The Alexandria Quartet (58 page)

‘He had been battered to death in ugly enough fashion. A lot of broken crockery inside that old skin. As I examined him a phone started to nag somewhere. Keats had got wind of something: was trying to locate the scene of the incident. It could only be a matter of time before his battered old Citroën drew up outside. Obviously a grave scandal might well be the upshot and fear lent wings to Nimrod's imagination. “He must be got out of these clothes” he hissed and started beating out right and left with his cane, driving the policemen out into the corridor and clearing the cell. “Right” I said, and while Nimrod stood with sweating averted face, I got the body out of its clothes as best I could. Not pleasant, but at last the old reprobate lay there “naked as a psalm” as they say in Greek. That was stage one. We mopped our faces. The little cell was like an oven.

‘“He must” said Nimrod hysterically “be somehow got back into uniform. Before Keats comes poking around here. I tell you what, let's go to his digs and get it. I know where he lives.” So we locked the old man into his cell: his smashed glass eye gave him a reproachful, mournful look — as if he had been subjected to an amateur taxidermist's art. Anyway, we jumped into the car and raced across the docks to Tatwig Street while Nimrod examined the contents of the natty little leatherette handbag with which the old man had equipped himself before setting out on his adventure. In it he found a few coins, a small missal, a master's ticket, and a packet of those old-fashioned rice-papers (one hardly ever sees them now) resembling a roll of cigarette paper. That was all. “The bloody old fool” Nimrod kept saying as we went. “The bloody old fool.”

‘We were surprised to find that all was chaos in the old man's lodgings, for in some mysterious way the neighbourhood had already got to hear of his death. At least, so I presumed. All the doors of his rooms had been burst open and cupboards rifled. In a sort of lavatory there was a bathtub full of some brew which smelt like
arak
and the local people had apparently been helping themselves freely, for there were prints from countless wet feet on the stairs and wet hands on the walls. The landing was awash. In the courtyard, a boab dancing round his stave and singing — a most unusual sight. Indeed, the whole neighbourhood seemed to wear an air of raffish celebration. It was most uncanny. Though most of Scobie's things had been stolen, his uniform was hanging quite safely behind the door and we grabbed it. As we did so, we got a tremendous start for a green parrot in a cage in the corner of the room said in what Nimrod swore was a perfect imitation of Scobie's voice:

“Come the four corners of the world in arms
,

We'll (hic) shock 'em.”

‘It was clear that the bird was drunk. Its voice sounded so strange in that dismal empty room. (I have not told Clea any of this, for fear that it would upset her, as she too cared for him very much.)

‘Well, back to the police post with the uniform, then. We were in luck, for there was no sign of Keats. We locked ourselves into the cell again, gasping at the heat. The body was setting so fast that it seemed impossible to get the tunic on without breaking his arms — which, God knows, were so frail that they would have snapped off like celery, or so it seemed: so I compromised by wrapping it round him. The trousers were easier. Nimrod tried to help me but was overtaken by violent nausea and spent most of the time retching in a corner. He was indeed much moved by the whole thing and kept repeating under his breath “Poor old bugger”. Anyway, by a smart bit of work, the scandal he feared was averted, and hardly had we brought your Scobie into line with the general proprieties than we heard the unmistakable rumble of the
Globe
car at the door and the voice of Keats in the charge-room.

‘Must not forget to add that during the following few days there were two deaths and over twenty cases of acute
arak
poisoning in the area around Tatwig Street so that Scobie may be said to have left his mark in the neighbourhood. We tried to get an analysis of the stuff he was brewing, but the Government analyst gave up after testing several samples. God knows what the old man was up to.

‘Nevertheless the funeral was a great success (he was buried with full honours as an officer killed in the execution of his duty) and everyone turned out for it. There was quite a contingent of Arabs from around his home. It is rare to hear Moslem ululations at a Christian graveside, and the R.C. Chaplain, Father Paul, was most put out, fearing perhaps the
afreets
of Eblis conjured up by homemade
arak
— who knows? Also there were the usual splendid inadvertencies, so characteristic of life here (grave too small, grave-diggers strike for more pay in the middle of widening it, Greek consul's carriage runs away with him and deposits him in a bush, etc., etc.) I think I described all this in a letter. It was just what Scobie would have desired — to lie covered with honours while the Police Band blew the Last Post — albeit waveringly and with a strong suggestion of Egyptian quarter-tones — over the grave. And the speeches, the tears! You know how people let themselves go on such occasions. You would have thought he was a saint. I kept remembering the body of the old woman in the police cell!

‘Nimrod tells me that once he used to be very popular in his
quartier
, but that latterly he had started to interfere with ritual circumcision among the children and became much hated. You know how the Arabs are. Indeed, that they threatened to poison him more than once. These things preyed upon his mind as one may understand. He had been many years down there and I suppose he had no other life of his own. It happens to so many expatriates, does it not? Anyway, latterly he began to drink and to “walk in his sleep” as the Armenians say. Everyone tried to make allowances for him and two constables were detailed to look after him on these jaunts. But on the night of his death he gave them all the slip.

‘“Once they start dressing up” says Nimrod (he is really utterly humourless), “it's the beginning of the end.” And so there it is. Don't mistake my tone for flippancy. Medicine has taught me to look on things with ironic detachment and so conserve the powers of feeling which should by rights be directed towards those we love and which are wasted on those who die. Or so I think.

‘What on earth, after all, is one to make of life with its grotesque twists and turns? And how, I wonder, has the artist the temerity to try and impose a pattern upon it which he infects with his own meanings? (This is aimed slightly in your direction) I suppose you would reply that it is the duty of the pilot to make comprehensible the shoals and quicksands, the joys and misfortunes, and so give the rest of us power over them. Yes, but.…

‘I desist for tonight. Clea took in the old man's parrot; it was she who paid the expenses of his funeral. Her portrait of him still stands I believe upon a shelf in her now untenanted room. As for the parrot, it apparently still spoke in his voice and she said she was frequently startled by the things it came out with. Do you think one's soul could enter the body of a green Amazon parrot to carry the memory of one forward a little way into Time? I would like to think so. But this is old history now.'

IX

W
henever Pombal was grievously disturbed about something
(‘Mon Dieu!
Today I am decomposed!' he would say in his quaint English) he would take refuge in a magistral attack of gout in order to remind himself of his Norman ancestry. He kept an old-fashioned high-backed court chair, covered in red velveteen, for such occasions. He would sit with his wadded leg up on a footstool to read the
Mercure
and ponder on the possible reproof and transfer which might follow upon his latest
gaffe
whatever that might happen to be. His whole Chancery, he knew, was against him and considered his conduct (he drank too much and chased women) as prejudicial to the service. In fact, they were jealous because his means, which were not large enough to free him altogether from the burden of working for a living, permitted him nevertheless to live more or less
en prince
— if you could call the smoky little flat we shared princely.

As I climbed the stairs today I knew that he was in a decomposed state from the peevish tone in which he spoke. ‘It is
not
news' he was repeating hysterically. ‘I forbid you to publish.' One-eyed Hamid met me in the hall which smelt of frying, and waved a tender hand in the air. ‘The Miss has gone' he whispered, indicating Melissa's departure, ‘back six o'clock. Mr. Pombal very not good.' He pronounced my friend's name as if it contained no vowels: thus: Pmbl.

I found Keats was with him in the sitting-room, his large and perspiring frame stretched awkwardly across the sofa. He was grinning and his hat was on the back of his head. Pombal was perched in his gout-chair, looking mournful and peevish. I recognized the signs not only of a hangover but of yet another committed
gaffe
. What had Keats got hold of now? ‘Pombal' I said, ‘what the devil has happened to your car?' He groaned and clutched his dewlaps as if imploring me to leave the whole subject alone; obviously Keats had been teasing him about just that.

The little car in question, so dear to Pombal's heart, now stood outside the front door, badly buckled and smashed. Keats gave a snuffle-gulp. ‘It was Sveva' he explained, ‘and I'm not allowed to print it.' Pombal moaned and rocked. ‘He won't tell me the whole story.'

Pombal began to get really angry. ‘Will you please get out?' he said, and Keats, always easily discountenanced before someone whose name appeared on the diplomatic list, rose and pocketed his notebook, wiping the smile off his face as he did so. ‘All right' he said, punning feebly
‘Chacun à son
gout, I suppose' and clambered slowly down the stairs. I sat down opposite Pombal and waited for him to calm down.

‘Another
gaffe
, my dear boy' he said at last; ‘the worst yet in the
affaire Sveva
. It was she … my poor car … you have seen it? Here, feel this bump on my neck. Eh? A bloody rock.'

I asked Hamid for some coffee while he recounted his latest mishap with the usual anguished gesticulations. He had been unwise ever to embark on this affair with the fiery Sveva, for now she loved him. ‘Love!' Pombal groaned and twisted in his chair. ‘I am so weak about women' he admitted, ‘and she was so easy. God, it was like having something put on one's plate which one hadn't ordered — or which someone else had and which had been sent to one's table by mistake; she came into my life like a
bifteck à point
, like a stuffed eggplant.… What was I to do?

‘And then yesterday I thought: “Taking everything into account, her age, the state of her teeth, and so on, illness might very well intervene and cause me expense.” Besides, I don't
want
a mistress in
perpetuum mobile
. So I decided to take her out to a quiet spot on the lake and say good-bye. She went mad. In a flash she was on the bank of the river where she found a huge pile of rocks. Before I knew what to say
Piff Paff Pang Bong.'
His gestures were eloquent. ‘The air was full of rocks. Windscreen, headlights, everything … I was lying beside the clutch screaming. Feel this lump on my neck. She had gone mad. When all the glass was gone, she picked up a huge boulder and began to stove the car in screaming the word
“Amour, Amour”
to puctuate each bang like a maniac. I never want to hear the word again. Radiator gone, all the wings twisted. You have seen? You would never believe a girl could do such a thing. Then what? Then I'll tell you what.
She threw herself into the river
. Figure to yourself my feelings. She can't swim, nor can I.
The scandal if
she died! I threw myself in after her. We held each other and screamed like a pair of cats making love. The water I swallowed! Some policemen came and pulled us out. Long
procès-verbal
, etc. I simply dare not ring the Chancery this morning. Life isn't worth living.'

He was on the point of tears. ‘This is my third scandal this month' he said. ‘And tomorrow is carnival. Do you know what? After long thought I have evolved an idea.' He smiled a wintry smile. ‘I shall make sure about the carnival — even if I do drink too much and get in a scrape as I usually do. I shall go in an impenetrable disguise. Yes.' He rinsed his fingers and repeated ‘An impenetrable disguise.' Then he considered me for a moment as if to decide whether to trust me or not. His scrutiny seemed to satisfy him for he turned abruptly towards the cupboard and said: ‘If I show you, you'll keep my secret, eh? We are friends after all. Fetch me the hat from the top shelf in there. You will get a laugh.'

Inside the cupboard I found an immense, old-fashioned picture-hat of the 1912 variety, trimmed with a bunch of faded osprey feathers and secured by a thick hatpin with a large blue stone head. ‘This?' I said incredulously, and he chuckled complacently as he nodded. ‘Who will ever recognize me in this? Give it here.…'

He looked so funny with it on that I was forced to sit down and laugh. He reminded me of Scobie in his own absurd Dolly Varden. Pombal looked … it is quite indescribable what this ridiculous creation did to his fat face. He began to laugh too as he said ‘Wonderful, no? My bloody colleagues will never know who the drunk woman was. And if the Consul General isn't in domino I shall… make advances to him. I shall drive him out of his mind with passionate kisses. The swine!' His face set in a grimace of hate looked even more ludicrous. As with Scobie, I was forced to plead: ‘Take it off, for God's sake!'

He did so and sat grinning at me, consumed by the brilliance of his plan. At least, he thought, such indiscretions as he might commit would not be attributable to him. ‘I have a whole costume' he added proudly. ‘So look out for me, will you? You are going, aren't you? I hear that there are two full-scale balls going so we shall weave about from one to the other, eh? Good. I am a bit relieved, aren't you?'