After half an hour I passed an Arab walking a string of pack camels parallel to the tarmac, and heading in the same direction as me. The camels didn’t fancy me. They looked at me and sneered. One spat a gob the size of a cricket ball. Was it trained to do that, or did it just improvise? The Arab rode the lead camel of six. A small boy rode the last one. I slowed down, smiled, and waved to them. The boy flashed me a quick V sign, and then threw a stone. He had a bagful hanging from the wooden saddle. He was a good shot because it clattered off the boot of my car, and I prayed he would never get his hands on a decent gun.
People really were getting a bit twitchy. Two armed Egyptian policemen guarded the car park where I left the Standard Vanguard. I wondered if they were on our side, their side, or undecided. There’s almost a pun in there if you look for it hard enough. It was a newer, less ill-used example of the car, and once I got used to the column change I was quite keen on it. At one point I had rolled it up to seventy, but was waved down by the wagging finger of one of our cops. A white-suited be-fezed Egyptian signed me in to the Officers’ Club – which had been designed by someone who’d read too many Somerset Maugham stories for my liking – and pointed me to the Smoking Room where this year’s fate awaited me.
I’d overtaken a blind officer as I went in; he had a tall Arab walking on one side of him and a guide dog in a harness like a baby walker in front of him. I guess he had it covered from all angles. I hadn’t, though; because my brain wasn’t working fast enough. Blind men wear dark glasses, don’t they? . . . and he was the only man with shades in the whole bloody room. He sat down in a big cane peacock chair; his man stood beside and slightly behind him, and the dog was soon lying at his feet. It lifted its lip, and showed me its front teeth as if to say, when I approached, I could bite you if I wanted to, you bastard, but I can’t be arsed: it’s too hot. I have that effect on animals all the time. It also had one milky white eye. I had a thought that was simultaneously cruel and funny: about the blind leading the fucking blind. The blind man was wearing a nicely spruced tropical rig, with a one-word shoulder flash. I read Intelligence. I had travelled the country without finding much so far, so that was a nice change.
He said, ‘Easy girl,’ and bent to lay his hand on the dog’s napper. The dog covered its teeth again. It almost smiled. As he bent to the dog I saw behind the dark glasses. Empty eye sockets. Ah, one of those. The Arab took half a step forward, and placed his hand on the European’s shoulder. I used to do exactly the same in the office of our Lancaster bomber; it would signal to Grease, our pilot, that I was there. The blind man said, ‘Pilot Officer Bassett, I presume,’ and lifted his right paw for the ritual shake. Firm and quick; the way it should be.
‘Yes, sir. I walked past you on the way in. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be, although if you make the blind leading the blind joke I’ll have Chig knife you. Say hello to Chig. He’s my boy.’ I started to hold my hand out to the Arab, but he just bowed his head very slightly; a nod. He might have been smiling or he might not. He had a face which was impossible to age or read, and a square, black beard shot with grey. Your noble Arab. He belonged in the desert on a camel, with a hawk on his wrist, just like the King of the Riffs in The Desert Song: I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures. He did not, however, have a speaking part in this drama . . . and he wasn’t a boy.
‘Draw up a chair,’ Levy said . . . ‘and call me Peter. I can’t tell anything about you except that you are either small, or that your mouth is somewhere between your tits, because your voice is coming from much nearer the ground than usual.’
‘Less than five feet four, sir. Well done.’
‘Nearer to five two . . . and don’t bloody patronize me . . . and Call me Peter was an order by the way. Care for a gin and it before we eat?’
‘Thank you. Love one.’
He addressed his Arab. ‘Two long ones please, Chig; and bring yourself an orange juice.’ The Arab gave his nervy little bow again, and cruised off to the bar. Dignified.
Levy told me, ‘His proper name’s Chigaru, which means hound. So I’m the first blind man you’ll meet who has two dogs. Chig’s dumb, by the way – some friendly tribesmen cut his tongue out, and all he can make is a gurgling sound. If you hear that, duck. He might have imperfect English in the understanding department, but he has acute hearing and I trust him, so you don’t need to worry.’
‘What about your blind dog?’
‘Why do people persist in calling guide dogs, “blind dogs”? A blind dog would be no bloody use to me, would it? I need one which can see.’
‘Yours has a bad eye . . .’
‘. . . and also one particularly good one; don’t overlook that. She belonged to some other beggar who traded her in when she began
