The Alexandria Quartet (35 page)

Pursewarden on the ‘n-dimensional novel' trilogy: ‘The narrative momentum forward is counter-sprung by references backwards in time, giving the impression of a book which is not travelling from a to b but standing above time and turning slowly on its own axis to comprehend the whole pattern. Things do not all lead forward to other things: some lead backwards to things which have passed. A marriage of past and present with the flying multiplicity of the future racing towards one. Anyway, that was my idea.'…

‘Then how long will it last, this love?' (in jest).

‘I don't know.'

‘Three weeks, three years, three decades…?'

‘You are like all the others … trying to shorten eternity with numbers,' spoken quietly, but with intense feeling.

Conundrum: a peacock's eye. Kisses so amateurish they resembled an early form of printing.

Of poems: ‘I like the soft thudding of Alexandrines.' (Nessim).

‘Clea and her old father whom she worships. White haired, erect, with a sort of haunted pity in his eyes for the young unmarried goddess he has fathered. Once a year on New Year's Eve they dance at the Cecil, stately, urbanely. He waltzes like a clockwork man.

Pombal's love for Sveva: based on one gay message which took his fancy. When he awoke she'd gone, but she had neatly tied his dress tie to his John Thomas, a perfect bow. This message so captivated him that he at once dressed and went round to propose marriage to her because of her sense of humour.

Pombal was at his most touching with his little car which he loved devotedly. I remember him washing it by moonlight very patiently.

Justine: ‘Always astonished by the force of my own emotions — tearing the heart out of a book with my fingers like a fresh loaf.'

Places: street with arcade: awnings: silverware and doves for sale. Pursewarden fell over a basket and filled the street with apples.

Message on the corner of a newspaper. Afterwards the closed cab, warm bodies, night, volume of jasmine.

A basket of quail burst open in the bazaar. They did not try to escape but spread out slowly like spilt honey. Easily recaptured.

Postcard from Balthazar: ‘Scobie's death was the greatest fun. How he must have enjoyed it. His pockets were full of love-letters to his aide Hassan, and the whole vice squad turned out to sob at his grave. All these black gorillas crying like babies. A very Alexandrian demonstration of affection. Of course the grave was too small for the coffin. The grave-diggers had knocked off for lunch, so a scratch team of policemen was brought into action. Usual muddle. The coffin fell over on its side and the old man nearly rolled out. Shrieks. The padre was furious. The British Consul nearly died of shame. But all Alexandria was there and a good time was had by all.'