The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [291]
Very well. Suppose he simply burnt the letter, disposing with the weight of moral onus it bore? It could be done quite simply, in his own grate, with the aid of a safety-match. He could continue to behave as if no such revelation had ever been made — except for the fact that Nessim knew it had! No, he was trapped. And here his sense of duty, like ill-fitting shoes, began to pinch him at every step. He thought of Justine and Nessim dancing together, silently, blindly, their dark faces turned away from each other, eyes half-closed. They had attained a new dimension in his view of them already — the unsentimental projection of figures in a primitive fresco. Presumably they also struggled with a sense of duty and responsibility — to whom? ‘To themselves, perhaps’ he whispered sadly, shaking his head. He would never be able to meet Nessim eye to eye again.
It suddenly dawned on him. Up to now their personal relation-ship had been forced from any prejudicial cast by Nessim’s tact
— and Pursewarden’ s existence. The writer, in supplying the official link, had freed them in the personal lives. Never had the two men been forced to discuss anything remotely connected with official matters. Now they could not meet upon this happy ground. In this context too Pursewarden had traduced his freedom. As for
Leila, perhaps here lay the key to her enigmatic silence, her inability to meet him face to face.
Sighing, he rang for Errol. ‘You ’d better glance at this’ he said. His Head of Chancery sat himself down and began to read the document greedily. He nodded slowly from time to time. Mount-olive cleared his throat: ‘It seems pretty incoherent to me’ he said, despising himself for so trying to cast a doubt upon the clear words, to influence Errol in a judgement which, in his own secret mind, he had already made. Errol read it twice slowly, and handed it back across the desk. ‘It seems pretty extraordinary’ he said tentatively, respectfully. It was not his place to offer evaluations of the message. They must by rights come from his Chief. ‘It all seems a bit out of proportion’ he added helpfully, feeling his way.
Mountolive said sombrely: ‘I’m afraid it is typical of Purse-warden. It makes me sorry that I never took up your original recommendations about him. I was wrong, it seems, and you were right about his suitability.’
Errol’s eye glinted with modest triumph. He said nothing, however, as he stared at Mountolive. ‘Of course,’ said the latter,
‘as you well know, Hosnani has been suspect for some time.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘But there is no evidence here to support what he says.’ He tapped the letter irritably twice. Errol sat back and breathed through his nose. ‘I don’t know’ he said vaguely. ‘It sounds pretty conclusive to me.’
‘I don’t think’ said Mountolive ‘it would support a paper. Of course we’ll report it to London as it stands. But I’m inclined not to give it to the Parquet to help them with their inquest. What do you say?’
Errol cradled his knees. A slow smile of cunning crept around his mouth. ‘It might be the best way of getting it to the Egyptians’
he said softly, ‘and they might choose to act on it. Of course, it would obviate the diplomatic pressure we might have to bring if
… later on, the whole thing came out in a more concrete form. I know Hosnani was a friend of yours, sir.’
Mountolive felt himself colouring slightly. ‘In matters of business, a diplomat has no friends’ he said stiffly, feeling that he spoke in the very accents of Pontius Pilate.
‘Quite, sir.’ Errol gazed at him admiringly.
‘Once Hosnani’s guilt is established we shall have to act. But without supporting evidence we should find ourselves in a weak position. With Memlik Pasha — you know he isn’t very pro-British … I’m thinking….’
‘Yes, sir?’
Mountolive waited, drinking the air like a wild animal, scenting that Errol was beginning to approve his judgement. They sat silently in the dusk for a while, thinking. Then, with a histrion ic snap, the Ambassador switched on the desk-light and said de-cisive ly: