‘Kolya!’ I cried at last, stumbling forward. ‘Kolya!’
It was none other than my oldest and closest friend, my teacher, my exemplar! Shura had said he was in Egypt, on a mission for his new employer. Why had he followed me? Certainly he had recognised me. There was therefore some good reason why he did not wish me to know him. He could easily be working not for Stavisky at all but for a foreign government.
The little boys were brushed aside, the begging girls smacked back as with sudden unthinking energy I continued in hasty pursuit of my friend. I did not consider at that moment his good reasons for not wishing to meet. Separation from Kolya had been an agony I had feared to admit and now here was a chance to be free of it. This friend and evangelist of my youth had been, in so many ways, the creator of my adult self. I had despaired ever to experience again his languid, aristocratic ambience, his perfect poise and diction, his amusement with the world and all its works! I longed to know why he was separated from his wife, that bloodless Frenchwoman who, I suspect, had been behind my own undoing. How long was he in Egypt? Where and when would it be possible to meet? Of course he would not be as eager to see me, but I never doubted his affection, perhaps even his love, for me. I was certain I had seen pleasure in his eyes for a small instant. I could still see the vivid gelabea ahead until, like a conjurer dismissing an illusion, he had swirled himself into the agitated body of the crowd and vanished. The truth of Professor Quelch’s assertion was becoming rapidly apparent. Egypt was indeed a land of illusion and hallucination; she depended on both for her survival. Yet that moment’s recognition had been no insubstantial mirage. Even with its deep tan, his handsome face could not be mistaken. I knew every line of it and remembered every gesture, every muscle, every tiny movement of his body. Forcing my way on, careless of all protests, I looked desperately for the blue and gold gelabea, the dark blue headdress, but they had vanished. I might as well pursue a genie on the desert wind as hope to find my friend in any of the surrounding warrens. My next desperate thought was to try the cafes fringing the souk. These were frequented chiefly by Europeans but I could find neither a tall ‘Arab’ nor Count Nikolai Petroff in more conventional dress. My next thought was to try the hotels, starting with the Winter Palace, the most likely. I called for a child, offering it a coin to lead me out of the maze. Only then did I realise that my little bag of ties and cigarette-holders had gone. The boy was an honest guide and I was soon in the lobby of the Winter Palace. I searched every corner, before dashing into the garden as tea was being served. I could not find Kolya but Mrs Cornelius and Esmé, in the shade of a large palm, were sharing a glittering table and a pot of Earl Grey. It was a pleasure to see them comrades at last and I wanted to tell Mrs Cornelius my splendid news yet hesitated to interrupt the start of a greater understanding between the two women. So, suppressing my natural eagerness, I passed discreetly behind them and, while I had not planned to eavesdrop, overheard a fragment of conversation.
‘ ‘E’d pull ‘is socks off fer ya any time you wos ter say,’ Mrs Cornelius declared. ‘Them blokes is orlways a bit weird, though. Take my word for it. It’s the schools. I’ll admit, ‘e makes me shudder orl over. Me ol’ mum warned me abart ‘em. Chilly-arses, she corled ‘em. Wot ever they wos doin’ to ycr, she reckoned, their bums never got warm.’
‘Sir Ranalf is an English gentleman, I think.’ Esmé had not entirely caught Mrs Cornelius’s drift. ‘He is a wealthy man. Of course I do not find him attractive, but Maxim has said one must be agreeable.’