‘I don’t think so, Charlie, do you? They are not as discreet as they should be. Would you like to recommence your lessons in Arabic now?’
The last thing he showed me was a door in the corridor behind his office. It led directly onto a fire escape, and the back yard. There was always a bicycle beneath it, in case the unfriendly British raided the club, he said. It had happened before.
I waited in a sumptuously appointed lounge. Deep low couches, antimacassars and carpets for wall hangings. A Roman tribune would have felt at home there. A cloudy smoky scent clung to the drapes. Like rich, sweet cigar smoke. When the girl walked in I was surprised to find her in Western clothes: a short white skirt and a skimpy grey top. A three-inch gap between them showed off her stomach: olive-skinned and flat, but with that slight womanly bulge that sends men mad.
I asked her, ‘What’s your real name?’
‘Mariam. Mariam Sfeir. Last night you said you were Charlie.’
I nodded. ‘And you are also from Lebanon?’
‘Beirut, yes. Have you been to Beirut, sir?’
‘No.’
‘It is the most wonderful city in the world: full of millionaires. Are you a millionaire?’
‘Not yet.’
‘David says that I may be able to go on holiday to one of your bars in Germany, if one of your German women comes here as an exchange. Is that right?’
It was an odd definition of holiday perhaps, but I said, ‘Yes, I am sure that will be arranged. You will be a star in Europe. Men will stand in line to watch you dance.’
She giggled. I thought she looked impossibly glamorous. A mere shadow of lipstick, and a vague suggestion of an expensive perfume. Her hair just brushed her olive shoulders. It was neither brown nor blonde; some magical combination of both which swung whenever she moved her head. Oh Charlie.
‘Famous film directors maybe?’ She went over to an American fridge in one corner. It was as big as a telephone box. When she came back she had two beers for us. I hadn’t paid for anything that night, and didn’t know how this worked.
‘I don’t know,’ I told her honestly.
‘I’m sure David could arrange it . . .’
Twenty minutes later my education in the Arabic tongue recommenced. I found that Lebanese Arabic was an inventive, playful and tactile language. You sleep exceptionally well after a lesson, and I can recommend it to anyone.
I had breakfast with David Yassine.
He asked, ‘You slept well?’
‘Terrifically, thank you.’
‘You weren’t awoken by the noise?’
‘What noise?’
‘There was a demonstration outside. The Muslim Brotherhood wishes me to close my club to British soldiers.’
‘What happened?’
‘I pushed someone out to explain to them that it was already closed to British soldiers, so they sent me a present of fruit and dates, and then went to burn some cars in the Old Town.’
‘Nobody was hurt?’
‘Not as far as I know. Breakfast?’
Breakfast was a large juicy orange, dates, slices of fried goat’s cheese and flat baked bread with honey. Turkish coffee sweet enough to strip the silver from the EPNS. Bloody wonderful. We sat cross-legged on large cushions in front of a low table, and were served by one of his women. She danced for us as we ate. Belly dancing for breakfast: that was one for the diary. I wondered if my dad would believe it when I told him. Yassine asked me where I got my Egyptian spending money, and when I replied, ‘The base,’ he shook his head.
‘Far too expensive. The British government is charging you an extortionate rate to change money they already owe to you, into local currency. In future please come to me. How much do you have at present?’
‘About forty Egyptian pounds.’ Again he shook his head.
‘Not enough for a man of our business stature. I will give you . . .’ From a small safe in the corner he took out two small bundles of notes. The thing looked stuffed with them. ‘. . . two hundred pounds Egyptian. Here.’ He offered them.
‘I have nothing yet to exchange for it.’
‘I take it from your ten per cent. Your Mr Borland will be happy now: he was worried about you. Easier for me too: less currency to get out of the country.’ So that was all right then.
‘OK. Thank you.’ I buttoned them into my KD shirt pocket. Someone had told me about that, hadn’t they? ‘Did I tell you I saw a lion a couple of nights ago?’
‘No. In a cage in a club? They used to do that in the old days.’
‘No, loose on the street not far from here.’
‘Not possible, Charlie. No lions in Egypt for many years.’
‘Someone else told me that.’
‘So now two people have told you. Maybe you will believe?’ It sounded sarky, but it wasn’t. He was smiling. He was also shovelling away a second breakfast, so I was left in no doubt where his bulk came from.
The last thing I asked him before making my plans was, ‘Could I make telephone calls from here? The military base exchanges are expensive, rationed and monitored . . . and I was warned that the MPs listen in.’
‘They sometimes listen to me as well; hoping to catch me spying for the Egyptian police. You can tell because the phone clicks when you lift it. Once their technician left his microphone open, and I heard him snoring.’
‘Would you do that? Spy for the Egyptian police?’
‘If I didn’t, they would put me out of business: maybe worse.’
‘Who else do you work for?’
‘Egyptian Army if they ask. If I said no to them, then some night a hand grenade comes through the window. Anyway, they pay well.’
‘Your business affairs seem very complicated, David.’
‘I would say interesting. Anyway – safer now that I have two English partners.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that.’
‘Ah, but I am, I am. These
