The Alexandria Quartet: Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, Clea

dark-coated gentlemen in whose midst stood the old blind preacher, whose vacant, bewildered face turned from voice to voice with the air of some mechanical contrivance built to register sound-waves; his air of mild confusion suggested all the ghostly contentment of an absolute faith in something which was the more satisfying for not being fully apprehended by the reason. His hands were joined on his breast; he looked as shy as some ancient child, full of the kinetic beauty of a human being whose soul has become a votive object.

The pasha who entered once more made his way slowly to Nessim’s side, but by stages so delayed that it seemed to the latter he would never reach him. This slow progress was prolonged by compliments and an air of elaborate disinterestedness. At last he was there, at Nessim’s elbow, his long clever fingers still holding the bejewelled fly-whisk. ‘Your gift is a choice one’ the low voice said at last, with the faintest suggestion of honey in its tones. ‘It is most acceptable. Indeed, sir, your knowledge and discrimination are both legendary. To show surprise would betoken vulgar ignorance of the fact.’

The formula which Memlik invariably used was so smooth and remarkably well-turned in Arabic that Nessim could not help looking surprised and pleased. It was a choice turn of speech such as only a really cultivated person would have used. He did not know that Memlik had carefully memorized it against such occasions. He bowed his head as one might to receive an accolade, but remained silent. Memlik flirted his fly-whisk for a moment, before adding in another tone: ‘Of course, there is only one thing. I have already spoken of the complaints which come to me, effendi mine. In all such cases I am bound sooner or later to investigate causes. Great regrets.’

Nessim turned his smooth black eye upon the Egyptian and still smiling said in a low voice: ‘Sir, by the European Christmastide — a matter of months — there will be no further grounds for complaint.’ There was a silence.

‘Then time is important’ said Memlik reflectively.

‘Time is the air we breathe, so says a proverb.’

The pasha half turned now and, speaking as if to the company in general, added: ‘My collection has need of your most discriminating knowledge. I hope you may discover for me many other treasures of the Holy Word.’ Again Nessim bowed.

‘As many as may be found acceptable, pasha.’

‘I am sorry we did not meet before. Great regrets.’

‘Great regrets.’

But now he became the host again and turned aside. The wide circle of uncomfortable stiff-backed chairs had been almost filled by his other visitors. Nessim selected one at the end of the line as Memlik reached his yellow divan and climbed slowly upon it with the air of a swimmer reaching a raft in mid-ocean. He gave a signal and the servants came forward to remove the coffee-cups and sweetmeats; they brought with them a tall and elegant high-backed chair with carved arms and green upholstery which they set for the preacher a little to one side of the room. A guest rose and with mutterings of respect led the blind man to his seat. Retiring in good order the servants closed and bolted the tall doors at the end of the room. The Wird was about to begin. Memlik formally opened the proceedings with a quotation from Ghazzali the theologian — a surprising innovation for someone, like Nessim, whose picture of the man had been formed entirely from hearsay. ‘The only way’ said Memlik ‘to become united with God is by constant intercourse with him.’ Having uttered the words he leaned back and closed his eyes, as if exhausted by the effort. But the phrase had the effect of a signal, for as the blind preacher raised his scraggy neck and inhaled deeply before commencing, the company responded like one man. At once all cigarettes were extinguished, every leg was uncrossed, coat buttons formally done up, every negligent attitude of body and address corrected.

They waited now with emotion for that old voice, melodious and worn with age, to utter the opening strophes of the Holy Book, and there was nothing feigned in the adoring attention of the circle of venal faces. Some licked their lips and leaned forward eagerly, as if to take the phrases upon their lips; others lowered their heads and closed their eyes as if against a new experience in music. The old preacher sat with his waxen hands folded in his lap and uttered the first sura, full of the soft warm colouring of a familiar understanding, his voice a little shaky at first but gathering power and assurance from the silence as he proceeded. His eyes now were as wide and lustreless as a dead hare’s. His listeners followed the notation of the verses as they fell from his lips with care and rapture, gradually seeking their way together out into the main stream of the poetry, like a school of fish following a leader by instinct out into the deep sea. Nessim’s own constraint and unease gave place to a warmth about the heart, for he loved the suras, and the old preacher had a magnificent speaking voice, although the tone was as yet furry and unaccentuated. But it was a voice of the inmost heart’ — his whole spiritual presence coursed like a bloodstream in the magnificent verses, filling them with his own ardour, and one could feel his audience tremble and respond, like the rigging of a ship in the wind. ‘Allah! ’ they sighed at every newly remembered felicity of phrasing, and these little gasps increased the confidence of the old voice with its sweet high register. ‘A voice whose melody is sweeter than charity’ says the proverb. The recitation was a dramatic one and very varied in style, the preacher changing his tone to suit the substance of the words, now threatening, now pleading, now declaiming, now admonishing. It was no surprise that he should be word-perfect, for in Egypt the blind preachers have a faculty for memorizing which is notorious, and moreover the whole length of the Koran is about two-thirds that of the New Testament. Nessim listened to him with tenderness and admiration, staring down upon the carpet, half-entranced by the ebb and flow of the poetry which distracted his mind from the tireless speculations he had been entertaining about Memlik’s possible response to the pressures which Mountolive had been forced to bring upon him.

Between each sura there came a few moments of silence in which nobody stirred or uttered a word, but appeared sunk in contemplation of what had gone before. The preacher then sank his chin upon his breastbone as if to regain his strength and softly linked his fingers. Then once more he would look upwards towards the sightless light and declaim, and once more one felt the tension of the words as they sped through the attentive consciousness of his listeners. It was after midnight when the Koran reading was complete and some measure of relaxation came back to the audience as the old man embarked upon the stories of tradition; these were no longer listened to as if they were a part of music, but were followed with the active proverbial mind: for they were the dialectics of revelation — its ethic and application. The company responded to the changed tone by letting their expression brighten to the keenness of habitual workers in the world, bankers, students, or business men.

It was two o’clock before the evening ended and Memlik showed his guests to the front door where their cars awaited them, with a white dew upon their wheels and chromium surfaces. To Nessim he said in a quiet deliberate voice — a voice which went down to the heart of their relationship like some heavy plumb-line: ‘I will invite you again, sir, for as long as may be possible. But reflect.’ And with his finger he gently touched the coat-button of his guest as if to underline the remark.

Nessim thanked him and walked down the drive among the palm-trees to where he had left the great car; his naked relief was by no means unmixed with doubt. He had at best, he reflected, gained a respite which did not fundamentally alter the enmity of the forces ranged against him. But even a respite was something to be grateful for; for how long though? It was at this stage impossible to judge.

Justine had not gone to bed. She was sitting in the lounge of Shepheards Hotel under the clock with an untouched Turkish coffee before her. She stood up eagerly as he passed through the swing doors with his usual gentle smile of welcome; she did not move but stared at him with a peculiar strained intensity — as if she were trying to decipher his feelings from his carriage. Then she relaxed and smiled with relief. ‘I’m so relieved! Thank God! I could see from your face as you came in.’ They embraced gently and he sank into a chair beside her whispering: ‘My goodness, I thought it would never end. I spent part of the time being rather anxious too. Did you dine alone?’

‘Yes. I saw David.’

‘Mountolive?’

‘He was at some big dinner. He bowed frigidly but did not stop to speak to me. But then, he had people with him, bankers or something.’

Nessim ordered a coffee and as he drank it gave an account of his evening with Memlik. ‘It is clear’ he said thoughtfully ‘that the sort of pressure the British are bringing is based upon those files of correspondence they captured in Palestine. The Haifa office told Capodistria so. It would be a good angle to present these to Nur and press him to … take action.’ He drew a tiny gallows in pencil on the back of an envelope with a small fly-like victim