These well-bred natives assured me they were more interested in public works than personal power, yet to join the Wafd you had to be interested in power. ‘Once they have challenged the British successfully, they will challenge the King and his ministers and eventually set up their own dynasty. Confrontation is all they understand. We need more politicians of the English sort, whose chief interest is in public hygiene, street lighting and decent burial for the poor. Dull fellows, perhaps, but usually effective, what?’ This was Mr Ahmed Mustafa. With his companion, Mr Mahareb Todrus, he had spent two years in England - ‘for languages and business’. They believed themselves very decently treated, they said, and were gratified to discover that most English people of the better class could easily distinguish an Egyptian from a nigger. They were fortunate in that they were well-connected. Their uncle Yussef was a frequent visitor to Buckingham Palace and Ten Downing Street and, of course, this gave them an entree into the very best Belgravian society. ‘Trade is a great demolisher of the class system, don’t you think?’
What, they asked, was my own business in Luxor? It was twofold, I said. I was here to meet a friend, a tall Slavic gentleman, perhaps given to Arab dress. I was a writer and actor with a film company beginning work here tomorrow. They were impressed. ‘Is it a thriller? Do you know Sexton Blake?’ They already knew Steeton’s name and were flattered to have the ear of someone like myself who could perhaps advise them on their own rather insignificant projects. They supposed they too might also be considered a branch of the theatrical profession. I said I would be happy to help them on some other occasion. My priority, that evening, however, was to find my friend. At this these two good-hearted souls determined to help me. Realising the advantage of companions who could speak fluent English, Arabic and perhaps certain local dialects, I accepted, although it was already beginning to nag at my conscience that Kolya might have a reason for not wishing to be seen by me. As we departed the first of several bars, I told my acquaintances that it would probably be best if we left our quest for another time, but they were by now insistent. With that attitude of daring only Muslims possess when reaching a hand towards alcohol, they had downed several glasses of the local brandy. It occurred to me, even then, that no other religion so clearly reflects the prejudices of a single neurotic semi-barbaric bigot. One only achieves ‘submission’, it appears, by means of ‘repression’. Or is submission what they secretly seek, all of them, by means of challenge and confrontation, like a sado-masochistic marriage? Islam is the religion of a people fundamentally addicted to defeat. And we all know how dangerous such a religion is when a well-meaning power makes the gestures of compromise rather than threat. I have written to the Foreign Office about this. The world would be a very different place today if France and Britain had held to their original plans over Suez. The fellaheen do not much notice the faces within the uniforms.
The drunker my native comrades became, the darker and danker the bars they sought out. I think they were trying to find a particular kind of brothel, but it was not clear to me what they wanted. They assured me, however, that Count Petroff was bound to be in such a place. Europeans, in particular, liked these establishments. People, they said, would be less cautious of me if I asked its location. They themselves might be mistaken for officials. The bar was never discovered. It was almost dawn when I came suddenly to my senses. I had not only been stupid but selfish in spreading Kolya’s name all over Luxor. My companions were by now completely incoherent and although I knew we were somewhere on the outskirts of the town, it should not be hard to get back to the corniche and the Winter Palace. If necessary I would stop the nearest kalash. Those horse-drawn taxis are still, I hear, a basis of Egyptian city-life. The streets were lit only by the faint pearl of the approaching dawn, and chiefly populated by dogs and cats who emerged every night in bestial pantomime of the human day. I could imagine them bickering and bartering and howling over some rotten scrap, some fly-fouled morsel in imitation of rituals their masters performed over a piece of fresh-cast junk or some wretched donkey splattered in mud to disguise its disease. Yet these night-time denizens were altogether better-mannered and none tried to bar my way. At length, I recognised the spire of a mosque in the sky ahead. I could not be far from the Temple of Luxor where I could find my way back to the hotel. Perhaps Kolya was hiding in a Moslem musrum. What deep disguise had my friend adopted so that he could pass at will into forbidden sanctuaries of the Faithful? I was growing sleepy and my eyes were blurred. The various concoctions imbibed with my Egyptian friends were taking their toll. My legs were weak and inclined to directions of their own, but my brain was still in control and I set a determined course for the mosque, even scaling a high wall in order to keep my bearings rather than go round it and risk losing sight of the only building I recognised. I got over the wall with ease and found myself in a cubist moonscape. As the dawn turned to pale blue I saw that the crazy angles were formed by blocks of masonry left by everyone who had ever systematically destroyed the place in search of building materials, treasure, or immortal glory. As I stumbled over the blocks I made out the taller pillars of the temple itself and stepped, I thought, on firm ground to trip instead and fall forward with a loud cry of pained surprise onto a broken pillar lying where Time or some passing vandal had left it. Echoed through the temple, my cry was transmogrified into a strange, almost sweet note of mingled innocence and grief, as if a child mourned its imminent death. This version of my own voice sent a terrifying shudder through me. My heart began to beat rapidly as panic came, and I scrambled to my feet and ran up a long avenue of shadowy sphinxes towards a gate which I vaulted while a drowsy nightwatchman shouted after me in outraged Arabic. The dawn was now shading to pink across the river and the palms grew from black to the deepest green while birdsong surged from the town’s every cranny. The water grew paler and richer, its colours seen through a subtle mist where waterbirds hunted and shouted in the stillness, where two or three white sails already bent to the faintest of cool breezes. The steps of the Winter Palace were transformed to some dream of ancient wonder. I heard the muezzin begin the calling of the first prayer. I would come to know it by heart. Allah akhbar, Allah akhbar. Ash’had an la ilah ilia ‘llah we-Muhammad rasul Allah. Ash’had an la ilah ilia ‘llah we-Muhammad rasul Allah. Hay’y ila s’salat hay’y ila l-felah. Hay’y ila s’salat hay’y ila l’felah. Es-salat kher min en-num. Es-salat kher min en-num. Allah akhbar. Allah akhbar. La ‘llah ilia ‘llah. Prayer is better than sleep. There is no god but God. I might have argued with the first sentiment as I entered the hotel in time to see all my colleagues, even Esmé, arrived and ready to take their breakfast. Reminded of my professional duties, I had time to return to the boat, bathe, change my clothes, equip myself with plenty of Professor Quelch’s finest cocaine, return at some speed to the hotel and even take a cup of coffee and a piece of toast before we all departed, in high excitement, for the ferry which awaited us at the hotel’s private quay.