The Avignon Quintet (76 page)

She smiled grimly, almost scientifically.

“I love you,” she explained in her somewhat inconsequential fashion, “not because you are my husband but because you are such a man!” He echoed the word feebly though he did not contradict her. Long may she cherish the illusion, he told himself. She kissed his brow and he fell asleep filled with the density of this loving memory. The other children were told he had gout.

So life led them on in tranquil fashion until it became obvious that he would soon, by pure gravitation, rise to a rank which entailed responsibility as well as hard work – neither were really to his taste. And in the more recent years they had both rediscovered Egypt and found that Cairo had begun to occupy a much larger place in their thoughts than hitherto. It was not to the detriment of London, far from it, it was simply that they both felt the need of a change of scene. They wintered as often as possible in Upper Egypt, and always left it with a pang. Perhaps a new posting? He tried to lobby himself something in Alexandria, but failed. There remained a distasteful choice between the Embassy in Moscow or the one in Pekin – neither tempted him. Then the brilliant notion dawned – why not become a private man again and really take in hand his large property holdings, together with the three or four old palaces which his father had left him, for the most part tumbledown edifices in handsome gardens lying along the Nile? The single one they had done up for themselves largely satisfied their ambitions and their needs. With the others, she had started to play – for her architecture was a game, an eternal improvisation, and he loved to see her haphazard fairy-tale palaces being realised on a more modest scale in mud brick and cement. Business, too, diverted him in such a slippery capital as Cairo. He had a marked aptitude, he discovered, for bluffing and performing confidence-tricks – all business in the Middle East is a variety of poker. It was a relief, too, to finish with protocol and precedence, the ramifications of which he had found so silly. For example, the courtesy rule which forced one to keep a person of superior rank always on one’s right, even walking down a street, even in a taxi. One had always to be scuttling round people or cabs to see that this silly custom was observed – or else your visitor treated you with marked coldness, or went downright into a diplomat’s huff. Phew! All that was over. He could play cards all night, even cheat if he wanted. One of his first civil acts was to win a large sum (by cheating) off Lord Galen who fancied himself as a brilliant courtier and card-player but who was as innocent of guile as a newly born child.

The last kilometre or so before they entered Victoria was taken at a walking pace – why, nobody could tell him, but it was so. This enabled Selim to walk along the platform beside his carriage, however, and make agreeable miming faces. The Embassy had sent a car for old time’s sake, and Selim who was acting as chargé came with it to bring him his correspondence. He held up three magenta envelopes which contained letters from the Princess and smiled broadly. Selim of the quiet studious foxy expression was a Copt and had all the reserve and resilience of that enigmatic race or sect. He smiled rarely, and always grimly, for preference at the discomforture or defeat of others less wily than he. But he was an admirable diplomat. They chatted like old friends in the car on the way to Brown’s, and the Prince delivered his news which Selim was burning to hear. “As I told you in my telegram from Geneva – not the one
en clair
– Lord Galen committed an incoherence in Germany, but it was useful to me. I have it from the highest authority that they will not move for a while yet. These peace parleys and last-minute attempts to find a solution will be allowed to fizzle away for a while. Then …” He cut the air with his palm. “As for the Italians they have orders to do nothing for fear of upsetting Arab opinion. The build-up is purely a defensive act; even the British are not unduly alarmed. They know the Italian capacity for making mud-pies.” So the talk went on, and the gloating Selim was delighted by Hassad’s lucidity and the compactness of his mind. There were at least two long telegrams in the matter.

Meanwhile Abdel Sami Pasha, now long retired, had asked him to lunch at his club, and all that remained was to ask for official permission to send a private telegram
en clair
to his wife. There was nothing to fear about this either, in spite of the dramatic overloading of the wires due to the war situation. “The only thing,” said Selim, “is, I did not ring the verger of St. Mary’s – it looks like rain today.” The Prince said that he would do that himself after lunch with Sami; Selim bowed his head, and after consulting a pocket memorandum said that that was all the business he had for the Prince. “How long will you stay?” he asked. “Just a couple of sunsets! After that I must get back to Provence and get the P. and O. to cart all my affairs back to Egypt. It’s all arranged. And Farouk is sending the royal yacht to Marseille. No problems at all, as you see, my dear Selim.”

They embraced warmly, with genuine warmth, for had they not been brothers in arms “in the Diplomatic”?

It did not take Hassad long to arrange his possessions in the Hotel and then to take a taxi to the gloomy old reception rooms of Sami’s club in Burlington Street. They had not met for quite a time and the older man had become very white and frail. The Prince greeted him tenderly and said: “Excellence, you have venerable-ised and so have I.” It was the polite way of dealing with the matter in Arabic. They talked shop for a while and his European news was duly delivered and debated. For his part the old man announced that the British would buy the whole cotton crop for that year – one problem less. “But,” he went on sadly, “poor Egypt, so divided! Everyone is on a different side. Everyone hates the English, yes, but who loves the Germans except Maher? Farouk favours the Italians, but only because they are weaker even than us. … What a business!” They ate their slow lunch to the tune of a good wine. “As for you, young man,” said the old diplomat, “I do not wish to reproach you, but from what I hear your life has become very … very
vivid!”
The word was exquisitely apt. Sami prided himself upon the fine apposite Arabic of his despatches. “Vivid is the word,” the Prince admitted, and hung his head. “What does Fawzia think?” said Sami – he loved them both like his own children. The Prince said: “She gave me a terrible shock and that started everything off.” He sighed heavily. Sami said: “Was she untrue to you?” The Prince reflected deeply and laid down his knife and fork before he answered. Then in a low choked voice he said: “She became a journalist.”

Sami was silent – a silence of sympathy and commiseration. “Goodness!” he said at last. “Under her own
name?”
But here the Prince shook his head; at least it had been under a pseudonym. But the basic fact was there. “We drifted apart after that, I don’t know why. In Geneva they tell me it is the menopause, that it will last three years, and then go away.”

“That is quite different,” said Sami with relief. “If it is an illness. Now my prostate …”

The conversation prolonged itself over coffee and cigars until it came time to say goodbye which they did with a tender sadness – who knew when they might see each other again in this uncertain world? Rain had begun to fall, a light spring rain, and the whole prospect became blurred like a window-pane. The porter’s taxi drew up and the Prince got into it ordering the cabby to drive to Battersea. It was a very unpromising weather for tea-time and he hesitated a moment, wondering if he should not rather go to Simpson’s for a crumpet and an Indian Tea. But he wanted to read his beloved’s letters at St. Mary’s, so that he could tell her so in the long cable Selim would send to her tonight. The place would most likely be locked, but if by luck the key was in the ’ole … It was! The creaky lock turned and admitted him to the empty church which smelt of varnish and industrial floor-polish. He tip-toed in, why he did not rightly know; perhaps so that he should not disturb old ghosts? The rain rustled on the roofs and on the water of the river. A wind shook the foliage of the trees. There was only just enough light to see. He sat in the Master’s chair to read his precious correspondence which was full, not only of the unwavering affection of this model wife, but also with the delicious small-talk of family life – essential information about children’s teeth and examinations and local scandals. The Nile had behaved very capriciously and had risen by fifteen feet in a night, washing away the little turret and hexagonal tower which she had been building for him – somewhere where he could “get away from everything and just sit and think”. “Drat!” said the Prince. It was an old-fashioned expression he had picked up from his nanny. “Drat!”

Ruefully he thought of the period when he himself had been just as zealously faithful to her, just as single-minded. For years. Then suddenly in middle life shadows had fallen upon him; irrational fears of impotence, of glandular disorders, had been among them – and others less tangible. But he felt that he could not discuss such matters with anyone in any detail – unless it be a psychoanalyst of equal social rank to himself. And where to find such a person? It was a real dilemma! He had even consulted witches: to no purpose. Ordinary doctors gave him ordinary advice, prescribed tonics with unnerving names. But he hoped that they at least would be proved right, and that this period of delightful frenzy would come to an end and leave him in peace once more.

He read on slowly, voluptuously, and as he did so the evening outside suddenly lightened with some rays of unexpected sunlight. Tucking the letters back in their envelopes, which smelt of frangipani, he crossed the church with his light step and threw open the door. The whole sky was a sheet of flame! It was as if Turner himself had come back to welcome him, to give him a last sunset before the end. It might be years yet before he saw another. He did not take the heavy chair but sat upon the steps to inhale the dying light of the sun as it bobbed down to the rim of the horizon. It was like watching a stained-glass window being slowly shattered. And it was for him he felt, – for them both. He took the letters out and kissed them for the sake of old memories. A line came into his head, “An Empire upon which the sun never sets.” It was setting now over England! And by the same token, towards the north a balloon was going up – lurching heavily, greasily, awkwardly, up above the river. But what nonsense! The real Empire was in the primacy of the human imagination and that must always outlast the other kinds, or so he had believed. The sun was setting, the balloon was going up. He must return to his hotel and make his plans for the end of the week. He replaced the key reverently in the ‘ole and walked back to the bridge.

At the hotel he found that Sami had sent his manservant with a bottle of medicine for him – for his “condition”, so the visiting card said. It had a terrifying Arabic label and was clearly full of sherbert, the standard Cairo cure for impotence. It was called
SFOUM
, and that was roughly the noise it made when water was poured on it. One dose was enough. The rest he emptied down the sink. That night he walked a while in the park and then took a cab for half an hour to see the sights, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, the Palace. Who knew how long before he might see them again? But his long cable to his wife went off punctually, as Selim had promised.

*
See Appendix.

EIGHT

Lord Galen’s Farewell

D
IRECTLY UPON HIS ARRIVAL IN PROVENCE LORD
Galen, with a characteristic gesture, invited everyone to dinner – as one might call a committee-meeting to announce a bankruptcy. It was rather fine of him; one saw his essential kindness and innocence. He did not wish to disguise his shame; he stood in front of his own fireplace, empty in the summer save for a basket of blue sea-lavender which gathered dust but withered not, and he allowed a tear to course down his tired cheek as they came into the room, Felix, Constance, Blanford, and Sam resplendent in his “heroics”, as he called his service-dress. The old man held out his two hands, asking only that they should be pressed in sympathy after his tragic blunder. Blanford found it moving so to demand the silent commiseration of friendship from them, and his heart went out to Galen. Max blew his violet nose in noisy sympathy and prepared them drinks – whisky mostly, from the ancient cut-glass decanter which had been the gift of a business friend with good taste. The Prince had not yet arrived. Galen hoped he wouldn’t suddenly give his eldritch chuckle during dinner.

“I do not need to tell you about my mistake,” he said meekly, without theatre, “for you know already! The Prince and I escaped just in time. I have lost a fortune and betrayed my own folk. Nobody will ever speak to me again in Manchester.” He hung his head.

He had actually prepared them for this dénouement in the document he had sent Constance by way of a dinner invitation. There was nothing to say; he was most lovable at that moment.