The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [121]
‘Only’ said Scobie, sitting helplessly down on the bed again and relapsing into a gloom which gave his funny little face an even more comical expression (he still wore the Dolly Varden), ‘on ly when the Influence comes over me. When I’m not fully Answer-able, old man.’
He sat there looking crushed. I gave a low whistle of surprise which the parrot immediately copied. This was indeed serious. I understood now why the deliberations which had consumed him all morning had been so full of heart-searching. Obviously if one went around in a rig like that in the Arab quarter…. He must have been following my train of thought, for he said ‘It’s only sometimes when the Fleet’s in.’ Then he went on with a touch of self-righteousness : ‘Of course, if there was ever any trouble, I’d say I was in disguise. I am a policeman when you come to think of it. After all, even Lawrence of Arabia wore a nightshirt, didn’t he?’ I nodded. ‘But not a Dolly Varden’ I said. ‘You must admit, Scobie, it’s most original …’ and here the laughter overtook me. Scobie watched me laugh, still sitting on the bed in that fantastic headpiece. ‘Take if off!’ I implored. He looked serious and pre-occupied now, but made no motion. ‘Now you know all’ he said.
‘The best and the worst in the old skipper. Now what I was going to ——’
At this moment there came a knock at the landing door. With surprising presence of mind Scobie leaped spryly into the cup-board, locking himself noisily in. I went to the door. On the
land ing stood a servant with a pitcher full of some liquid which he said was for the Effendi Skob. I took it from him and got rid of him, before returning to the room and shouting to the old man who emerged once more — now completely himself, bareheaded and blazered.
‘That was a near shave’ he breathed. ‘What was it?’ I indicated the pitcher. ‘Oh, that — it’s for the Mock Whisky. Every three hours.’
‘Well,’ I said at last, still struggling with these new and indiges-tible revelations of temperament, ‘I must be going.’ I was still hovering explosively between amazement and laughter at the thought of Scobie’s second life at full moon — how had he managed to avoid a scandal all these years? — when he said: ‘Just a minute, old man. I only told you all this because I want you to do me a favour.’ His false eye rolled around earnestly now under the pressure of thought. He sagged again. ‘A thing like that could do me Untold Harm’ he said. ‘Untold Harm, old man.’
‘I should think it could.’
‘Old man,’ said Scobie, ‘I want you to confiscate my duds. It’s the only way of controlling the Influence.’
‘Confiscate them?’
‘Take them away. Lock them up. It’ll save me, old man. I know it will. The whim is too strong for me otherwise, when it comes.’
‘All right’ I said.
‘God bless you, son.’
Together we wrapped his full-moon regalia in some newspapers and tied the bundle up with string. His relief was tempered with doubt. ‘You won’t lose them?’ he said anxiously.
‘Give them to me’ I said firmly and he handed me the parcel meekly. As I went down the stairs he called after me to express relief and gratitude, adding the words: ‘I’ll say a little prayer for you, son.’ I walked back slowly through the dock-area with the parcel under my arm, wondering whether I would ever dare to confide this wonderful story to someone worth sharing it with. The warships turned in their inky reflections — the forest of masts and rigging in the Commercial Port swayed softly among the mirror-images of the water: somewhere a ship’s radio was blaring out the latest jazz-hit to reach Alexandr ia:
Old Tiresias
No-one half so breezy as,
Half so free and easy as
Old Tiresias.
* * * * *
III
omehow, then, the problem is just how to introject this new and disturbing material into (under?) the skin of the old with-S out changing or irremediably damaging the contours of my subjects or the solution in which I see them move. The golden fish circling so languidly in their great bowl of light