‘How did he do that?’ I asked the fat man. ‘How did he serve me a beer without my seeing it?’
‘Who knows?’ he said again. ‘It is a mystery.’ I liked the way he shrugged. It was as if he was denying responsibility for something.
‘Everybody’s always saying that to me.’
‘That is because Egypt is a mysterious country. Shall we sit down? My feet are hurting.’ We sat at a small round table under a fan. You’ve seen round tables like it in bars all over the world. Were they created for bars; or were bars created as places to accommodate round tables? If I asked anyone here that question I knew the answer I would receive. As soon as we were seated, the boy came around the bar, and brought us another two beers. This time I saw him move.
We rattled the bottles together. I said, ‘Cheerio.’
The fat man said, ‘L’chaim.’
‘What language is that?’
‘Israeli.’
‘Your English is also very good.’
‘And we are very fortunate, because your Arabic is . . . ?’
‘Non-existent, or shite, as my Scottish friends would say. I was hoping to find a girl to teach me a little tonight.’
‘Did you have a particular girl in mind?’
‘One was called Yasmin.’
‘No good: most of them are called Yasmin.’
‘She is a dancer.’
‘Also no good. Here they are all dancers.’
‘She is small. Very small. Smaller than me.’
‘. . . a child?’ I wasn’t too struck with the note of relish in his voice here.
‘No, of course not. Older. Maybe nineteen or twenty.’
‘Then maybe I know her. I will ask for her to be sent to you.’ He barked an imperious string of gobbledegook at the barman, who in turn barked it into a telephone behind the bar. He then beamed at the fat man, and the fat man beamed at me. I should have picked up on it earlier.
‘You own this place, don’t you?’
He shrugged his exaggerated shrug, smiled a trader’s smile and spread his hands. ‘Only partly.’ He swallowed most of the beer from his bottle in a oner, and clicked his fingers for another.
‘Somebody I met told me that one reason the Egyptians want us out is that we show no respect for your traditional Muslim values. One of those values is refraining from drinking alcohol . . . and yet, here you are, drinking beer with me. Curious.’
He leaned forward to pat me on the shoulder like you would an old friend. He actually laughed aloud.
Then said, ‘So: I cannot be a Muslim, can I? I am Lebanese, Mr Bassett, and a Christian. I am David Yassine.’ Bollocks: the bugger had called me by name. He must have seen my face. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bassett. All my girls are good Christians also; you are among friends here. Welcome to the Blue Kettle.’
He took me up polished white stone stairs to a large room that overlooked the bar through a huge arched pane of glass.
He said, ‘Don’t worry. It is mirrored glass. You can see out, but no one can see in. Once we are dealing with each other again, your wonderful Military Police will come up here and film men downstairs with the girls.’
I had a thought. ‘Were they here last night?’
‘No; and I shouldn’t have let them film you if they had been.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are a friend.’
The conversation faltered for a second. ‘I was going to ask you about that. How come you know my name?’
‘I knew it twice, Mr Bassett . . .’
‘You may as well call me Charlie; everyone else does.’
‘Charlie; thank you . . . I knew it twice, Charlie: once by accident almost, and once from a deliberate information.’
‘Who told you about me deliberately? I’ll have a word with the bastard.’
He shook his head and smiled. He knew I wouldn’t.
‘Mr Watson – you know him?’ I nodded. ‘He gives me the name and description of his officers. He asks me to look after them.’
‘. . . and pays you for it.’
‘Of course. So when you come to Ismailia or Suez you are insured.’
‘You said you also learned of me by accident?’
‘Yes, only two weeks ago. I was in Europe – I need to consider investing in a club in developing Europe; somewhere safer than Egypt. One of the owners I dined with named and described you. He also asked me to take care of you if we met.’
‘. . . and paid you.’
‘Of course not. One doesn’t pay one’s partners.’
‘Berlin.’
‘Precisely . . . and hearing your name twice within a few weeks kindled my interest in you, Charlie Bassett.’ Bloody Bozey. ‘I made an investment in all three of your clubs, Charlie. We cannot hold money in Egypt now. Since Farouk left, every time there is trouble the exchange rate crashes. So I invest in the business I know.’ Three clubs? What the fuck was Bozey doing with our money?
The room was like a large study in a stately home, or maybe the reading room of a gentleman’s club in Knightsbridge. It smelt of rich old cigars, and was lined with hanging carpets and books. He came in on cue with, ‘Cigar? I always smoke one about now.’
‘No thank you. Do you mind if I put this on?’ I waved my pipe at him.
‘Of course not; I would say be my guest, but you are not really a guest. When my agent’s negotiations with Mr Borland are successful, you two, and I, will be partners in this very establishment. He has asked for ten per cent.’ I spluttered my beer. ‘So I will say it again: welcome to the Blue Kettle.’
I stared at him. I hope it wasn’t an unfriendly stare. That set Bob Crosby used to play came into my mind . . . the panicky opening bars of ‘Can’t we be friends’ . . . then I reached over, and took his hand for the second time.
‘Thank you, partner . . .’ I paused before asking, ‘Will
