The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [293]
He pondered deeply upon them during those long sleepless days and nights and for the first time he saw them, in the light of this new knowledge, as enigmas. They were puzzles now, and even their private moral relationship haunted him with a sense of something he had never properly understood, never clearly evaluated. Somehow his friendship for them had prevented him from thinking of them as people who might, like himself, be living on several different levels at once. As conspirators, as lovers —
what was the key to the enigma? He could not guess.
But perhaps the clues that he sought lay further back in the past — further than either he or Pursewarden could see from a vantage-point in the present time.
There were many facts about Justine and Nessim which had not come to his knowledge — some of them critical for an under-standing of their case. But in order to include them it is necessary once more to retrace our steps briefly to the period immediately before their marriage.
* * * * *
X
he blue Alexandrian dusk was not yet fully upon them.
“But do you … how shall one say it? … Do you really T care for her, Nessim? I know of course how you have been haunting her; and she knows what is in your mind.’
Clea’s golden head against the window remained steady, her gaze was fixed upon the chalk drawing she was doing. It was nearly finished; a few more of those swift, flow ing strokes and she could release her subject. Nessim had put on a striped pullover to model for her. He lay upon her uncomfortable little sofa ho lding a guitar which he could not play, and frowning. ‘How do you spell love in Alexandr ia?’ he said at last, softly. ‘That is the question. Sleepless-ness, loneliness, bonheur, chagrin — I do not want to harm or annoy her, Clea. But I feel that somehow, somewhere, she must need me as I need her. Speak, Clea.’ He knew he was lying. Clea did not. She shook her head doubtfully, still with her attention on the paper, and then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Loving you both as I do, who could wish for anything better? And I have spoken to her, as you asked me, tried to provoke her, probe her. It seems hopeless.’
Was this strictly true, she asked herself? She had too great a tendency to believe what people said.
‘False pride?’ he said sharply.
‘She laughs hopelessly and’ Clea imitated a gesture of hopeless-ness ‘like that! I think she feels that she has had all the clothes stripped off her back in the street by that book Moeurs. She thinks herself no longer able to bring anyone peace of mind! Or so she says.’
‘Who asks for that?’
‘She thinks you would. Then of course, there is your social position. And then she is, after all, a Jew. Put yourself in her place.’ Clea was silent for a moment. Then she added in the same abstract tone: ‘If she needs you at all it is to use your fortune to help her search for the child. And she is too proud to do that. But … you have read Moeurs. Why repeat myself?’
‘I have never read Moeurs’ he said hotly, ‘and she knows that I never will. I have told her that. Oh, Clea dear!’ He sighed. This was another he.
Clea paused, smiling, to consider his dark face. Then she continued, rubbing at the corner of the drawing with her thumb as she said: ‘ Chevalier sans peur, etc. That is like you, Nessim.
But is it wise to idealize us women so? You are a bit of a baby still, for an Alexandrian.