression of distaste, he eyed the baggy, sweat-stained shorts, rancid socks, and rundown boots that he’d recently removed and now felt reluctant to touch, let alone put back on. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt and his beret looked as if it had been used as a football – he vaguely remembered that it had.

Ernest didn’t hesitate. He went into one of the opulent bedrooms and examined the contents of the wardrobe. It contained only women’s clothing – he wasn’t
that
desperate. In the next room, the wardrobe was empty except for a row of ruched velvet hangers, but the third was crammed with men’s stuff. He
picked out a short-sleeved white shirt, white shorts and white pumps. He’d have everything cleaned before he left and no one would know they’d been used. All he had with him in money was a few piastres, enough to buy a couple of beers.

This was the life! The sun was going down, the sky was purple with dramatic slashes of blue and green, and a few faint stars had appeared. Ernest jingled the coins in his pocket as he walked slowly along a narrow, lantern-lit street with shops and stalls on both sides and smelling to high heaven, mainly of dung. Within the space of ten minutes, he’d been offered dirty postcards, women, a small, pathetic looking boy, flash jewellery, and some foul looking meat that he wouldn’t have touched had he been about to die of starvation. With every step he took, he was tempted with more women, more postcards, temptations he had no difficulty in turning down.

There were plenty of servicemen about, not just British, but Australians, Indian troops wearing turbans, the French in their kepis, a couple of New Zealanders. Like Ernest, not everyone was in uniform, but were recognizably fighting men. They nodded at each other or smiled, still buoyed after their recent victory over the Jerries.

Somewhere in the region there was a British pub run by an ancient geezer called Reuben who’d served in the Boer War. He found it around the next corner. It was called the Queen Victoria and sold beer like no beer he’d ever tasted before and a selection of Egyptian wines that could take the roof off your mouth.

Inside, the long tables and benches were packed to capacity and there was little room even to stand. The
noise was deafening and the smell of dung had been replaced by one of sweat and musty socks and boots. To whet the appetite, a poster advertising Guinness adorned the clay walls, although it hadn’t been in stock on Ernest’s previous visit and wasn’t now and probably wouldn’t be again until the war was over.

He bought a pint of watery beer and spent the next couple of hours explaining to fellow soldiers why he looked so clean and smelled so fresh and, no, he wasn’t wearing scent, he said indignantly, it was the soap he’d washed with. When describing the course of his unusual day, he left out the real reason for the colonel’s accident and said he’d tripped getting out of the car and broken his ankle. It wouldn’t do for the truth to get back to those on high.

When he returned to the apartment, the colonel was still asleep, still snoring, and Leila was still sitting patiently in the kitchen.

‘Bed.’ Ernest pressed his hands together and put them against his cheek. ‘You go bed now.’

She seemed to understand, nodded tiredly, and went through a door at the other end of the kitchen, giving him a little nod as if to wish him goodnight.

‘Goodnight,’ Ernest said, and went to bed himself.

Next morning, the colonel woke in a foul temper. He churlishly refused the ta’amiyya – beans and spices fried in a patty – that Leila brought him, although gulped down the bitter black coffee, then commanded Ernest to give him a hand as far as the bathroom.

‘Get me a glass of water,’ he said after he’d been helped back to bed, ‘and put a slug of whisky in it.’

‘How much is a slug, sir?’

‘An inch or two. And where’s them ruddy tablets the doctor left? My foot’s hurting like blazes.’

‘Not surprising, sir, seeing as how you shot it.’

The colonel gave him a suspicious glare. ‘You’re looking remarkably fit this morning, Burrows. Where did those clothes come from?’

‘One of the wardrobes, sir. I hope the owner won’t mind, but me own stuff’s not fit to wear. I didn’t think,’ he added innocently, ‘that I’d need a change of gear when I came to Cairo yesterday. I’ve no money, either, although I suppose I could always drive back to camp and collect me wallet.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. If they see you, they might make you stay and I don’t want to be stuck here on my own.’ He pouted childishly. ‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you got a message through. Tell them I’ve had an accident, that I’ve …’ He paused.

‘Broken your ankle, sir?’

‘That’ll do fine, Burrows. Thank you. Help yourself to a few quid from my trouser pocket, it’s English and you’ll have to change it – I want it back, mind.’ With that, the colonel took another four tablets with the whisky and water and was fast asleep within minutes.

Ernest took two pounds out of the trousers, ate his own breakfast, and left the apartment. He remembered that the doctor was coming back today, but Leila could see to him.

This certainly
was
the life, Ernest crowed as he strolled across the Qasr el-Nil Bridge, the Nile gleaming beneath him, the air sparkling and as fresh as it could ever be in Cairo.

He reached the mainland and continued to stroll, passing the British and American embassies, through
the Garden City. He’d walked a couple of miles by the time he reached Old Cairo with its narrow streets, bazaars, stalls, tiny coffee houses, and offers of postcards, women, and untouchable food. A goat wandered across his path, he had to move out of the way of a donkey and cart. This was the part he liked most, throbbing with life, noise, music, crime, even depravity – he’d already had two small boys pushed under his nose.

He was about to enter the Queen Victoria, aching for a pint to quench his thirst, when a woman approached.

‘Sir,’ she began, but Ernest interrupted with a curt, ‘Sorry, luv. I’m not interested,’ but the woman persisted.

‘Sir, I look for Anna Kosztolanyi, if you please.’

Ernest shrugged. ‘Never heard of her, sorry. I’m a stranger round here.’

‘She live by here, sir.’ She grabbed his bare arm and Ernest, irritated, was about to shake her hand away, when he realized she was holding him for support. Her eyes half closed, her knees buckled, and he managed to catch her just in time, laying her gently on to the ground outside the entrance to the pub.

He looked at her properly for the first time and was surprised to see she wasn’t a native, but European, about fifty, dressed in black, her head covered with a black scarf. From the well-preserved face he could tell that she was a woman of means, or had been until recently. Now her clothes were thick with dust and the nails on her smooth hands were broken.

‘
Nana est morte
!’ a plaintive voice cried and Ernest suddenly found himself surrounded by children, the biggest, a girl holding a baby in her arms. They were
pale-skinned, dark-eyed, and their faces were tight with exhaustion and fear.

He only knew a few French words and one was
morte
. It meant dead. ‘Not
morte
,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Your nana’s just fainted.’

Two Australian servicemen were about to enter the Queen Victoria. ‘Do us a favour, mate,’ Ernest called, ‘ask Reuben if he knows a woman called Anna something. She lives around here and might be French.’

One of the Australians returned within a few minutes. ‘She’s Hungarian and she lives in the flat upstairs, the stairs to your right. D’you need a hand, mate?’

‘It’s all right, I think she’s coming round.’ The woman’s eyes were flickering open. She groaned, saw Ernest bending over her, and struggled to a sitting position. ‘
Pardonnez-moi
,
monsieur
,’ she stammered, followed by a string of French he didn’t understand.

‘The woman you want’s up there.’ He pulled her to her feet and took her to a narrow, stone stairway at the side of the pub, and supposed he’d better help her up. The children trailed after them and he could hear their feet dragging tiredly on the steep, stone stairs.

Ernest knocked on the single door at the top. A young woman opened it, almost too pretty to be true, with a cloud of golden curls, blue eyes, and rosy lips. Her skin had the lustre of the finest china and he immediately wanted to stroke it, imagining it to be cool and firm underneath his tough, coarse fingers. She was tiny, hardly coming up to his shoulder, and wore a white caftan with embroidery around the neck and hem. Through the thin cotton, he could make out her
white brassiere and pants and tried not to stare too openly.

‘Anna Kosto …?’ He struggled to get the name out, but couldn’t remember the rest. ‘This lady’s been looking for you.’

‘I am Anna Kosztolanyi, yes.’

The woman burst into tears and, as if this was some sort of signal, the children also began to cry, the baby included. Anna smiled, and the smile almost took Ernest’s breath away. It was so sweet, so welcoming, as if it came from the very bottom of her heart. She reached for the woman’s hand and drew her inside. The children stumbled after her, and Ernest, who had intended making a run for it at this point, found himself following into a large, low-ceilinged room with windows on three sides and furnished with an assortment of chairs, none of which matched, and scraps of faded carpet. Everyone found seats and the woman began to speak in a stream of lilting French, waving her arms dramatically, rolling her eyes, twice even baring her teeth – Ernest assumed she was describing her reasons for being there.

Anna had seated herself at a table piled with papers and books and an elderly typewriter. She was taking notes and, when the woman had finished, she turned to Ernest and said in a high, bell-like voice with only a trace of foreign accent, ‘Madame Montand has come all the way from Algeria with her six grandchildren. They started off with a car and plenty of money, but first the car was stolen, then the money. They have been walking for weeks, begging for food, sleeping in the desert or in doorways. They are all very tired. I have been asked to tell you that Madame very much
appreciates your help, but now you must go. She doesn’t want to take up any more of your time.’

‘Why have they come to Cairo?’ Ernest enquired. He didn’t want to go, preferring to stay in the presence of the breathtaking Anna.

‘Because Madame Montand and her family are Jewish,’ Anna said a trifle impatiently. ‘Her daughter-in-law, the children’s mother, recently died of blood poisoning and her son is away, fighting the war on the side of the Free French. She is aware of how Jews are being treated in Germany, she has heard of the death camps, she knew Rommel was winning the war in the desert, and was expecting the whole of North Africa to end up in German hands. She wants to get the children to the safety of Palestine before it is too late. Trains go from Cairo to Palestine and I shall arrange the paperwork for her.’

‘But the Germans have been beaten good and sound,’ Ernest argued. ‘From now on, she’ll be quite safe in Cairo with the kids.’

‘The British won the last battle, but the Germans won many before,’ Anna replied, even more impatiently. ‘Who’s to say there won’t be more battles and their side won’t win next time? They are desperate for control of the Suez Canal; they might try again. Besides, Madame Montand has no money and nowhere to live in Cairo. She has a sister in Palestine she can stay with.’

Ernest didn’t try to argue with her logic. His heart was racing and he was sweating as he desperately tried to think up reasons not to go. He felt drawn to Anna Kosztolanyi in a way he’d never been to a woman before. He didn’t want to leave, even though she was making it obvious she wanted rid of him.

‘Would you like me to fetch something to eat?’ he offered hopefully.

‘Thank you, but no. I have plenty of food. In a minute, I shall make some coffee. I think everyone is too tired to eat just now.’ She indicated the children who had all fallen asleep.

He thought of saying he wouldn’t have minded a cup, but it would only delay his departure a few minutes. ‘Where will they sleep tonight?’ he asked.

‘Here, on the floor or the chairs. Madame Montand can have my bed. It will be only for one night.’

‘There’s plenty of room in the place I’m staying,’ Ernest said recklessly. ‘They can sleep there.’

They arrived in a taxi at about six o’clock. To his relief, Anna was with them, probably wanting to make sure her charges were being delivered into safe hands. She had changed out of the caftan into a silky blue frock. Gold earrings jangled in her ears and she wore high-heeled gold sandals on her tiny feet. She reminded him of a fairy off the top of a Christmas tree.

Ernest had spent the afternoon in the apartment, Cairo having lost its charm now that he’d met Anna. The patient had woken in the afternoon, demanding to play chess. It was one of the few times Ernest lost, too worked up to concentrate on a piddling board game. The colonel was encouraged to take more tablets with more whisky and was asleep again when the visitors arrived. The children had cheered up considerably since morning, but were still tired, and their grandmother was finding it hard to remain on her feet. A mystified Leila made everyone a drink and they retired to the three bedrooms – each held a double bed so there would be enough room. Earlier, Ernest had
thoughtfully removed a drawer from the wardrobe for the baby, lining it with pillows.

At last Ernest had Anna to himself. The first thing she said when they sat in the big room full of photographs was, ‘You’ve been so kind, yet I’ve never asked your name.’

‘Ernest Burrows. Call me Ernie, everyone does.’ His heart was beating so fast and so loud he half expected his chest to explode.