The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [387]
I always ask myself. Sometimes these medical men are a puzzle in their language. Just a sprig of erectile tissue indeed! And think of all the trouble it causes. Ah me; if you’d seen what I’ve seen you wouldn’t have half the nervous energy I’ve got today.’
And so the saint prolonged his birthday celebrations by putting on pyjamas and indulging in a short song-cycle which included many old favourites and one curious little ditty which he sang only on birthdays. It was called ‘The Cruel Cruel Skipper’ and had a chorus which ended:
So he was an old sky plant, tum tum,
So he was an old meat loaf, tum tum,
So he was an old cantankeroo.
And now, having virtually exhausted his legs by dancing and his singing-voice with song, there remained a few brief conun-drums which he enunciated to the ceiling, his arms behind his head.
‘Where did King Charles’s executioner dine, and what did he order?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well he took a chop at the King’s Head.’
Delighted clucks and chuckles!
‘When may a gentleman’s property be described as feathers?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give in?’
‘Yes.’
‘When his estates are all entails (hen-tails, see?)’
The voice gradually fading, the clock running down, the eyes clos ing, the chuckles trailing away languorously into sleep. And it was thus that the saint slept at last, with his mouth open, upon St George’s Day.
So we walked back, arm in arm, through the shadowy archway, laughing the compassionate laughter which the old man’s image deserved — laughter which in a way regilded the ikon, refuelled the lamps about the shrine. Our footfalls hardly echoed on the street’s floor of tamped soil. The partial blackout of the area had cut off the electric light which so brilliantly illuminated it under normal conditions, and had been replaced by the oil lamps which flickered wanly everywhere, so that we walked in a dark forest by glow-worm light which made more than ever mysterious the voices and the activities in the buildings around us. And at the end of the street, where the rickety gharry stood awaiting us, came the stirring cool breath of the night-sea which would gradually infiltrate the town and disperse the heavy breathless damps from the lake. We climbed aboard, the evening settling itself about us cool as the veined leaves of a fig.
‘And now I must dine you, Clea, to celebrate the new laughter!’
‘No. I haven’t finished yet. There is another tableau I want you to see, of a different kind. You see, Darley, I wanted to sort of recompose the city for you so that you could walk back into the
painting from another angle and feel qu ite at home — though that is hardly the word for a city of exiles, is it? Anyhow….’ And leaning forward (I felt her breath on my cheek) she said to the jarvey, ‘Take us to the Auberge Bleue!’
‘More mysteries.’
‘No. Tonight the Virtuous Semira makes her first appearance on the public stage. It is rather like a vernissage for me — you know, don’t you, that Amaril and I are the authors of her lovely nose? It has been a tremendous adventure, these long months; and she has been very patient and brave under the bandages and grafts. Now it’s complete. Yesterday they were married. Tonight all Alexandria will be there to see her. We shouldn’t absent our-selves, should we? It characterizes something which is all too rare in the city and which you, as an earnest student of the matter, will appreciate. Il s’ agit de Romantic Love with capital letters. My share in it has been a large one so let me be a bit boastful; I have been part duenna, part nurse, part artist, all for the good Amaril’s sake. You see, she isn’t very clever, Semira, and I have had to spend hours with her sort of preparing her for the world. Also brushing up her reading and writing. In short, trying to educate her a bit. It is curious in a way that Amaril does not regard this huge gap in their different educations as an obstacle. He loves her the more for it. He says: “I know she is rather simple-minded. That is what makes her so exquisite.