Arctic Summer (24 page)

Thus a particular face rises out of a crowd. What Morgan felt couldn't be spoken; instead he'd felt the need to speak in crass generalities. He was with Robin Furness at the time, and had said to him, “That boy has some African . . . that is, negro blood.”

Robin nodded slowly, looking sidelong at his friend. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully.

These memories, slightly shameful, returned to Morgan now, along with a new awareness of the face in front of him: young—perhaps still in his teens—with a well-shaped round head, full lips and emotional dark eyes. It is always an attractive moment when curiosity takes hold and he saw that happen now, at the same time that it happened to him. But there was nothing else he could think of to say, so they merely nodded at each other before the young man went to rejoin two other conductors riding on the footboard. Once or twice they glanced towards each other, before looking sharply away.

The next day Morgan waited for his new acquaintance at the terminus, a copy of
Punch
under his arm. He had some half-conceived plan that the pictures inside might start up a proper conversation between them. But he couldn't find him, and it was only a few days later, in a press of people, that they happened to pass again. The Egyptian half-saluted, it might have been ironically, and the Englishman half-waved in return.

Now his interest was truly awoken. He loitered at the terminus for hours, waiting for an opportunity. But he had no luck, and it was only by chance that he found himself riding the right tram again one evening. They immediately watched each other. When Morgan tried to pay his fare, a hand was held up in refusal. “No, no,” he was told. “It cannot happen.”

“But why not?”

“You shall never pay. If you do not want that piaster in your hand, throw it into the road or give it to some poor person as a charitable action. I will not have it.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

“I like your good manners. The way you have thanked me, I am gratitude to you.”

Morgan could not remember ever thanking him, but he didn't say so. “What is your name?” he asked.

“I am Mohammed el-Adl.” It was said with a sort of defensive pride. Morgan waited for the same question to be asked of him, but it didn't come.

“You talk English,” he said at last.

“A little, only. Practice makes perfect.”

“Well, you are far better than me. I have no Arabic. I wish I could talk Arabic.”

“Why?”

He didn't know what to say, and picked a reply at random. “To read the
Elf Lela wah Lela
.” The Thousand and One Nights.

“Oh, they were written by a famous philosopher. Am I right?”

He was wrong, but it was their first conversation, and Morgan felt disinclined to correct him. The encounter stuck into him like a splinter, a small, sharp, persistent pain. Out of all the nameless crowds around him, there was one Egyptian now who had been singled out.

He began to stand amidst the roar and the rumble at the Ramleh Terminus, sometimes for almost an hour, till the tram he was waiting for drew into the swirl. It gave him a mix of excitement and panic to see the head of Mohammed el-Adl bowed over his account book as he went into the office, and to notice his number, eighty-six, on a little white-and-blue oval plaque that he had to present inside.

When he contrived to bump into his new friend again, he was asked, “You are looking for me?”

“Yes.”

“I will tell you exactly.” And all the necessary information was conveyed—which tram routes, what times of day. “But if you ride with me, you shall never pay!”

 

* * *

 

The question of payment didn't go away. Soon afterwards, riding the tram with Mohammed, Morgan offered him a cigarette. “I seldom smoke,” the young man said, gently accepting. “My Ministry of Finance does not permit me.”

He had spoken with humour, but the words bothered Morgan. They seemed to conceal an opposite suggestion. Did he want money? Did that account for his interest in the first place?

“Today,” Morgan told him, “I am paying for my ticket. And you must keep the change.”

But Mohammed closed his hand. The coins fell and scattered on the floor, and it was Morgan who ended on his knees, retrieving them. This time the young man accepted them, and they jingled in his pocket as he rode sulkily on.

“There you are,” Morgan said. “Now you can buy yourself an English book.”

“The sum is too small for a book.”

This reply obscured the matter further. There was obviously a great financial gap between them, and Morgan was on the better side. The next time that he took the tram and Mohammed refused his fare, he accepted the kindness with a nod.

On the way to the Red Cross Hospital one morning, the young conductor said, “I want to ask you a question about Mohammedans, which please answer truly, sir.”

“I'll try.”

But the tram was already arriving, and the rest of the conversation was delayed till the evening.

“I want to ask you this. Why do English people hate Mohammedans?”

Morgan saw another face—Masood's—in front of him for an instant. “But they don't,” he said.

“They do, because I heard one soldier say to another in the tram, ‘that's a mosque for fucking (I beg your pardon) Mohammedans'.”

“They were joking, I think.”

“You think. You are not sure.”

“No, I am sure.” It seemed a good moment to make a point. “One of my greatest friends is a Mohammedan. I went to India to see him.”

The conductor nodded carefully. “That must have cost much money,” he observed, then added: “With what you spent seeing your friend, you could have bought many friends in England. You can get friends if you have money—except one or two.”

Money again. The young man seemed to be genuine, but what if his affections were for sale? It would tarnish every word that had passed between them.

An incident which occurred soon afterwards, however, pushed Morgan's doubts aside. An inspector climbed onto the tram a little while after he did and asked to see his ticket. Mohammed spoke to the man in Arabic, and a heated exchange followed. When things cooled down again, Morgan asked what was happening.

“I have told him you have authorisation from the Station Manager.”

“But that isn't true.”

“I find a certain amount of lies necessary to life.”

This reply silenced Morgan, but at the next stop the inspector halted the tram while he climbed down and telephoned back to the station. Another explosive row ensued before the man waved the tram on, leaving Morgan alone with his friend.

After the shouting, the silence seemed big.

“Is everything all right? I knew I should pay for my ticket.”

The dark eyes of the conductor were a little darker, but otherwise his expression was serene. “I am to get the sack,” he told Morgan.

“What?” He peered into the young man's face, hoping that he was joking. “But this is too awful, too appalling . . . ”

“Why so? I have performed a good action.”

The answer was given with perfect sincerity. In a moment Morgan saw his new friend differently. Mohammed stood to lose his livelihood, and he wasn't appealing to the Englishman for help. On the contrary, he seemed to want to comfort him. Seeing Morgan's distress, he said innocently, “Please answer me one question. When you went to India, how many miles was it?”

“I don't know or care!” His mind was scrabbling for purchase in a new, uncharted territory. “Whenever shall I see you again?”

The conductor thought the question over. “I might try to meet you one evening. In my civil clothes, perhaps.”

Flustered, feeling dizzy, Morgan alighted from the tram. Watching it recede from him, carrying the small, dark figure that stood out now from all others, he was awash in emotions, none of them happy. What had he been playing at, accepting charity from somebody poorer and weaker than himself? In a whimsical, half-asleep way, he had brought about a great calamity for this young man, whose welfare he'd wanted to care for.

He went to see Robin Furness the next morning. Furness knew a great many people; if anybody could suggest a solution, it would be Robin. Though it had to be approached delicately. A great deal between the two men was understood, but not explicitly. One could easily be too blunt about these matters.

So Morgan spoke about the fine young fellow he'd met on the tram, and how much better he was than the usual examples of his class, and the kindness he'd tried to show by not letting him pay; and how he, Morgan, had taken an interest—perhaps misguidedly—in him, though not of course in any inappropriate way; and how the best intentions had somehow gone awry and led to this terrible misunderstanding . . . And when the situation—haltingly and evasively—had been made plain, Robin nodded.

“As it happens,” he said, “I know the Station Manager and I'm going to be seeing him later. Even better, he owes me a favour. I'll speak to him and let you know what he says.”

“Oh. But that's splendid. Perhaps it can all be settled then.”

“Perhaps it can.” Robin shifted behind his desk, not quite meeting Morgan's eyes.

By midday, a note was brought to Morgan at the Red Cross offices. All was well, it told him; but in any event Robin would like to see him that evening at the club to talk the matter through.

Morgan was elated. He had done something for his new friend! And his gratitude to Robin was correspondingly voluble. It was such a kind deed, and really it was a favour to Morgan, not to the tram conductor, whom Robin had never met, and if there were ever an opportunity for him, Morgan, to repay the generosity, Robin had only to say the word. The British Empire was at its best under men like him, and all its injustices were somehow made invalid when the right thing was done . . .

Tall and dry, composed of jointed segments like a large, untidy bird, Robin seemed always uncomfortable, but more than usually so at this moment. “Yes, yes, quite so, it's good of you to say it.” He waved a big hand in dismissal. “However, Morgan . . . ”

“Yes?”

He had become serious. “It's not for me to advise you, of course. I'm sure you can take care of yourself. But in matters like these, where there is such a difference in every way, you know, class and worldview and all that, I'm sure you understand . . . ”

“I'm sure I do.”

“One can't be too careful. People talk, you know, people notice. One has to observe the proprieties. I'm as enthusiastic as you are, naturally, about somebody like this fellow, who tries to rise above his position. But you can't always believe what you're told. He was never going to get the sack, for one thing. He was merely going to be fined.”

“I think that's a problem of language, Robin. His English isn't excellent.”

“Yes, perhaps. But how do you know he wasn't deceiving you?”

“A fine for somebody in his position is bad enough.”

“I take your point. But do you take mine? I'm only saying that perhaps you ought to find out more.” He considered Morgan over the rim of his brandy glass. “Perhaps you ought to learn a
lot
more about him before you think of . . . showing an interest. One knows nothing about these people. They present a friendly face and one wants to believe it, but, you know, a situation can develop. Like this one, which has happily been resolved, of course, but next time . . . ”

“Next time may not be so simple.”

“Quite so. I do hope you understand that I speak to you as a friend. At the very least, Morgan, I think you should refrain from travelling on this man's tram. You have got him out of a tight spot and that's enough. Perhaps later you can resume the acquaintance, but for the moment . . . ”

He felt sobered by the warning. And for a few hours afterwards, he contemplated its implications. Robin had got the wind up, and had put the wind up him.

But he felt this way only briefly. The next day, through all his hours of work, he kept thinking about Mohammed, remembering the calmness of his face as he'd said that he'd performed a good action. The qualities he'd seen in him didn't belong with Robin's warning. No, Mohammed wasn't a deceiver; he was the missing piece of Egypt that Morgan had been longing for and, if he gave in now to his fears, this one chance would pass him by.

So it was with relief and a curious sense of pride that he boarded the tram that evening. The two of them looked at each other and smiled; something had been agreed between them.

“Did you speak to the Manager?” Mohammed asked immediately.

“No, I didn't.”

“But the problem is disappear.”

“Yes, I know.”

Mohammed might have asked more, but there were a few other passengers and he was kept busy for the first part of the journey. When the car was emptier, he moved towards Morgan and sat on the seat beside him. Their thighs, in their respective khaki uniforms, pressed momentarily together.

“I want to see you after work,” Morgan said. “Will you meet with me?”

The reply was soft but vehement. “Any time, any place, any hour!”

Six words that struck him like a slap. He was so filled with feeling that he got off the tram at Sidi Gaber, several stops early, and had to stumble home on foot through the dark.

 

* * *

 

It was with deep anxiety that he waited on the Sunday evening in Mazarita. He kept taking out the tram ticket, on the back of which he'd written directions, in order to read them again. People were pushing past, and a minute of confusion followed before he understood that the quiet, smart figure standing close by was Mohammed.

They hadn't recognised each other because for the first time neither was in uniform: Morgan wore tennis whites, which for some reason had seemed appropriate, and the Egyptian a dark coat, white flannel trousers and gym shoes. He also had on a pair of spectacles, which changed the shape of his face. They had stepped outside the world in which they'd met, and both of them were curiously shy.