Dissatisfaction — chiefly Harriet’s — was eroding the Pringles’ marriage. Harriet had not enough to do, Guy too much. Feeling a need to justify his civilian status, he worked outside of normal hours at the Institute, organizing lectures, entertainments for troops and any other activity that could give him a sense of purpose. Harriet saw in his tireless bustle an attempt to escape a situation that did not exist. Even had he been free to join the army, his short sight would have failed him. He thought himself into guilt in order to justify his exertions, and his exertions saved him from facing obnoxious realities.
Or so she thought. So thinking, she felt not so much resentment as a profound disappointment. Perhaps she had expected too much from marriage, but were her expectations unreasonable? Did all married couples spend their evenings apart? She felt that their relationship had reached an impasse but Guy was content enough. Things were much as he wanted them to be and if he noticed her discontent, it was only to wonder at it. He felt concern, seeing her too thin for health, but saw no reason to blame himself. He blamed the Egyptian climate and suggested she take passage on a boat due, some time soon, to sail round the Cape to England.
She had been dumbfounded by the suggestion. She would not consider it for a moment but said: ‘We came together and when we leave, we’ll leave together.’ And that, she thought, decided that.
Guy seldom came in for meals and when he returned to the flat one lunch-time, she asked with pleasurable surprise: ‘Are you home for the rest of the day?’
He laughed at the idea. Of course he was not home for the rest of the day. He had come to change his clothes. He was to attend a ceremony at the Moslem cemetery and had to hurry. Harriet, following him to their room, said, ‘But you will stay for lunch?’
‘No. Before I go to the cemetery, I have to interview a couple of men who want to teach at the Institute.’
‘So you’re going to the City of the Dead?’ Harriet was amazed. During their early days in Cairo, when he had had time to see the sights, he had rejected the City of the Dead as a ‘morbid show’, so what was taking him there now? He was going from a sense of duty. One of his pupils had been killed in a car accident and he was to attend, not the funeral, but the arba’in, the visit to the dead that ended the forty days of official mourning.
‘Can I come with you?’
Guy, harassed by the need to dress himself all over again that day, said, ‘No. It’s probably only for men. But why not? It won’t hurt them to be reminded that women exist. Yes, come if you like.’
He was a large, bespectacled, untidy man, now much improved by his well-cut dark blue suit, but he could not leave it like that. Stuffing his pockets with books and papers, he managed to revert to his usual negligent appearance, and becoming more cheerful, said, ‘Meet me at Groppi’s at three.’
‘But will you be there at three?’
‘Of course. Now, don’t be late. I’ve a busy evening ahead, so we’ll go early and leave early.’
As he left the room, she saw his wallet half out of his rear pocket and shouted, ‘Put your wallet in before it gets nicked.’
‘Thanks. Must hurry. Got a taxi waiting. Remember, don’t be late. If you’re late, I’ll have to start without you.’
During September, the heat of summer had settled, layer upon layer, in the streets until they were compacted under a dead weight of heat which veiled the city like a yellow fog. Groppi’s garden, a gravelled, open space surrounded by house walls and scented by coffee and cakes, was like a vast cube of Turkish delight.
Wandering into it at the sticky, blazing hour of three in the afternoon, Harriet saw that Guy was not there. She asked herself why had she ever thought he would be? He was always late yet his assurances were so convincing, she still believed he would come when he said he would.
Army men saw Groppi’s as a good place for picking up girls and Harriet disliked being alone there. She had chosen a table close to the wall and felt herself to be an object of too much interest. She would, if she could, have hidden herself altogether.
The sun, immediately overhead, poured down through the cloth of the umbrellas like molten brass. Creepers, kept alive by water seeping from a perforated hose, rustled their mat of papery leaves. With nothing but creepers for company, she sat with downcast eyes and told herself she could murder Guy.
Someone said, ‘Hello,’ and, looking up, she saw Dobson had come to sit with her. They met at almost every meal time in the flat yet she welcomed him as a dear friend unseen for months and her spirits rose.
Dobson, as usual, had an amusing story to tell: ‘They say things are so bad in Russia, they’ve started opening the churches. What I heard was: Stalin was driving out of the Kremlin one night and the headlights of his car lit a poster that said “Religion — the opium of the masses!” “My God,” said Stalin, “That’s just what we want these days: opium” and he ordered the churches to be reopened.’
‘Did he really say “My God”?’
Dobson’s soft sloping shoulders shook as he laughed: ‘Oh, Harriet, how sharp you are!’ He brushed a hand over his puffs of hair and asked, ‘What would he say? He’d say “Oh, Russian winter!’”
‘Really, Dobbie, you’re ridiculous!’
By the time Guy arrived full of excuses and apologies, Harriet had forgotten her annoyance. When he asked if she had been waiting long, she replied blandly: ‘Since three o’clock.’
He took this lightly: ‘Oh, well, you had Dobbie.’
Although he had earlier emphasized the need to ‘go early and leave early’, he sat down and ordered tea, saying, ‘I’ve just had the greatest piece of luck. Two chaps rang the Institute last week and said they wanted work, teaching English. I saw them today and — it’s almost too good to be true — they’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. They speak excellent English. They’re well read, personable, willing to take on any number of classes. In fact, they’re a gift. I think they could get much better paid jobs, but they want to teach.’
‘Extraordinary!’ said Dobson: ‘What are they? Egyptians?’
‘No, European Jews.’
‘Called?’
‘Hertz and Allain.’
Dobson, who expected to have knowledge of the European refugees under British protection, said, ‘Never heard of them. What was their last place of residence?’
Guy had not thought to ask. ‘Does it matter? They may have come from Palestine.’
‘Did you ask what they are doing here?’
‘No, but I suppose they can come here if they want to?’
‘Why should they want to? Jews who have the luck to get into Palestine are only too glad to stay there.’
Not liking these questions, Guy became restless and looked at his watch. Gathering up his books, he said, ‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ and added; ‘I cannot see why you should be suspicious of two civilized, intelligent and harmless young men who want to teach. I can now delegate the English language classes and give my time to the literature.’
Never perturbed for long, Dobson smiled and said, ‘Oh, well! But keep an eye on them in case . . .’
‘In case of what?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel they’re too good to be true.’
Guy, glancing at Harriet, said, ‘Darling, do hurry,’ as though she was responsible for the hour. He had left a gharry waiting outside the café. When they were seated, he said to the driver, ‘Qarafa,’ and that was the first time Harriet heard the true name of the City of the Dead. He had learnt more Arabic than she had and was able to explain to the driver the dire need for haste. The man was so galvanized that he gave his horse a lick and the creature trotted for nearly a hundred yards before settling back into its usual lethargy.
They made their way through the old quarters of Cairo, among crowded streets from which minarets, yellow with sand, seemed to be crumbling against the cerulean of the sky. The kites, that found little of interest in the main roads, here floated, slow but keen-eyed, above the flat rooftops where the poor stacked their rubbish. As the lanes narrowed, the crowds became thicker and the enclosed air was filled with the smell of the spice shops. Guy, worried by their late arrival, had nothing to say.
Harriet, feeling the ride was spoilt by his mute disinterest in things, asked, ‘Why didn’t you come at three o’clock as arranged?’
‘Because I had more important things to do. You don’t stop to think how much I have on hand.’
His tone of controlled exasperation, exasperated her. ‘Most of it unnecessary. I suppose you got so involved with the two teachers, you forgot the time.’
Truths of this sort annoyed him and he did not reply but stared ahead, his face creased as with suffering. ‘This,’ she thought, ‘is marriage: knowing too much about each other.’
They came up to the Citadel wall and turned towards the desert region beneath the Mokattam Hills. At one time the dead had been buried in front of their homes, but Napoleon put a stop to that. Now they were carried up to their own city where there were streets and mausoleums built like houses. The relatives who escorted them took food and bedding and settled in until the spirit had become accustomed to the strangeness of the after-life.
Harriet had thought this a pleasing idea until she learnt that the dead were not buried but merely placed under the floor-boards on which the family had to sit. Having gone up with friends on moonlit excursions, when the place had a macabre attraction, she had once or twice caught a whiff of mortality that brought the imagination to a standstill.
Now, in the oppressive, fly-ridden heat of late afternoon, the city looked as discouraging as death itself. The air, reflected off the naked, cinderous Mokattam cliffs, was suffocating and Harriet said, ‘I suppose we won’t stay long?’
‘No, it’s just a courtesy visit.’
The gharry wheels sank into soft ground and the only noise in the dead streets was a snort from the horse. The driver asked where they wanted to go. Guy said the tomb belonged to a family called Sarwar; the dead boy was called Gamal. None of this meant anything to the man who went aimlessly between the rows of sham houses, some of which had sunk down into heaps of mud brick. The city seemed to be deserted but, turning into a main avenue, they came on a young boy standing alone. At the sight of the gharry, he took on joyful life and ran towards it.
‘Ah, professor, sir, we knew you would come.’ He was Gamal’s brother, posted to intercept Guy, and had been waiting an hour or more. He jumped on to the gharry step and, talking excitedly, he explained that the arba’in went on all day so Guy must not think he was late. It was, of course, a family occasion but the Pringles must regard themselves as part of the family. And how welcome they were! Gamal, who was, as it were, holding a reception to celebrate his inception into the next world, would be delighted.
Guy, though he did not believe in a next world, seemed equally delighted that his ex-pupil was now an established spirit.
A few streets further on, they came on the Sarwars gathered before the family tomb. It appeared to be, like most occasions in Egypt, an all-male function and Harriet said she would remain in the gharry. Gamal’s brother would not hear of it. Mrs Pringle must join the party.
The Sarwar men, in European dress but each wearing his fez, stood in a close group, occasionally shaking hands or touching breasts with gestures of grief and regret. All this must have been done much earlier but now, to reassure the visitors, it was being re-enacted as though the Sarwars, like the Pringles, had just arrived.
Harriet was warmly received by the men who might keep their own wives in the background but were quick to show progressive appreciation of an educated Englishwoman.
‘Where is Madame Sarwar?’ Harriet asked one of the men.
‘Madame Sarwar?’ he seemed for a moment to doubt whether there was such a person, then he smiled and nodded. ‘Madame Sarwar Bey? She is, naturally, with the other ladies.’
‘And where are the other ladies?’
‘They are together with Gamal in the house.’
Glancing inside the tomb, she saw dark forms in the darkness and, imagining the hot, crowded room with the corpse beneath the floorboards, she was thankful that no one suggested she should join them.
But something was required of Guy. After they had exchanged condolences and compliments, Sarwar Bey, a stout man in youthful middle-age, took Guy by the arm and led him close to the tomb, beckoning Harriet to follow. The other men came behind them and they all stood at a respectful distance gazing into the door from which the black-clad women retreated.
Taking Guy a step forward, Sarwar Bey called to his son: ‘Gamal, Gamal! Emerge at once and witness who is among us.’ He paused, then satisfied that Gamal had obeyed his command, he shouted vigorously: ‘My boy, who do you see? It is your teacher, Professor Pringle, come to visit you on your arba’in. This is a very great honour and on your behalf I will tell him you are very much pleased.’ This admonitory oration went on for some time, then Sarwar Bey turned to address Guy.
‘And you, Professor Pringle, you will remember our Gamal for a long time, even when you have gone back to England. Isn’t that so, Professor Pringle?’
Sarwar Bey spoke impressively and Guy was impressed. Tears stood in his eyes and at the final words, he gulped and put his face into his hands. The Egyptians, emotional people who warmed to any display of emotion, crowded round him to console him by pressing his arm or patting his back or murmuring appreciation. Sarwar Bey, holding him by the shoulder, led him away from the house and wept in sympathy.
A woman servant came from within carrying cups of Turkish coffee on a large brass tray. This strong restorative was pressed on Guy who, making a swift recovery, became the vivacious centre of the group of men.
Harriet, remaining apart, watched the men making much of Guy who beamed about him, enjoying the attention and recalling things said and done by Gamal. Gamal, he said, had written in an essay: ‘My professor, Professor Pringle, is an Oriental. But if he is not, he should be because he is one of us!’
Gamal may have said that, or written it. Certainly some one had said it: and in Rumania and Greece there were people who had said the same thing. They had all laid claim to him and he had responded. He was, Harriet felt, disseminated among so many, there was little left for her.
The evening was coming down. The heat fog was turning to umber and through it the lowering sun hung, a circle of red-gold, above the western riverbank that had been the burial place of the ancient dead.
The gharry horse stamped its feet and Harriet shared its bored weariness. She was depressed by the arid inactivity of the cemetery and wished them away. Then, as the light changed, the scene changed and she was entranced by it. The white Mohammed Ali mosque, that squatted like a prick-eared cat on the Citadel, took on the roseate gold of the sky and everything about it — the Mokattam cliffs, the high Citadel walls, the small tomb houses — glowed with evening. As the heat mist cleared, she could see in the distance the elaborate tombs of the Caliphs and Mamelukes, and thought that as they had driven so far, they might drive a little further and see the Khalifa close to.
The colours faded and twilight came down. Inside the Sarwar house, the women had lit petrol lamps and the flames flickered in the unglazed windows. The Khalifa tombs ceased to be visible but as the moon rose, they reappeared, touched in by a line of silver light.
Guy, eager enough to stay among his admirers, had to realize that time was passing. It was almost dark. The last day of mourning was coming to an end. The Sarwars themselves would soon return home and Gamal would be left alone. One after the other’, the men took Guy by the hand and held to him a little longer than necessary as though, for a while, he could deliver them from the bewildering inexpedience of life.
Then they had to let him go. As he followed Harriet to the gharry, she pointed to the Khalifa monuments edged with moon light: ‘Let’s go and look at them.’
‘Good lord, no. Who would want to see things like that?’
‘They’re magnificent. And they’re no distance away.’
‘Sorry, but I’m late as it is. I have to get to the Institute. You can go any time to see them. Ask Angela to go with you.’
‘But I want to go with you.’
‘Darling, don’t be unreasonable. You know how I hate things like that. Useless bric-a-brac, death objects, memento mori! What point in making oneself miserable?’ He climbed into the gharry.
Harriet stood where she was, watching the moon that heaved and rippled like liquid silver through the moisture on the horizon. Then, rising clear, it shed a light of diamond whiteness that picked out the traceries of the great tombs and lit the small houses of the common dead so that the cemeteries, arid and dreary during the day, became mysterious and beautiful.
Guy, losing patience, called to her and they drove down into the old streets where the mosques lifted themselves out of shadows into the pure indigo of the upper air. The evening star was alone in the sky but before they reached the main roads, the sky was ablaze with stars, all brilliant so the evening star was lost among them. This time of the evening, Harriet felt, compensated for the heat and glare, the flies and stomach upsets of the Egyptian summer. Her energy was renewed and feeling reconciled to Guy, she put her hand on his and said, ‘Darling, don’t be cross.’
He said, ‘Have you thought any more about taking the boat to England?’
She withdrew her hand: ‘No, I haven’t thought any more because I’m not going. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
She had told him the question was settled and his bringing it up again when she was affectionate and, he supposed, compliant, gave evidence of his obstinacy and his cunning. These qualities, known only to her, were seldom manifested but when manifested, irritated her beyond bearing.
Neither spoke again until they came into the wide, busy roads with large pseudo-French buildings, shabby and dusty during the day but coming alive at night when windows lit up, and there were glimpses of rooms where anything might be happening. Pointing to some figures moving behind lace curtains, Harriet said, ‘What do you think is going on in there?’
Guy shook his head. He did not know and did not care. He seemed distant and vexed, and she felt this was because she had refused to go on the boat to England. The thought came into her head: ‘He wants me to go because he wants me out of the way.’ But why should he want her out of the way?
When they came to the Institute, he left her to take the gharry on to the Garden City. ‘I won’t be late,’ he said and Harriet said, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably be in bed before you return.’
She thought, ‘If I go, it will be because I want to go. And if I don’t want to go, I won’t go. And if he has any reason for wanting me to go, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.’
She looked defiantly at the crowded, brilliant street where everyone seemed intent on enjoyment, and she wondered, miserably, what reason she had for staying with a husband she seldom saw in a place where she had no real home and little enough to do.