The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [176]
And this woman, with her ‘black spokes of toiling hair’, that lay in Narouz’ arms — would Clea or Justine recognize themselves in a mother-image of themselves woven out of moneyed flesh? Narouz was drinking Clea thirstily out of this old body hired for pleasure, just as I myself wished only to drink Justine. Once again
‘the austere, mindless primeval face of Aphrodite!’
Yes, but thirst can be quenched like this, by inviting a succubus to one’s bed; and Narouz later wandered about in the darkness,
incoherent as a madman, swollen with a relief he could barely stand. He felt like singing. Indeed, if one cannot say that he had completely forgotten Clea at this moment, one can at least assert that the act had delivered him from her image. He was wholly purged of her — and indeed would have had at this moment even the courage to hate her. Such is the polarity of love. ‘True’ love. He went back slowly, by winding ways, to his carpenter friend and claimed his horse, after first rousing the family to reassure them that it was not a thief who was making a noise in the stable at this hour.
Then he rode back to his lands, the happiest young man alive, and reached the manor as the first streaks of dawn were in the sky. As no-one was about he wrapped himself in a cloak and rested on the balcony until the sun should wake him up. He wanted to tell his brother the news.
But Nessim listened quietly and seriously to his whole story the next morning, wondering that the human heart makes no sound when the blood drains out of it drop by drop — for he thought he saw in this piece of information a vital check to the growth of the confidence he wished to foster in his wife. ‘I do not suppose’ said Narouz ‘that after so long we could find the body but I’ll go over with Faraj and some grapnels and see — there can be no harm in trying. Shall I?’ Nessim’s shoulders had contracted. His brother paused for a moment and then went on in the same level tone: ‘Now I did not know anything before about how the child was dressed. But I will describe what I saw in the ground. She had a blue frock with a brooch in the shape of a butterfly.’ Nessim said, almost impatient ly: ‘Yes. Perfectly true. It was the description Justine gave to the Parquet. I remember the description. So, well, Narouz
… what can I say? It is true. I want to thank you. But as for the dragging — it has been done at least a dozen times by the Parquet. Yes, without result. There is a cut there in the canal and a runaway with a strong undercurrent.’
‘I see’ said Narouz, cast down.
‘It is difficult to know.’ But Nessim’s voice sharpened its edge as he added: ‘But one thing, promise me. She must never know the truth from your lips. Promise.’
‘I promise you that’ said his brother as Nessim turned aside from the hall telephone and came face to face with his wife. Her
face was pale and her great eyes searched his with suspense and curiosity. ‘I must go now’ said Nessim hurriedly and put down the receiver as he turned to face her and take her hands in his. In memory, I always see them like this, staring at each other with clasped hands, so near together, so far apart. The telephone is a modern symbol for communications which never take place.
* * * * *
VIII
told you of Scobie’s death (so wrote Balthazar) but I did not tell you in detail the manner of it. I myself did not know him I very well but I knew of your affection for him. It was not a very pleasant business and I was concerned in it entirely by accident — indeed, only because Nimrod, who runs the Secretariat, and was Scobie’s chief at three removes, happened to be dining with me on that particular evening.
‘You remember Nimrod? Well, we had recently been competing for the favours of a charming young Athenian actor known by the delightful name of Socrates Pittakakis, and as any serious rivalry might have caused a bad feeling between us which neither could afford on the official level (I am in some sense a consultant to his department) we had sensibly decided to bury our jealousy and frankly share the youth