The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [129]
‘And lest an inequality of fortune should make your decision difficult’ said Nessim, flushing and lowering his head, ‘I propose to make you a birthday present which will enable you to think of yourself as a wholly independent person — simply as a woman, Justine. This hateful stuff which creeps into everyone’s thoughts in the city, poisoning everything! Let us be free of it before deciding anything.’ He passed across the table a slim green cheque with the words ‘Three Thousand Pounds’ written on it. She stared at it for a long time with surprise but did not touch it. ‘It has not
offended you’ he said hastily at last, stammering in his anxiety.
‘No’ she said. ‘It is like everything you do. Only what can I do about not loving you?’
‘You must, of course, never try to.’
‘Then what sort of life could we make?’
Nessim looked at her with hot shy eyes and then lowered his glance to the table, as if under a cruel rebuke. ‘Tell me’ she said after a silence. ‘Please tell me. I cannot use your fortune and your position and give you nothing in exchange, Nessim.’
‘If you would care to try’ he said gent ly, ‘we need not delude each other. Life isn’t very long. One owes it to oneself to try and find a means to happiness.’
‘Is it that you want to sleep with me?’ asked Justine suddenly: disgusted yet touched beyond measure by his tone. ‘You may. Yes. Oh! I would do anything for you, Nessim — anything.’
But he flinched and said: ‘I am speaking about an understanding in which friendship and knowledge can take the place of love until and if it comes as I hope. Of course I shall sleep with you — my-self a lover, and you a friend. Who knows? In a year perhaps. All Alexandrian marriages are business ventures after all. My God, Justine, what a fool you are. Can’t you see that we might possibly need each other without ever fully realizing it? It’s worth trying. Everything may stand in the way. But I can’t get over the thought that in the whole city the woman I most need is you. There are any number a man may want, but to want is not to need. I may want others — you I need! I do not dare to say the same for you. How cruel life is, and how absurd.’ Nobody had said anything like that to her before — had offered her a partnership as coolly designed, as wholly pure in intention. It must be admired from this point of view. ‘You are not the sort of man to stake everything on a single throw at rouge et noir’ she said slowly. ‘Our bankers who are so brilliant with money are notoriously weak in the head when it comes to women.’ She put her hand upon his wrist.
‘You should have your doctor examine you, my dear. To take on a woman who has said that she can never love you — what sort of temerity is that? Ah, no!’
He did not say anything at all, recognizing that her words were really not addressed to him: they were part of a long internal argu-ment with herself. How beautiful her disaffected face looked —
chloroformed by its own simplicity: she simply could not believe that someone might value her for herself — if she had a self. He was indeed, he thought, like a gambler putting everything on the turn of a wheel. She was standing now upon the very edge of a decision, like a sleepwalker on a cliff: should she awake before she jumped, or let the dream continue? Being a woman, she still felt it necessary to pose conditions; to withdraw herself further into secrecy as this man encroached upon it with his steady beguiling gentleness. ‘Nessim’ she said, ‘wake up.’ And she shook him gent ly.
‘I am awake’ he said quietly.
Outside in the square with its palms nibbled by the sea-wind, a light rain was falling. It was the tenth Zu-el-Higga, the first day of Courban Bairam, and fragments of the great procession were assembling in their coloured robes, holding the great silk banners and censers, insignia of the religion they honoured, and chanting passages from the litany : litany of the forgotten Nubian race which every year makes its great resurrection at the Mosque of Nebi Daniel. The crowd was brilliant, spotted with primary colours. The air rippled with tambourines, while here and there in the lags of silence which fell over the shouts and chanting, there came the sudden jabbering of the long drums as their hide was slowly stiffened at the hissing braziers. Horses moaned and the gonfalons bellied like sails in the rain-starred afternoon. A cart filled with the prostitutes of the Arab town in coloured robes went by with shrill screams and shouts, and the singing of painted young men to the gnash of cymbals and scribbling of mandolines: the whole as gorgeous as a tropical animal.