An Imperfect Lens (22 page)

“We are not asking you to lie,” said the fatter one, in a far gentler voice. “We are asking you to observe the Malinas with a clear eye. You understand.”

He understood.

“And we haven’t years to wait,” the one with the good suit added. “This matter needs to be concluded. These people are dangerous wherever they live, camouflaged among the citizens, holding a seat on the Committee of Public Safety, this man may do us grave harm.”

“But,” said Eric, “I don’t think the Malina family—” He was interrupted and sent on his way.

Eric Fortman was not a stupid man. His position in England had not enabled him to rise very far from his origins, which were humble without being disastrous. He had a perfectly decent moral code and a conscience that, while obviously not unduly harsh, still worked efficiently. He believed that when he accepted funds from captains of ships doing business with Marbourg & Sons, he was acting as any sophisticated man would in a less-than-perfect commercial world. He admired the Malina family and felt gratitude toward them for their kindness to him. He was genuinely fond of dogs, and he quite seriously believed that birds should be free and not kept in cages. He most definitely did not want to be kept in a cage himself. He would gladly have married Este and settled down among the Malinas for the rest of his life. She was a good girl, with a high spirit. He liked that. He knew that Lydia Malina had a kind heart and had extended her hand to him, a stranger. He was, however, no dreamer. The threats from members of the British Foreign Service, here so far from England, seemed real enough. Who would notice or care if he fell off a ship as it was crossing the Mediterranean? Who would protest if he was found in an alley with his throat cut, another victim of robbery in a quarter known for its predatory inhabitants? He went immediately to the café at the docks where he had established himself as a regular. He ordered a beer and followed it with a harsh local whiskey, the kind that burns holes in your intestines. It was unlikely that the Malinas were plotting against the Crown, but the fools in the Foreign Service would not change their minds, that was clear. His choice was to leave Alexandria on the next boat (a city he was finding most pleasant) or implicate Dr. Malina and his son in some dubious activity, some political nonsense. There was something comic about these British gentlemen. What were they? he asked himself. Just well-dressed bullies with good positions in the service. Lucky them. As he drank, he found them more and more amusing. But as he staggered back to his rooms he remembered that he had no friend in high places to protect him. He hoped Dr. Malina did.

AFTER MANY NIGHTS in Alexandria’s darkest and most secret places, Marcus returned. He made a vegetable soup and poured it into a bowl in the center of the table that the French mission used both for dining and writing letters.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Nocard, turning to Louis, who had not said a word for hours.

“I believe,” said Roux, “he has a woman on his mind.”

Louis said nothing.

“I think that must be it,” said Nocard. “I have noticed he has the pallor of a man who has lost his heart.”

Louis said nothing.

“There’s no shame in it,” said Roux. “She’s a good-looking woman.”

Louis said nothing.

“Ah,” said Emile, “have you told her how you feel?”

Louis reached for his spoon and then put it down. His hand was shaking. “You know who it is?” said Louis, turning quite pale.

“I know,” said Emile.

“I know, too,” said Nocard.

“I’ve known for weeks,” said Marcus.

“I’ve said nothing,” said Louis.

“Not necessary,” said Emile.

Nocard said, “She’s good with the animals, that’s in her favor.”

Turning to Marcus, Nocard said, “This soup tastes like soap.”

Marcus defended himself. “You want everything scrubbed and boiled, the flavor goes, what can I do?”

Louis said, “It’s all right, we’ll eat it.”

But the three of them left their soup and went back to the laboratory. When they arrived, they found Dr. Robert Koch at the door, waiting for them.

“Any progress, Messieurs?” he asked.

“None,” they assured him. “And you?” asked Emile, first in French, then in German.
“Und sie,
Nothing definitive,” he said.

“He looks pleased with himself. He might have something,” said Nocard to Roux as the metal door closed behind the small German’s back. This was not comforting, but not as discomforting as a report of a demonstrable finding would have been.

12

THE MOON WAS high over the Western Harbor and lit up the upper windows of the Râs el Tin Palace, casting its reflection down on the muddy shores of Lake Mariout. You could observe it peering over the rooftop of the Babel Gedid train station. The hot wind was whipping over the Corniche, bringing with it clouds of sand, sand that seemed like fog, that stuck in the throat and burned the eyes. Louis was so weary and hungry that he had to leave his laboratory. Marcus had long ago left for whatever his evening promised. Emile was sleeping at his table. Nocard had returned to his bed in their apartment. Louis walked over to Emile and gently placed a towel used for drying beakers and tubes over his shoulders. A sleeping man needed a cover. He pushed Emile’s notebook out of the accidental reach of his arms, should he stir in his sleep. He had an impulse to touch Emile’s head. He stopped himself.

Alone, Louis walked out in the warm night. He crossed the intersection where Alexander the Great had been laid to rest. Now he was just dust like any other mortal, not so great at all. Walking toward the center of town without conscious intention, he found himself in front of Dr. Malina’s house. He stood across the street and wondered if anyone was sleepless in the house, or if they were all like the dead, immobile. He saw only darkness, pulled curtains. He heard the footsteps of a passerby, a drunk singing of love in Italian. He heard the grinding sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones as it pulled past him. A man veered near him, a sweet smell trailing him, a smile on his face. The smell hung in the air for a few seconds. The wind pulled at the palms on the street and their fronds bent low and made a whistling sound as they snapped back toward their trunks.

He seemed impaled on the building wall. He could not cross the street. He could not move on. In that house a woman lived who would change his life, who would inspire him to find the answer he was looking for. If only she would come to a window and wave to him. He willed her to come to the window. He willed her to pull back the curtains and look into the street, just in case someone was there, waiting for her. He imagined her surprise on seeing him. She would open the window and call to him. He waited. He would find the right words if she would just come to the window. He heard the muezzin’s call to prayer. He heard a clap of thunder from afar. His jacket lifted and fell in the wind that blew the storm out to sea without ever reaching the shores of Alexandria. He stood there until he was almost asleep on his feet, his head drooping to one side in an attempt to find rest on his shoulder.

She was, however, asleep under her covers. She was holding her Ganesh, her good-luck elephant, in her hand. She had picked it up from her bedside and examined it carefully as she settled her head into the pillow. She had meant to put it back on the table before falling asleep. But she had missed the moment to act, and the elephant spent the shank of the night in her hand, and then as dawn was draining the sky of its ferocity and the stars were no longer visible, she opened her hand and the Ganesh fell out onto the carpet woven in the hills of Uzbekistan and carried on the back of a donkey across the mountains and placed on a ship and sold in the covered bazaar of Alexandria, where, before she was born, her mother had admired the bunches of grapes and the pink-petaled flowers that moved across the weave. The Ganesh was on the floor in the morning when she woke and put her feet out of bed and felt the hard wood of the elephant under her heel. She picked him up, ran her finger down his trunk, and replaced him on her table. How kind it was of Eric Fortman to have brought her this elephant.

She did not believe he was a lucky elephant. She was the daughter of a man of medicine, a reasoning man after all. But she did believe that there was little harm in pretending that the elephant had certain powers over fate. She did not believe in idols, but she did believe in games, and her Ganesh had his role to play in her life.

As she bathed before breakfast in the tub of warm water brought to her by the houseboy, she looked at her body, her private body, that no one saw but someday someone would see.

Louis had gone back to his apartment long before dawn, and so he didn’t see her in the breakfast room when she opened the curtains and looked out on the street just to see who was coming and going, what might be approaching this new morning. “The coffee is perfect,” she said to the serving girl. She dressed in a hurry and, after kissing her mother good-bye, rushed off to the laboratory.

“Are you sure,” said Lydia Malina to her husband, “that it is all right to allow Este to visit this laboratory so often? My sister thinks—”

She was interrupted. “I don’t care what your sister thinks. Este has Anippe to accompany her. She is never alone with the men. She is interested in their work, which is much better than her brooding over a lost marriage.”

“She’s not brooding,” said Lydia.

“Good,” said Dr. Malina, and that was the end of the subject.

THEY NEEDED MORE material infected with cholera. Este redeemed from the sisters a shirt of one victim and a diary of another with some unpleasant fluids spilled over the pages.

They went down to the sea so that Louis could think. Anippe followed discreetly behind. Louis said that he needed to change his view. His eyes were tired from peering through the lens, and his head hurt. There were terns rushing in and out of the foam. Este took off her shoes and stockings. Behind them the palm trees stood still, their craggy trunks peeling in the heat. Este waded up to her ankles in the cool water. The gently rippling waves went on as far as the eye could see. The horizon met the sky in a gray blur out there, far away. Louis took off his shoes and stockings and placed them neatly one next to the other. Then he, too, went into the water, his trousers rolled up. Louis took Este’s hand and pulled her back when a larger wave threatened to splash up on her dress. He quickly let go of her hand. He hoped he had not been disrespectful. She seemed not to notice. She threw a pebble out into the waves. “Look how far it went,” she said.

“We’d better get back,” he said.

AT THE MEETING of the Committee of Public Safety in the back room of the Ministry of Health, the usual members had been joined by the administrator of the ports and the representatives of the Greek Orthodox church and the imam of the mosque and the chief rabbi of Alexandria. The mood was bleak. The banking establishments were working on skeleton staffs because the senior bankers and investors, the importers and the more affluent tradesmen with any reserves behind them, had removed themselves and their families from Alexandria. They had gone to country homes or to relatives in Cairo or Rome, or even to Istanbul or the small islands off Greece. This meant that the shopkeepers and small café owners and suppliers of linens and figs and meats and fruits were suffering from a sharp loss of clients. The bars and cafés were thinly occupied. People somehow thought that an evening’s enjoyment might make them sick. There had been few tourists at the hotels. Pyramids and palaces, tombs and obelisks lacked visitors, which meant that guides and donkey boys, postcard vendors and beggars, were all without income. The churches were full of prayers. Candles burned night and day. Funerals were almost constant. “How long will this last?” the head of the company that ran the train that connected Alexandria to Aboukir, Rosetta, and Cairo asked Dr. Malina.

“All we know,” said Dr. Malina, “is that at some point the epidemic will recede.”

“Why will it retreat?” asked the railroad man, who was a German from Düsseldorf.

“We don’t know,” said Dr. Malina.

“You know very little,” said a Coptic priest.

Dr. Malina said nothing.

“MAMA,” SAID ESTE, “would you miss me if I went abroad?”

“You’re not going abroad,” came the answer.

“I want to do something great with my life,” Este said.

“Do you have something in mind?” asked her mother.

“I could marry a great scientist and help him in his work,” said Este.

“Rubbish,” said the mother, “girlish rubbish. You like your petticoats ironed. You like orange juice in the morning. You like soft sheets and you like to ride in comfort when you go to the beach and you want the servants to bring your biscuit at night and wash your clothes. You keep asking your father to purchase a private carriage for your comfort.”

“I don’t care about the carriage,” said Este. But she did care, just a little.

LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Eric Fortman came to call. He found himself alone in the drawing room with Este. Her mother was visiting her old aunt in the Jewish Home for the Aging, where Este had refused to accompany her.

“Your brother,” he asked her, “does he dislike the British?”

“You mean all the British?” asked Este.

“No, I mean the British soldiers.”

“I don’t know,” said Este, who didn’t. “Now he is just thinking about olives.”

Eric asked, “Is there a secret passageway in this house?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Este. “Whatever for?”

“I was wondering if your father sent many letters to Palestine?”

“Yes, of course,” said Este. “He writes to my brother often.”

“In the Great Event,” asked Eric, “did your father support the British?”

“Of course,” said Este, “we’re of the European community. We’re not Arabs. Stop being so tedious. I hate politics myself. I’m really interested in science.” This interest, though recent, was sincere.

“I think,” said Eric, “that if I were of your people, I might have an interest in politics.”

“Why?” said Este. “Whatever for?”

Eric shrugged. He wasn’t sure what he meant himself.

“Have you taken the train to Aboukir yet?” asked Este.

“I haven’t had the time,” said Eric. “Come with me one Sunday,” he suggested. She smiled.

She was a lovely woman, he thought. If he married her, then the British consulate might be satisfied. He would be right in the middle of the family, and if any plans were laid, he would be sure to hear of them. He could use a wife. He was of the right age. His future would be assured at Marbourg & Sons, and who knew what place he might find if Dr. Malina wished the best for him, his only son-in-law.

“Este,” he said, “I must confess something to you.”

“Really?” she said. She knew it was coming, the way you can tell when it will rain, by the turning of the leaves and the darkening of the sky and the wind rustling through the bushes. She sighed.

“I do not have a fortune,” he said, “but I am a hard worker and clever, and my future here in Alexandria is bright, and I have feelings for you, deep feelings.” (Was this the way it should be done? He hoped so.)

“I feel friendship for you, too,” said Este, moving to a chair a little farther away from him.

“I am perhaps a little mature for you,” he said, “but that makes me wise and able to protect you. If you encourage me, I would talk to your father. I have no doubt he would approve of our union.”

Este, who had many doubts, said, “I think this conversation is too serious for such a lovely afternoon.” She rang quickly for the servant, who was on her knees washing the entrance floor, which Dr. Malina had recently insisted be cleaned three times a day.

Eric decided to move quickly, decisively, women liked it when you moved with certainty. “I want to marry you,” he said.

Este said, “You’ve startled me.”

“I didn’t mean to be so sudden,” Eric said.

“That’s very kind of you, but my father would not approve. It’s not you,” she added quickly. “He likes you very much. But we marry within our people,” she said, thankful for the excuse. “But I’m sure you will find the right bride. So many women would be happy to have the honor of your company.”

“But not you,” said Eric.

“It’s not that,” said Este, although it was exactly that. “I am really too young to marry, don’t you see?” She did not want to hurt him. She did not want to see the hurt in his eyes.

“Please,” she said, “don’t be angry with me, we must be friends.” She had wanted to say,
I am already taken,
although that would not have been true, at least not outside the confines of her own mind.

She did want to tell Phoebe that she had received another proposal, but of course, with the matter of Albert between them, she thought better of the idea. She did want to tell her mother, at least, about Eric’s offer. Este wanted Eric out of the drawing room, but he showed no signs of leaving.

He changed the subject. “I am very interested in stamps,” he said to her.

“I didn’t know that,” said Este. “You’ve never mentioned an interest in stamps before.”

“Haven’t I?” he said. “I thought I had. I would be interested in seeing the stamps on your brother’s letters from Palestine.”

Relieved that the conversation had turned, Este promised to show him the letters from Jacob one day.

“I’d like to see them now,” he said. She hesitated.

“As a special favor?” He looked at her sadly.

She left the room to fetch them. He changed chairs. He paced about on the rug. He saw nothing of interest to report. There were medical books on the shelf. There were books in Arabic whose titles he could not read. There were books in German and Italian that seemed to be about myths, judging from the embossing on the leather covers. There was nothing about a plot against the Crown. The furniture was excellent, but hardly revealed designs against public order. The painting on the wall was a portrait of Lydia as a young woman. He lifted the painting up. Some dust rose from the disturbed frame. Behind it might be a safe that held the secrets he had been told to find. Behind it was the wall, faded to a lighter shade of rose than the rest of the room.