The Alexandria Quartet: Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, Clea

listening with great attention. These grievances were obviously deeply felt. ‘And when Gohari died where did Mohammed Ali turn?’

‘To Ghali Doss’ said Narouz again, delightedly.

‘Exactly. As Chancellor of the Exchequer he had full powers over revenue and taxation. A Copt. Another Copt. And his son Basileus was made a Bey and a member of the Privy Council. These men ruled Egypt with honour; and there were many of them given great appointments.’

‘Sedarous Takla in Esneh’ said Narouz, ‘Shehata Hasaballah in Assiout, Girgis Yacoub in Beni Souef.’ His eyes shone as he spoke and he basked like a serpent in the warmth of his father’s approbation. ‘Yes,’ cried the invalid, striking his chair-arm with his hand. ‘Yes. And even under Said and Ismail the Copts played their part. The public prosecutor in every province was a Copt. Do you realize what that means? The reposing of such a trust in a Christian minority? The Moslems knew us, they knew we were Egyptians first and Christians afterwards. Christian Egyptians — have you British with your romantic ideas about Moslems ever thought what the words mean? The only Christian Orientals fully integrated into a Moslem state? It would be the dream of Germans to discover such a key to Egypt, would it not? Everywhere Christians in positions of trust, in key positions as mudirs, Governors, and so on. Under Ismail a Copt held the Ministry of War.’

‘Ayad Bey Hanna’ said Narouz with relish.

‘Yes. Even under Arabi a Coptic Minister of Justice. And a Court Master of Ceremonies. Both Copts. And others, many others.’

‘How did all this change?’ said Mountolive quietly, and the sick man levered himself up in his rugs to point a shaking finger at his guest and say: ‘The British changed it, with their hatred of the Copts. Gorst initiated a diplomatic friendship with Khedive Abbas, and as a result of his schemes not a single Copt was to be found in the entourage of the Court or even in the services of its departments. Indeed, if you spoke to the men who surrounded that corrupt and bestial man, supported by the British, you would have been led to think that the enemy was the Christian part of the nation. At this point, let me read you something.’ Here Narouz, swiftly as a well-rehearsed acolyte, slipped into the next room and returned with a book with a marker in it. He laid it open on the lap of his father and returned in a flash to his seat. Clearing his throat the sick man read harshly: ‘“When the British took control of Egypt the Copts occupied a number of the highest positions in the State. In less than a quarter of a century almost all the Coptic Heads of Departments had disappeared. They were at first fully represented in the bench of judges, but gradually the number was reduced to nil; the process of removing them and shutting the door against fresh appointments has gone on until they have been reduced to a state of discouragement bordering on despair!” These are the words of an Englishman. It is to his honour that he has written them.’ He snapped the book shut and went on. ‘Today, with British rule, the Copt is debarred from holding the position of Governor or even of Mamur — the administrative magistrate of a province. Even those who work for the Government are compelled to work on Sunday because, in deference to the Moslems, Friday has been made a day of prayer. No provision has been made for the Copts to worship. They are not even properly represented on Government Councils and Committees. They pay large taxes for education — but no provision is made that such money goes towards Christian education. It is all Islamic. But I will not weary you with the rest of our grievances. Only that you should understand why we feel that Britain hates us and wishes to stamp us out.’

‘I don’t think that can be so’ said Mountolive feebly, now rendered somewhat breathless by the forthrightness of the criticism but unaware how to deal with it. All this matter was entirely new to him for his studies had consisted only in reading the conventional study by Lane as the true Gospel on Egypt. The sick man nodded again, as if with each nod he drove his point home a little deeper. Narouz, whose face like a mirror had reflected the various feelings of the conversation, nodded too. Then the father pointed at his eldest son. ‘Nessim’ he said, ‘look at him. A true Copt. Brilliant, reserved. What an ornament he would make to the Egyptian diplomatic service. Eh? As a diplomat-to-be you should judge better than I. But no. He will be a businessman because we Copts know that it is useless, useless.’ He banged the arm of his wheel-chair again, and the spittle came up into his mouth.

But this was an opportunity for which Nessim had been waiting, for now he took his father’s sleeve and kissed it submissively, saying at the same time with a smile: ‘But David will learn all this anyway. It is enough now.’ And smiling round at his mother sanctioned the relieved signal she made to the servants which called an end to the dinner.

They took their coffee in uncomfortable silence on the balcony where the invalid sat gloomily apart staring out at the darkness, and the few attempts at general conversation fell flat. To do him justice, the sick man himself was feeling ashamed of his outburst now. He had sworn to himself not to introduce the topic before his guest, and was conscious that he had contravened the laws of hospitality in so doing. But he too could now see no way of repairing the conversation in which the good feeling they had reciprocated and enjoyed until now had temporarily foundered.

Here once more Nessim’s tact came to the rescue; he took Leila and Mountolive out into the rose-garden where the three of them walked in silence for a while, their minds embalmed by the dense night-odour of the flowers. When they were out of earshot of the balcony the eldest son said lightly: ‘David, I hope you didn’t mind my father’s outburst at dinner. He feels very deeply about all this.’

‘I know.’

‘And you know’ said Leila eagerly, anxious to dispose of the whole subject and return once more to the normal atmosphere of friendliness, ‘he really isn’t wrong factually, however he expresses himself. Our position is an unenviable one, and it is due entirely to you, the British. We do live rather like a secret society — the most brilliant, indeed, once the key community in our own country.’

‘I cannot understand it’ said Mountolive.

‘It is not so difficult’ said Nessim lightly. ‘The clue is the Church militant. It is odd, isn’t it, that for us there was no real war between Cross and Crescent? That was entirely a Western European creation. So indeed was the idea of the cruel Moslem infidel. The Moslem was never a persecutor of the Copts on religious grounds. On the contrary, the Koran itself shows that Jesus is respected as a true Prophet, indeed a precursor of Mohammed. The other day Leila quoted you the little portrait of the child Jesus in one of the suras — remember? Breathing life into the clay models of birds he was making with other children…..’

‘I remember.’

‘Why, even in Mohammed’s tomb’ said Leila ‘there has always been that empty chamber which waits for the body of Jesus. According to the prophecy he is to be buried in Medina, the fountain of Islam, remember? And here in Egypt no Moslem feels anything but respect and love for the Christian God. Even today. Ask anyone, ask any muezzin.’ (This was as if to say ‘Ask anyone who speaks the truth’ — for no unclean person, drunkard, madman or woman is regarded as eligible for uttering the Moslem call to prayer.)

‘You have remained Crusaders at heart’ said Nessim softly, ironically but still with a smile on his lips. He turned and walked softly away between the roses, leaving them alone. At once Leila’s hand sought his familiar clasp. ‘Never mind this’ she said lightly, in a different voice. ‘One day we will find our way back to the centre with or without your help! We have long memories!’

They sat together for a while on a block of fallen marble, talking of other things, these larger issues forgotten now they were alone. ‘How dark it is tonight. I can only see one star. That means mist. Did you know that in Islam every man has his own star which appears when he is born and goes out when he dies? Perhaps that is your star, David Mountolive.’

‘Or yours?’

‘It is too bright for mine. They pale, you know, as one gets older. Mine must be quite pale, past middle age by now. And when you leave us, it will become paler still.’ They embraced.

They spoke of their plans to meet as often as possible; of his intention to return whenever he could get leave. ‘But you will not be long in Egypt’ she said with her light fatalistic glance and smile. ‘You will be posted soon? Where to, I wonder? You will forget us — but no, the English are always faithful to old friends, are they not? Kiss me.’

‘Let us not think of that now’ said Mountolive. Indeed, he felt quite deprived of any power to confront this parting coolly. ‘Let us talk of other things. Look, I went into Alexandria yesterday and hunted about until I found