The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [317]
Mountolive handed over the pink telegram and sank into an armchair not icing with annoyance the litter of untidy personal objects on Errol’s desk — a china ashtray in the likeness of a Sealyham terrier, a Bible, a pin-cushion, an expensive fountain-pen whose holder was embedded in a slab of green marble, a lead paperweight in the shape of a statue of Athene…. It was
the sort of jumble one would find in an old lady’s work-basket; but then, Errol was something of an old lady. He cleared his throat.
‘Well, sir’ said Errol, taking off his glasses, ‘I’ve been on to Protocol and said you would like an interview with the Foreign Minister tomorrow on a matter of great urgency. I suppose you’ll wear uniform?’
‘Uniform?’ said Mountolive vague ly.
‘The Egyptians are always impressed if one puts on a Tiger Tim.’
‘I see. Yes, I suppose so.’
‘They tend to judge the importance of what you have to say by the style in which you dress to say it. Donkin is always rubbing it into us and I expect it’s true.’
‘It is, my dear boy.’ (There! The avuncular note again! Damn.)
‘And I suppose you’ll want to support the verbal side with a definitive aide-mémoire. You ’ll have to give them all the infor-mation to back up our contention, won’t you, sir?’
Mountolive nodded briskly. He had been submerged sud-denly by a wave of hate for Nessim so unfamiliar that it surprised him. Once again, of course, he recognized the root of his anger —
that he should be forced into such a position by his friend’s in-discretion : forced to proceed against him. He had a sudden little series of mental images — Nessim fleeing the country, Nessim in Hadra Prison, Nessim in chains, Nessim poisoned at his lunch-table by a servant…. With the Egyptians one never knew where one was. Their ignorance was matched by an excess of zeal which might land one anywhere. He sighed.
‘Of course I shall wear uniform’ he said gravely.
‘I’ll draft the aide-mémoire. ’’
‘Very good.’
‘I should have a definite time for you within half an hour.’
‘Thank you. And I’d like to take Donkin with me. His Arabic is much better than mine and he can take minutes of the meeting so that London can have a telegram giving a full account of it. Will you send him up when he has seen the brief? Thank you.’
All the next morning he hung about in his office, turning over papers in a desultory fashion, forcing himself to work. At mid-day the youthful bearded Donkin arrived with the typed aide-mémoire and the news that Mountolive’s appointment was for twelve-thirty
the next day. His small nervous features and watery eyes made him look more than ever a youthful figure, masquerading in a goatee. He accepted a cigarette and puffed it quickly, like a girl, not inhaling the smoke. ‘Well’ said Mountolive with a smile, ‘your considered views on my brief, please. Errol has told you ——?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What do you think of this … vigorous official protest?’
Donkin drew a deep breath and said thoughtfully: ‘I doubt if you’ll get any direct action at the moment, sir. The internal stresses and strains of the Government since the King’s illness have put them all at sixes and sevens. They are all afraid of each other, all pulling different ways. I’m sure that Nur will agree and try hard to get Memlik to act on your paper … but….’
He drew his lips back thoughtfully about his cigarette. ‘I don’t know. You know Memlik’s record. He hates Britain.’
Mountolive’s spirits suddenly began to rise, despite himself.
‘Good Lord’ he said, ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. But they simply can’t ignore a protest in these terms. After all, my dear boy, the thing is practically a veiled threat.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘I really don’t see how they could ignore it.’
‘Well, sir, the King’s life is hanging by a hair at present. He might, for example, die tonight. He hasn’t sat in Divan for nearly six months. Everyone is at jealousies nowadays, personal dislikes and rivalries have come very close to the surface, and with a vengeance. His death would completely alter things