The Alexandria Quartet (40 page)

Today we sat together for a while in the shade of the ancient mosque listening to the clicking of the palms and the hooting of sea-going liners in the invisible basin below.

‘I've just seen a directive' said Scobie at last, in a sad withered little voice ‘about what they call a Peddyrast. It's rather shaken me, old man. I don't mind admitting it — I didn't know the word. I had to look it up. At all costs, it says, we must exclude them. They are dangerous to the security of the net.' I gave a laugh and for a moment the old man showed signs of wanting to respond with a weak giggle, but his depression overtook the impulse, to leave it buried, a small hollowness in those cherry-red cheeks. He puffed furiously at his pipe. ‘Peddyrast' he repeated with scorn, and groped for his matchbox.

‘I don't think they quite understand at Home' he said sadly. ‘Now the Egyptians, they don't give a damn about a man if he has Tendencies — provided he's the Soul of Honour, like me.' He meant it. ‘But now, old man, if I am to work for the … You Know What … I ought to tell them — what do you say?'

‘Don't be a fool, Scobie.'

‘Well, I don't know' he said sadly. ‘I want to be honest with them. It isn't that I cause any harm. I suppose one shouldn't have Tendencies — any more than warts or a big nose. But what can I do?'

‘Surely at your age very little?'

‘Below the belt' said the pirate with a flash of his old form. ‘Dirty. Cruel. Narky.' He looked archly at me round his pipe and suddenly cheered up. He began one of those delightful rambling monologues — another chapter in the saga he had composed around his oldest friend, the by now mythical Toby Mannering. ‘Toby was once Driven Medical by his excesses — I think I told you. No? Well, he was. Driven Medical.' He was obviously quoting and with relish. ‘Lord how he used to go it as a young man. Stretched the limit in beating the bounds. Finally he found himself under the Doctor, had to wear an Appliance.' His voice rose by nearly an octave. ‘He went about in a leopard-skin muff when he had shore leave until the Merchant Navy rose in a body. He was put away for six months. Into a Home. They said “You'll have to have Traction” — whatever that is. You could hear him scream all over Tewkesbury, so Toby says. They say they cure you but they don't. They didn't him at any rate. After a bit, they sent him back. Couldn't do anything with him. He was afflicted with Dumb Insolence, they said. Poor Toby!'

He had fallen effortlessly asleep now, leaning back against the wall of the Mosque. (‘A cat-nap' he used to say, ‘but always woken by the ninth wave.' For how much longer, I wondered?) After a moment the ninth wave brought him back through the surf of his dreams to the beach. He gave a start and sat up. ‘What was I saying? Yes, about Toby. His father was an M.P. Very High Placed. Rich man's son. Toby tried to go into the Church first. Said he felt The Call. I think it was just the costume, myself — he was a great amateur theatrical, was Toby. Then he lost his faith and slipped up and had a tragedy. Got run in. He said the Devil prompted him. “See he doesn't do it again” says the Beak. “Not on Tooting Common, anyway.” They wanted to put him in chokey — they said he had a rare disease — cornucopia I think they called it. But luckily his father went to the Prime Minister and had the whole thing hushed up. It was lucky, old man, that at that time the whole Cabinet had Tendencies too. It was uncanny. The Prime Minister, even the Archbishop of Canterbury. They sympathized with poor Toby. It was lucky for him. After that, he got his master's ticket and put to sea.'

Scobie was asleep once more; only to wake again after a few seconds with a histrionic start. ‘It was old Toby' he went on, without a pause, though now crossing himself devoutly and gulping ‘who put me on to the Faith. One night when we were on watch together on the
Meredith
(fine old ship) he says to me: “Scurvy, there's something you should know. Ever heard of the Virgin Mary?” I had of course, vaguely. I didn't know what her duties were, so to speak.…'

Once more he fell asleep and this time there issued from between his lips a small croaking snore. I carefully took his pipe from between his fingers and lit myself a cigarette. This appearance and disappearance into the simulacrum of death was somehow touching. These little visits paid to an eternity which he would soon be inhabiting, complete with the comfortable forms of Toby and Budgie, and a Virgin Mary with specified duties.… And to be obsessed by such problems at an age when, as far as I could judge, there was little beyond verbal boasting to make him a nuisance. (I was wrong — Scobie was indomitable.)

After a while he woke again from this deeper sleep, shook himself and rose, knuckling his eyes. We made our way together to the sordid purlieus of the town where he lived, in Tatwig Street, in a couple of tumbledown rooms. ‘And yet' he said once more, carrying his chain of thought perfectly, ‘it's all very well for you to say I shouldn't tell them. But I wonder.' (Here he paused to inhale the draught of cooking Arab bread from the doorway of a shop and the old man exclaimed ‘It smells like mother's lap!') His ambling walk kept pace with his deliberations. ‘You see the Egyptians are marvellous, old man. Kindly. They know me well. From some points of view, they might look like felons, old man, but felons in a state of grace, that's what I always say. They make allowances for each other. Why, Nimrod Pasha himself said to me the other day “Peddyrasty is one thing —
hashish
quite another.” He's serious, you see. Now I never smoke
hashish
when I'm on duty — that would be bad. Of course, from another point of view, the British couldn't do anything to a man with an official position like me. But if the Gyppos once thought they were — well, critical about me — old man, I might lose both jobs, and both salaries. That's what troubles me.'

We mounted the fly-blown staircase with its ragged rat-holes. ‘It smells a bit' he agreed, ‘but you get quite used to it. It's the mice. No, I'm not going to move. I've lived in this quarter for years now — years! Everybody knows me and likes me. And besides, old Abdul is only round the corner.'

He chuckled and stopped for breath on the first landing, taking off his flowerpot the better to mop his brow. Then he hung downwards, sagging as he always did when he was thinking seriously as if the very weight of the thought itself bore down upon him. He sighed. ‘The thing' he said slowly, and with the air of a man who wishes at all costs to be explicit, to formulate an idea as clearly as lies within his power, ‘the thing is about Tendencies — you only realize it when you're not a hot-blooded young sprig any more.' He sighed again. ‘It's the lack of
tenderness
, old man. It all depends on cunning somehow, you get lonely. Now Abdul is a true friend.' He chuckled and cheered up once more. ‘I call him the Bul Bul Emir. I set him up in his business, just out of friendly affection. Bought him everything: his shop, his little wife. Never laid a finger on him nor ever could, because I love the man. I'm glad I did now, because though I'm getting on, I still have a true friend. I pop in every day to see them. It's uncanny how happy it makes me. I really do enjoy their happiness, old man. They are like son and daughter to me, the poor perishing coons. I can't hardly bear to hear them quarrel. It makes me anxious about their kids. I think Abdul is jealous of her, and not without cause, mark you. She looks flirty to me. But then, sex is so powerful in this heat — a spoonful goes a long way as we used to say about rum in the Merchant Navy. You lie and dream about it like ice-cream, sex, not rum. And these Moslem girls — old boy — they circumcise them. It's cruel. Really cruel. It only makes them harp on the subject. I tried to get her to learn knitting or crewel-work, but she's so stupid she didn't understand. They made a joke of it. Not that I mind. I was only trying to help. Two hundred pounds it took me to set Abdul up — all my savings. But he's doing well now — yes, very well.'

The monologue had had the effect of allowing him to muster his energies for the final assault. We addressed the last ten stairs at a comfortable pace and Scobie unlocked the door of his rooms. Originally he had only been able to rent one — but with his new salary he had rented the whole shabby floor.

The largest was the old Arab room which served as a bedroom and reception-room in one. It was furnished by an uncomfortable looking truckle bed and an old-fashioned cake-stand. A few joss-sticks, a police calendar, and Clea's as yet unfinished portrait of the pirate stood upon the crumbling mantelpiece. Scobie switched on a single dusty electric light bulb — a recent innovation of which he was extremely proud (‘Paraffin gets in the food') — and looked round him with unaffected pleasure. Then he tiptoed to the far corner. In the gloom I had at first overlooked the room's other occupant: a brilliant green Amazonian parrot in a brass cage. It was at present shrouded in a dark cloth, and this the old man now removed with a faintly defensive air.

‘I was telling you about Toby' he said ‘because last week he came through Alex on the Yokohama run. I got this from him — he had to sell — the damn bird caused such a riot. It's a brilliant conversationalist, aren't you Ron, eh? Crisp as a fart, aren't you?' The parrot gave a low whistle and ducked. ‘That's the boy' said Scobie with approval and turning to me added ‘I got Ron for a very keen price, yes, a very keen price. Shall I tell you why?'

Suddenly, inexplicably, he doubled up with laughter, nearly joining nose to knee and whizzing soundlessly like a small human top, to emerge at last with an equally soundless slap on his own thigh — a sudden paroxysm. ‘You'd never imagine the row Ron caused' he said. ‘Toby brought the bird ashore. He knew it could talk, but not Arabic. By God. We were sitting at a café yarning (I haven't seen Toby for five whole years) when Ron suddenly started. In Arabic. You know, he recited the Kalima, a very sacred, not to mention holy, text from the Koran. The Kalima. And at every other word, he gives a fart, didn't you Ron?' The parrot agreed with another whistle. ‘It's so sacred, the Kalima' explained Scobie gravely, ‘that the next thing was a raging crowd round us. It was lucky I knew what was going on. I knew that if a non-Moslem was caught reciting this particular text he was liable to Instant Circumcision!' His eye flashed. ‘It was a pretty poor outlook for Toby to be circumcised like that while one was taking shore leave and I was worried. (I'm circumcised already.) However, my presence of mind didn't desert me. He wanted to punch a few heads, but I restrained him. I was in police uniform you see, and that made it easier. I made a little speech to the crowd saying that I was going to take the infidel and this perishing bird into chokey to hand them over to the Parquet. That satisfied them. But there was no way of silencing Ron, even under his little veil, was there Ron? The little bastard recited the Kalima all the way back here. We had to run for it. My word, what an experience!'

He was changing out of his police rig as he talked, placing his
tarbush
on the rusty iron nail above his bed, above the crucifix in the little alcove where a stone jar of drinking-water also stood. He put on a frayed old blazer with tin buttons, and still mopping his head went on: ‘I must say — it was wonderful to see old Toby again after so long. He had to sell the bird, of course, after such a riot. Didn't dare go through the dock area again with it. But now I'm doubtful, for I daren't take it out of the room hardly for fear of what more it knows.' He sighed. ‘Another good thing' he went on ‘was the recipe Toby brought for Mock Whisky — ever heard of it? Nor had I. Better than Scotch and dirt cheap, old man. From now on I'm going to brew all my own drinks, thanks to Toby. Here. Look at this.' He indicated a grubby bottle full of some fiery-looking liquid. ‘It's home-made beer' he said, ‘and jolly good too. I made three, but the other two exploded. I'm going to call it Plaza beer.'

‘Why?' I asked. ‘Are you going to sell it?'

‘Good Lord, no!' said Scobie. ‘Just for home use.' He rubbed his stomach reflectively and licked his lips. ‘Try a glass' he said.

‘No thanks.'

The old man now consulted a huge watch and pursed his lips. ‘In a little while I must say an Ave Maria. I'll have to push you out, old man. But just let's have a look and see how the Mock Whisky is getting on for a moment, shall we?'

I was most curious to see how he was conducting these new experiments and willingly followed him out on to the landing again and into the shabby alcove which now housed a gaunt galvanized iron bath which he must have bought specially for these illicit purposes. It stood under a grimy closet window, and the shelves around it were crowded with the impedimenta of the new trade — a dozen empty beer bottles, two broken, and the huge chamberpot which Scobie always called ‘the Heirloom'; not to mention a tattered beach umbrella and a pair of goloshes. ‘What part do these play?' I could not help asking, indicating the latter. ‘Do you tread the grapes or potatoes in them?'

Scobie took on an old-maidish, squinting-down-the-nose expression which always meant that levity on the topic under discussion was out of place. He listened keenly for a moment, as if to sounds of fermentation. Then he got down on one shaky knee and regarded the contents of the bath with a doubtful but intense eye. His glass eye gave him a more than mechanical expression as it stared into the rather tired-looking mixture with which the bath was brimming. He sniffed dispassionately and tutted once before rising again with creaking joints. ‘It doesn't look as good as I hoped' he admitted. ‘But give it time, it has to be given time.' He tried some on his finger and rolled his glass eye. ‘It seems to have gone a bit turpid' he admitted. ‘As if someone had peed in it.' As Abdul and himself shared the only key to this illicit still I was able to look innocent.