Professor Quelch, who had not attended the dinner, told me he was certain that some of the English police were now quite as corrupt as the Egyptian. ‘Bribery is rife in certain departments. I have it on the best authority.’ When I mentioned the white slave-trade, he shrugged. It continued to prosper partly because the chief men in the business were protected by high-ranking officers who received a share of the profits and their pick of the boys and girls. ‘Of course, most of the high-ranking British officers are ignorant of this. They believe everything’s in order. Besides, they know how difficult it is to control the European women and their pimps. The police can only enter a brothel, for instance, accompanied by a representative of the country of which the madam is a national. Every time the police get hold of the appropriate consular official, the nationality of the madam changes. They tried to round up the pimps a few years ago. In Cairo they have their own Pasha, a grotesque individual by the name of Ibrahim el-Ghar’bi, a fat, massive nigger who dresses like a houri out of the Arabian nights. I know him quite well. He’s a man of considerable wit and education. If, my dear boy, you have any “special requests”, then el-Ghar’bi is the chap for you.’
I told him that I had no need of such services, but I was becoming impressed by the profundity of Malcolm Quelch’s knowledge of Egypt and her customs, old and new. I now fully understood why Captain Quelch had been so determined to have his brother look after us.
As we walked beside the great green and gold train towards the first-class compartments, Quelch raised for a second time the matter of his fees. ‘There has been no agreement, as yet. I was wondering who to approach. Who, as it were, is our quartermaster?’
I believed Captain Quelch had already agreed fees with Seaman. I was sure the professor could be paid on any basis he chose.
‘As a rule,’ smiling, he pointed to our carriage with his cane, ‘I arrange for my fee to be forthcoming on a daily basis for an agreed period of time. If, for some reason, you should break that agreement, then I am to be paid the full amount I should have earned. Since you were recommended by my brother, I had a fee of three guineas a day in mind. All found, of course.’
This seemed reasonable to me. Quelch was also to act as a technical adviser and historical consultant when we began filming. He was clearly flattered to learn he would receive a credit.
‘And I would require some sort of letter making it clear to all concerned that I am part of your company.’ He made a nervous, dismissive gesture. ‘To keep everything above-board, you know.’
I had not heard of an illicit trade in archaeological information, but I assured Quelch that Seaman was bound to meet all his requirements. Even that unimaginative Swede would be able to see that Quelch was going to be of enormous value to us, especially when it came to negotiating with Egyptian officials who were, Quelch and the other English people had told us, growing increasingly ‘bolshy’. ‘Since we started giving in to them, there’s been virtual anarchy.’ He referred to the nationalists of the so-called Wafd, who had gained soft-hearted concessions from their protectors after considerable rioting in the streets which only stopped when the British were forced to shoot a few of the thousands demonstrating against them. He was about to say more when the green and gold locomotive let forth a vast, manly sigh, an awakening giant; the pace of loaders, guards and conductors suddenly doubled as they rushed to their positions and the last-minute passengers, some arguing violently with their night-shirted guides and porters, began to arrange themselves on board. Wicker luggage was forced through doors and windows. Mothers and nannies wailed or screamed for lost children; lost children responded in kind and husbands and wives shouted last-minute orders to their departing spouses. I was glad that a special carriage had been ordered for us and that we should not have to compete against the stink and the pressure of weather-beaten English matrons, ill-natured Egyptian businessmen and soldiers, both white and native, who fought to get the best possible positions for themselves before the train started. The rest of our party was already aboard, having arrived by bus from the hotel. Quelch and I had, at his insistence, visited Pompey’s Pillar, a rather unremarkable piece of polished granite erected in memory of an earlier and less lucky colonialist, whereupon he had mentioned his fees for the first time. I realised he was using this opportunity to raise the question as delicately as possible and assured him I would speak to Seaman.
Of our party, only Mrs Cornelius was honestly glad to be on the move again. Seaman kept to himself at the far end of the opulent carriage, with the hung-over film-crew, wincing at the jingling chandeliers, between ourselves and himself. He stared through the windows as if already planning his first shots. I asked Mrs Cornelius what was wrong but she insisted he was merely moody. ‘ ‘E’s offen like this when ‘e’s startin’ a picture. On ‘Er ‘Usband’s Mistress ‘e ‘ardly said two words ter me, even when I was s’posed to be in front o’ ther bloody camera. Or on me ‘ands an’ knees wiv Mr Willy up me bloody backside. It’s restful in a way, though.’
In spite of this I went up to the front and sat down across from Seaman who turned on me eyes so full of loathing that I was startled. ‘My God,’ I said, ‘what have I done? Shot your favourite dog?’
He apologised. He was already, he said, imagining me in my role as the High Priest who seduces Mrs Cornelius away from her duties and brings about the chain of events culminating, thousands of years later, in the tragic death of two modern lovers. I had written the part myself. I reminded him that I saw the High Priest as a victim as well as a villain. The point of my scenario was that Fate has no heroes or heroines, no favourites. However, there would be ample time to debate the interpretation of the role. I mentioned my chief reason for interrupting him, the matter of Quelch’s fees. Seaman frowned. ‘You’re sure we need him? He seems a charlatan. No better than his brother.’
I refused to respond to this unreasonable assessment, save to say that I had every assurance that Quelch was ideal for us. We would be hard-put to find someone of his expertise and general usefulness at less than thirty guineas a week. He shrugged at this, promising absently to draw up the necessary letter. Meanwhile, Quelch could have his first couple of days’ pay as soon as Seaman contacted Cook’s in Cairo, with whom Goldfish had already made an arrangement. I returned to our group. Mrs Cornelius had attached herself to Professor Quelch while Esmé, festooned with her purchases of the past two days, sat sipping a pensive glass of lemonade brought to her by our own tarbooshed steward, whose name he told us was Joseph. He was a Copt, with healthy light-brown skin and almond eyes, scarcely more than fifteen, I would have guessed, and with the cheerful disposition, the dignified manner of many Egyptian Christians, in complete contrast to the rabble we had encountered everywhere in Alexandria. His nails, for instance, might have been manicured in one of Rue Sharif Pasha’s exclusive salons. He positively reeked of strong soap and rosewater. Lunch, he said, would be at 12.30 and he showed us the folding tables that could be raised between our seats. Privately, I reflected on the irony of my situation. It had not been long since I had been riding under such trains, or lain hidden in goods wagons praying that the railroad bulls would not find me! All my life I have known heights and depths. I am not sure I could say I regret such extremes of experience. They have taught me, at least, a certain humility and encouraged me to identify with the underdog.