The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [325]
‘I am honoured, Memlik Pasha.’
‘I have seen you at receptions; but we have lacked common friends to present us to each other. Great regrets.’
‘Great regrets.’
Memlik sighed and fanned himself with his fly-whisk, com-plaining that the night was hot. Then he said, in a tone of a man debating something with himself, hesitantly almost: ‘Sir, the Prophet has said that great power brings greater enemies. I know you are powerful’
‘My power is insignificant, yet I have enemies.’
‘Great regrets.’
‘Indeed.’
Memlik shifted his weight to his left leg and picked his teeth thoughtfully for a moment; then he went on:
‘I think we shall understand each other perfectly soon.’
Nessim bowed formally and remained silent while his host gazed speculatively at him, breathing slowly and evenly through his mouth. Memlik said: ‘When they wish to complain, they come to me, the very fountain-head of complaints. I find it wearisome, but sometimes I am forced to act on behalf of those who complain. You take my meaning?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘At some moments, I am not bound to commit myself to particular action. But at others, I may be so bound. Therefore, Nessim Hosnani, the wise man removes the grounds for com-plaints.’
Nessim bowed again gracefully and once more remained silent. It was useless to pursue the dialectics of their relative positions until he had obtained acceptance of his proffered gift. Memlik perhaps sensed this, for he sighed and moved away to another group of visitors, and presently the dinner ended and the company retired once more to the long reception-room. Now Nessim’s pulse beat faster, for Memlik picked up the tissue-wrapped package and excused himself, saying ‘I must compare this with the books in my collection. The sheik of tonight — he of Imbabi — will come soon now. Seat yourselves and take your leisure. I will join you soon.’ He left the room. A desultory conversation began now, in which Nessim tried his best to take part though he realized that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast and his fingers felt shaky as they raised a cigarette to his lips. After a while, the doors were once more opened to admit an old blind sheik who had come to preside over this ‘Night Of God’. The company surrounded him, shaking his hands and uttering compliments. And then Memlik entered abruptly and Nessim saw that his hands were empty: he uttered a prayer of thanksgiving under his breath and mopped his brow.
It did not take him long to compose himself once more. He was standing rather apart from the press of dark-coated gentle-men in whose midst stood the old blind preacher, whose vacant, bewildered face turned from voice to voice with the air of some mechanical contrivance built to register sound-waves; his air of mild confusion suggested all the ghostly contentment of an absolute faith in something which was the more satisfying for not being fully apprehended by the reason. His hands were joined on
his breast; he looked as shy as some ancient child, full of the kinetic beauty of a human being whose soul has become a votive object.
The pasha who entered once more made his way slowly to Nessim’s side, but by stages so delayed that it seemed to the latter he would never reach him. This slow progress was prolonged by compliments and an air of elaborate disinterestedness. At last he was there, at Nessim’s elbow, his long clever fingers still holding the bejewelled fly-whisk. ‘Your gift is a choice one’ the low voice said at last, with the faintest suggestion of honey in its tones. ‘It is most acceptable. Indeed, sir, your knowledge and discrimination are both legendary. To show surprise would betoken vulgar ignorance of the fact.’
The formula which Memlik invariably used was so smooth and remarkably well-turned in Arabic that Nessim could not help looking surprised and pleased. It was a choice turn of speech such as only a really cultivated person would have used. He did not know that Memlik had carefully memorized it against such occasions. He bowed his head as one might to receive an accolade, but remained silent. Memlik flirted his fly-whisk for a moment, before adding in another tone: