The Mule on the Minaret (8 page)

‘Extremely.'

‘What gossip did you pick up? Anything I can turn to my nefarious purposes?'

Reid shook his head. ‘We were two venerable quadragenarians comparing notes about the First War and our youth; but there is a
young fellow in the Mission building whom you might use. He was at Stowe; born in Alexandria; twenty-four years old.'

‘A Stoic. Ah, let's look him up. What is his name?'

‘Sargent. S-A-R-G-E-N-T, initials A. Q.'

Farrar had the old Stoics address book on his shelf. ‘Twenty-four, you say; then he must have gone there in ‘30 or ‘31. Just after I'd left, but he must have known quite a number of men that I knew. Sargent, A. Q. That's it; September ‘31. Not the same house as I. Left 1936. So he had five years there. Doesn't look as though he'd been expelled, stayed out his full time. Address c/o Barclays Bank, Paris. That's plain enough. Tells us damn all. Now tell me what you know about him.'

Reid told all he knew. ‘There's something endearing about him; something feminine. Perhaps it comes from his mother. He was nicknamed Gustave.'

‘That might add up to something in the long run. Nicknames often do: they are usually appropriate. Names often aren't.'

‘It doesn't always follow. I was nicknamed Moke at school. Would you call that appropriate?'

‘I'd say I wouldn't. Moke? How did that come about?'

‘My initials. N. E. D. Ned. Donkey. Moke.'

‘I get it. Prep, school, I suppose.'

‘Yes.'

‘Of course. That wouldn't mean a thing. At Fernhurst, did you have a nickname there?'

‘I've never had another nickname.'

‘You haven't? No, I guess you wouldn't. You're not a nickname person, somehow. Prof. That's another matter. It seems right here. The disparity of age and your distinction. But Gustave now; he's touched you somehow, made you feel protective. Do you know why?'

‘He's weak and vain. He was anxious to cut a dash before his relatives in Alexandria. He's only a lieutenant, but he told them he was coming out here as a captain, as a diplomat. He daren't tell them that he's a subaltern in the intelligence pool in Cairo.'

‘Ah, now you're talking.'

Farrar stood up. His eyes brightened. He began to stride up and down the room.

‘We're on to something there. A man's Achilles' Heel. A man's point of vanity. If once we find out what he needs from us, we've got some chance of getting what we want from him. If only more
people would realize that simple truth, but they never do. The average person makes an acquaintance. His first thought is, ‘What can this man do for me; what can I get out of him?” He'd be so much wiser if he'd think, “Is there anything I can do for this man that no one else can?” If he finds that out, and does it, then he can start asking himself what he is going to get in return. It's a very true fact that there isn't anyone so important that you can't do something for him that no one else can. It may be something very simple. Like meeting a professional actor, or being taken into the pavilion at the Oval. Something that you and I take for granted. Now we know where we are with Gustave. He wants to cut a dash in Alexandria. If we see that he does, and then later threaten to spoil his performance for him . . . Anyhow, we'd better have a look at him; ask him up for a drink. Don't tell him we've anything in mind. I'll have to have him checked in London. He's probably all right on security grounds; M.I.5 must have checked on him before he was passed for F.S.P. Cairo can check on his Egyptian contacts. Cairo can authorize me, if it wants, to take him on. But we must see him first. Try and get him for Friday night. I'll ask along a girl or two; I'll get a line on him from them.'

‘Diana Benson, I suppose.'

He shook his head. ‘It's best for her not to come up here.'

‘Why not? Everyone knows that she's your secretary.'

‘There's no need for them to know that she's my friend.'

‘You went over and spoke to her in the Cercle in front of everyone.'

‘That's different. The Cercle's a public place. This flat's a private place; it's probably watched. I have to be careful of who comes here, and how often.'

Reid was conscious both of irritation and disappointment. The whole thing seemed so silly. ‘But doesn't my being here make a difference? I'll have friends of my own, won't I? Couldn't she be one of them?'

Farrar grinned. ‘My dear fellow, but of course she could. And if you and she arrive together and by your
entrée indépendante,
no one will be happier than I. Fine for you both. But I don't want her here as a party guest. You may think I overdo security, but it's as well to be on the safe side. I'll bring along some lively girls, I promise you. I'll ask them for six-thirty. Warn Gustave to be here at six; that'll give me a half-hour's innings with him.'

*   *   *

Gustave arrived promptly and there ensued between him and Farrar a conventional Old Boys' meeting.

‘I was delighted to hear there was another Stoic here,' said Farrar. ‘There must be quite a few, but I haven't found them yet and, of course, as the school only opened in the ‘twenties we haven't got any high-ups. That's a bit of a nuisance. I'd like to feel there were a few major-generals and air-vice marshals I could play Old School Ties with. That's where Etonians have such a pull. There's always an Old Etonian on the top of every woodpile. At the bottom too, for that matter. Maybe, though, the fact that we are so few is a special bond. That's one of the reasons why my father sent me there. It's more exciting to build up a tradition than to carry one on. And with a headmaster like Roxburgh it couldn't not succeed. What a man he was. Did he ever surprise you by wishing you “happy returns” on your birthday?'

‘As a matter of fact, he did; in my first term, too. I've never been more touched by anything. I ceased to feel I was an outsider.'

‘That was one of J.F.'s special lines. I asked him when I came back as an Old Boy how he managed it. He explained. He had a big desk diary. He had every boy's birthday entered there. Each morning he'd consult it. Evans-Pritchard and Morton minor, he would say. Then if, in the course of the day, he ran across them, he'd wish them “happy returns”. He didn't go out of his way to find them, but as often as not he did. Wonderful public relations, as you say. It made a kid feel differently about the place. You're, of course, quite a lot younger than I am. I looked you up. I'd left two years before you arrived, but a good many must have overlapped. “Laddie” Lucas, for instance, must have been the big blood your first term.'

Reid as he listened savoured the dramatic irony of the situation. Gustave had no idea that he was being interviewed.

The door-bell rang. The door opened upon two young women and a youngish man. The girls certainly fulfilled Farrar's promise. Their prettiness was typically Lebanese; they were of medium height, slightly plump, pale skinned, with dark luminous eyes and black hair, shining and worn loose upon their shoulders. There was a marked family resemblance.

‘These,' said Farrar, ‘are the Misses Koumayan. They are not sisters, they are first cousins; but they are more inseparable than sisters. The elder, the one on the right, is Annabelle, the younger Véronique. They are a self-protective unit. They chaperone each
other and their defence is completed by Annabelle's brother, François. You may not know this, Prof, you are new to the Middle East, but Sargent with his Alexandrian background will be very familiar with it. The Lebanese young lady of good family is more strictly guarded than the most prim Victorian damsel. They roll those lustrous eyes, they indulge in verbal audacities. But it is impossible to be alone with them. It puzzles the Englishman a lot at first. He thinks he's got a date. He hands his girl into a taxi; he follows, glowing with expectation. Then, wham, from the other side, there's a cousin or brother, slipping in to perch on the seat facing him. Is not that true, Annabelle?'

‘Of course, and why not? Why should one of us want to be alone with you?'

‘There are certain things that cannot be said in public.'

‘That is where you are so wrong, my naughty captain. There is nothing that cannot be said in public, if you are sufficiently adroit, and veil your meaning cleverly.'

‘But some of us are not that adroit.'

‘You do not then deserve the attention of a subtle woman.'

She spoke in a light flirtatious manner. Reid was reminded of Edith Evans in the role of Millamant. It was clear that she and Farrar knew and understood each other very well.

‘You make things very difficult for the simple British officer.'

‘But I do not want to be bothered with a simple officer. They are so tediously the same. They say, “I want to be alone with you so that we can really talk.” But it is not in order to talk that they want to be alone.'

‘There, Prof, didn't I tell you? Verbal audacities, but nothing else.'

‘Ah, my incorrigible captain; always hankering for that forbidden garden. Think how it might disappoint you. Think how happy we are with this innocent badinage and its
sous-entendus.'

Her voice had retained its tone of raillery, but her eyes were gentle. They like each other quite a lot, Reid thought. But already Farrar had changed the subject.

‘I've had an idea that the Lebanese speak a highly corrupt Arabic. Now here's the test. Lieutenant Sargent was brought up in Alexandria. He speaks Egyptian Arabic, which as everyone knows is the purest Arabic. He'll tell me if I'm right or not. Now come along, Gustave, put them through their paces.'

There was a lot of laughter; the sally was a useful ice-breaker.
Gustave's Arabic was clearly very fluent. It was, Reid presumed, Farrar's method of putting Gustave to a language test. The Koumayans would report later on his accent and on how grammatically he spoke.

They were still speaking in Arabic when the last guest arrived—an English girl, Jane Lester, a driver with the Hadfield-Spears ambulance. She was in her very early twenties. Her husband had been taken prisoner at Dunkirk. They had been two months married.

She was in uniform. She was little and lithe and blonde. She looked very tired. She was, Reid suspected, one of those girls who lose their looks when they are tired.

‘I've been on the road seven hours, Damascus and back; I'll have a whisky, Nigel, and a strong one.'

She took two fast gulps at it; and it was as though a hand had smoothed out the drawn lines round her mouth and eyes. Reid changed his seat so that he could be next to her.

‘Your husband is a prisoner of war, they tell me. I was one in the First War.'

‘Where?'

‘In Germany, in Mainz.'

‘For long?'

‘Eight months. I was taken in the big retreat.'

‘That wasn't long.'

‘I know. I was very lucky. But I didn't know I was going to be so lucky. At first I thought I might be there for years. I probably felt very much as your husband felt during the first four months.'

‘And how did you feel?'

‘Shame at first, humiliation. Doubt as to whether I should be there at all. I was taken in a group. Our whole company was surrounded. I wasn't in command, but I wondered if we oughtn't to have fought to the last man; as the Germans did in their pill-boxes at Ypres. At the same time I had a feeling of relief that it was all over; my life had been spared; I could do the things I'd dreamed of doing; I could go up to Oxford. And that was the feeling that persisted; it lasted during the weeks it took me to get settled into my permanent prison camp. Then suddenly I thought: “I'm here for the duration. That may be for two years, three years, four years; the best years of my life behind barbed wire.” But that was in the summer of 1918; within a very few weeks, I knew that the war would be over soon. Your husband hasn't that consolation.'

‘Indeed he hasn't.'

‘Nor have you?'

She looked up quickly. There was a look of gratitude in her eyes, as one might have for a doctor who has made a quick diagnosis.

It must after all have been the same for her: the anxiety when her husband was posted missing, the weeks of waiting; then the relief of learning he was a prisoner; safe, safe, safe; one day he would come back to her. There had been that month or so of exaltation, then gradually the recognition of the chancery in which she found herself; the war might last for four, five years, and for all that period she would be neither wife, nor widow; in cold storage, she who was little older than a debutante.

‘Did you ever make your bob?' he asked.

‘I was going to in 1940; if there had been no war.'

Neither realized for the moment how quickly they had made their conversational transition. They had been following their own thoughts, reaching the same point without the need of words. There was now animation in her face. Youth had returned to it. She had nearly finished her whisky. She must have been desperately tired when she came in.

‘Let me freshen that drink,' he said. He had a feeling she would be grateful if he did the talking for a little, so that she could relax. ‘What's your husband's profession?' he inquired.

‘A regular soldier. That's bad luck, isn't it? He'll miss promotion. He'll be out of date when it's all over.'

Reid thought of all those regular officers who had been captured on the retreat from Mons. They had never made up the ground that they had lost; particularly the elder ones. But perhaps that was partially their own fault.

‘At a first glance it looks like that,' he said. ‘But there's another angle; Louis Napoleon spent three years in prison; do you know what he said about them?'

‘What did he say?'

‘That he had been educated in the University of Ham. He read there the books that otherwise he'd never have had the time for. That happened to me at Mainz. It was a prelude to Oxford. I met there for the first time first class minds on equal terms. Gerard Hopkins was there; so was Hugh Kingsmill. I had eight months of solid reading. I read all the major Russian novelists, except Tolstoy. I read Flaubert and Balzac. I was introduced to Walter Pater. I heard good talk four hours of the day. If I hadn't
done that reading then, I don't know when I would have; Hopkins and Kingsmill were my university. I went up to Oxford with a flying start. Not only that: I made up my mind about myself. I knew what I wanted to do: to learn enough to be able to interpret History and Philosophy in terms of one another. It's not the same for your husband, as a regular army officer. But there's a great deal of solid reading he might do, military history and strategy that the average subaltern never finds the time for. Can he read German?'