“HOW do I look now, old man?”
Fizerly looked his friend up and down with a critical eye.
“Capital, Compston. Or should I say, Mehmet? If we are going out to explore the old city, you’re Mehmet from here on, remember.”
Compston chuckled and looked at himself in the embassy mirror. Fizerly had been awfully clever with the turban—in the end, they’d arranged it so that not a blond hair straggled out, even if the balance of the turban had suffered slightly in consequence. “Just keep moving your head about like a good chap,” Fizerly had suggested helpfully. Not Fizerly, that is. Ali. Ali Baba, at your service.
Compston-Mehmet giggled and rubbed a little more soot into his eyebrows.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t rain,” he said.