An inveterate note-taker by habit, he found his little pocket diary now swollen with the data which emerged from their long rides together, but it was always data which concerned the country, for he did not dare to put down a single word about his feelings or so much as record even Leila’s name. In this manner:
‘Sunday. Riding through a poor fly-blown village my companion points to marks like cuneiform scratched on the walls of houses and asks if I can read them. Like a fool I say no, but perhaps they are Amharic? Laughter. Explanation is that a venerable pedlar who travels through here every six months carries a special henna from Medina,much esteemed here by virtue of its connection with the holy city. People are mostly too poor to pay,so he extends credit,but lest he or they forget, marks his tally on the clay wall with a sherd.
‘Monday. Ali says that shooting stars are stones thrown by the angels in heaven to drive off evil djinns when they try to eavesdrop on the conversations in Paradise and learn the secrets of the future. All Arabs terrified of the desert, even Bedouin. Strange.
‘Also: the pause in conversation which we call “Angels Passing”is greeted another way. After a moment of silence one says: “Wahed Dhu” or “One is God”and then the whole company repeats fervently in response “La Illah Illa Allah” or “No God but one God”before normal conversation is resumed. These little habits are extremely taking.
‘Also: my host uses a curious phrase when he speaks of retiring from business. He calls it “making his soul”.
‘Also: have never before tasted the Yemen coffee with a speck of ambergris to each cup. It is delicious.
‘Also: Mohammed Shebab offered me on meeting a touch of jasmine-scent from a phial with a glass stopper — as we would offer a cigarette in Europe.
‘Also: they love birds. In a tumbledown cemetery I saw graves with little drinking-wells cut in the marble for them which my companion told me were filled on Friday visits by women of the village.
‘Also: Ali,the Negro factor,an immense eunuch,told me that they feared above all blue eyes and red hair as evil signs. Odd that the examining angels in the Koran as their most repulsive features have blue eyes’ So the young Mountolive noted and pondered upon the strange ways of the people among whom he had come to live, painstakingly as befitted a student of manners so remote from his own; yet also in a kind of ecstasy to find a sort of poetic correspondence between the reality and the dream-picture of the East which he had constructed from his reading. There war less of a disparity here than between the twin images which Leila appeared to nurse — a poetic image of England and its exemplar the shy and in many ways callow youth she had taken for a lover.
But he was not altogether a fool; he was learning the two most important lessons in life: to make love honestly and to reflect.
Yet there were other episodes and scenes which touched and excited him in a different way. One day they all rode out across the plantations to visit the old nurse Halima, now living in honourable retirement. She had been the boys’ chief nurse and companion during their infancy. ‘She even suckled them when my milk dried up’ explained Leila.
Narouz gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘She was our “chewer” ’ he explained to Mountolive. ‘Do you know the word?’ In Egypt at this time young children were fed by servants whose duty it was to chew the food up first before spoon-feeding them with it.
Halima was a freed black slave from the Sudan, and she too was ‘making her soul’ now in a little wattle house among the fields of sugar-cane, happily surrounded by innumerable children and grandchildren. It was impossible to judge her age. She was delighted out of all measure at the sight of the Hosnani youths, and Mountolive was touched by the way they both dismounted and raced into her embrace. Nor was Leila less affectionate. And when the old negress had recovered herself she insisted on executing a short dance in honour of their visit; oddly it was not without grace. They all stood around her affectionately clapping their hands in time while she turned first upon one heel and then upon the other; and as she ended her song their embraces and laughter were renewed. This unaffected and spontaneous tenderness delighted Mountolive and he looked upon his mistress with shining eyes in which she could read not only his love but a new respect. He was dying now to be alone with her, to embrace her; but he listened patiently while old Halima told him of the family’s qualities and how they had enabled her to visit the holy city twice as a recognition of her services. She kept one hand tenderly upon Narouz’ sleeve as she spoke, gazing into his face from time to time with the affection of an animal. Then when he unpacked from the dusty old game-bag he always carried all the presents they had brought for her, the smiles and dismays played over her old face successively like eclipses of the moon. She wept.
But there were other scenes, less palatable perhaps, but nonetheless representative of the moeurs of Egypt. One morning early he had witnessed a short incident which took place in the courtyard under his window. A dark youth stood uneasily here before a different Narouz, scowling fiercely yet with ebbing courage into those blue eyes. Mountolive had heard the words ‘Master, it was no lie’ spoken twice in a low clear voice as he lay reading; he rose and walked to the window in time to see Narouz, who was repeating in a low, obstinate voice, pressed between his teeth into a hiss, the words ‘You lied again’, perform an act whose carnal brutality thrilled him; he was in time to see his host take out a knife from his belt and sever a portion of the boy’s earlobe, but slowly, and indeed softly, as one might sever a grape from its stalk with a fruitknife. A wave of blood flowed down the servant’s neck but he stood still. ‘Now go’ said Narouz in the same diabolical hiss, ‘and tell your father that for every lie I will cut a piece of your flesh until we come to the true part, the part which does not lie.’ The boy suddenly broke into a staggering run and disappeared with a gasp. Narouz wiped his knife-blade on his baggy trousers and walked up the stairs into the house, whistling. Mountolive was spellbound!