The Kindly Ones - Anthony Powell [76]
I loathed him. I still carried with me The Perfumed Garden. Now seemed a suitable moment to seek a home for the Sheik Nefzaoui’s study. Room could no doubt be found for it in the Duport library. To present him with the book would be small, secret amends for having had a love affair with his wife, a token of gratitude for having brought home to me in so uncompromising a fashion the transitory nature of love. It would be better not to draw his attention to the chapter on the Deceits and Treacheries of Women. He could find that for himself.
‘Ever read this?’
Duport glanced at the title, then turned the pages.
‘The Arab Art of Love,’ he said. ‘Are you always armed with this sort of literature? I did not realise you meant that kind of thing when you said you reviewed books.’
‘I found it among my uncle’s things.’
‘The old devil.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘They say you’re never too old to learn.’
‘Would you like it?’
‘How much?’
‘I’ll make a present of it.’
‘Might give me a few new ideas,’ said Duport. ‘I’ll accept it as a gift. Not otherwise.’
‘It’s yours then.’
‘Got to draw your attention to the clock, Mr Duport,’ said the barman, who was beginning to tidy up in preparation for closing the bar.
‘We’re being kicked out,’ said Duport. ‘Just time for a final one.’
The bar closed. We said good night to Fred.
‘Nothing for it but go back to the Bellevue,’ said Duport. ‘I’ve got a bottle of whisky in my room.’
‘What about the pier?’
‘Shut by now.’
‘Let’s walk round by the Front.’
‘All right.’
The wind had got up by that time. The sea thudded over the breakwaters in a series of regular, dull explosions, like a cannonade of old-fashioned artillery. I felt thoroughly annoyed. We turned inland and made for the Bellevue. The front door was shut, but not locked. We were crossing the hall, when Albert came hurrying down the stairs. He was evidently dreadfully disturbed about some matter. His movements, comparatively rapid for him, indicated consternation. He was pale and breathless. When he saw us, he showed no surprise that Duport and I should have spent an evening together. Our arrival in each other’s company seemed almost expected by him, the very thing he was hoping for at that moment.
‘There’s been a proper kettle of fish,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you back, Mr Nick – and you too, Mr Duport.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Dr Trelawney.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Gone and locked himself in the bathroom. Can’t get out. Now he’s having one of his asthma attacks. With the wife queer herself, I don’t want to get her out of bed at this time of night. I’d be glad of you gentlemen’s help. There’s no one else in the house that’s less than in their seventies and it ain’t no good asking those silly girls. I’m all that sorry to trouble you.’
‘What,’ said Duport, ‘the good Dr Trelawney, the bearded one? We’ll have him out in a trice. Lead us to him.’
This sudden crisis cheered Duport enormously. Action was what he needed. I thought of Moreland’s remarks about men of action, wondering whether Duport would qualify. This was not how I had expected to meet Dr Trelawney again. We hurried along the passages behind Albert, slip-slopping in his ancient felt slippers. There were many stairs to climb. At last we reached the bathroom door. There it became clear that the rescue of Dr Trelawney presented difficulties. In fact it was hard to know how best to set about his release. From within the bathroom, rising and falling like the vibrations of a small but powerful engine, could be heard the alarming pant of the asthma victim. Dr Trelawney sounded in extremity. Something must be done quickly. There was no doubt of that. Albert bent forward and put his mouth to the keyhole.
‘Try again, Dr Trelawney,’ he shouted.
The awful panting continued for a minute or two; then, very weak and shaky, came Dr Trelawney