could see a thin bent figure robed in white. For one mad moment – such had been the Hitchcock lead in to his appearance – I thought the man had no face; then I saw that he was dark, almost black, and against the blackness of the passage behind him only his white robes showed up.
He peered out into the light, an oldish man, stoop-shouldered, his skin wrinkled like a prune under the folds of the
kaffiyeh
, or Arab head-dress. His eyes, red-rimmed and puckered against the light, had a greyish look about them which spoke of cataract. He blinked, mouthed something at Hamid which I took to be Arabic, and started to shut the gate.
‘One moment. Wait.’ Hamid was past me into the gap with one quick stride, and had a tough young shoulder against the gate. He had already told me what he intended to say. The quickfire Arabic soundedurgent. ‘This is no ordinary visitor, but one of your Lady’s family, whom you cannot turn from the door. Listen.’
The old man paused uncertainly, and Hamid went on. ‘My name is Hamid Khalil, from Beirut, and I have driven this young lady up to see your mistress. Now, we know your Lady receives no visitors, but this young lady is English, and she is the daughter of the Lady’s brother’s son. So you must go and see your Lady and tell her that Miss Christy Mansel has come from England to see her – Miss Christy Mansel, bearing greetings from all the Lady’s relatives in England.’
The porter was staring, stupidly, almost as if he had not heard. I began to wonder if he were deaf. Then I saw he was looking at me, and that in the opaque eyes a sort of curiosity was stirring. But he shook his head, and again from his lips came those strangled sounds which I realised now were the struggles of someone with a severe speech impediment.
Hamid shrugged at me, expressively. ‘They didn’t tell us the half, did they? “No communication with outside” is right – this man’s all but dumb. However, I don’t think he’s deaf, so I dare say he has some way of taking messages. There’s no need yet for despair.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I was feeling.’
He laughed and turned back to the old man, who, gobbling and muttering under his breath, had been making vague attempts to shut the door against the younger man’s determined shoulder and (by now) foot. Hamid raised his voice and spoke again, sharply.Even without his subsequent translation to me, the gist of what he said was obvious.
‘Look, stop that, you understand me quite well, don’t pretend that you don’t, so stop playing about with the gate, we’re not going away until you’ve taken the message to your mistress, or sent someone who can talk to us … That’s better! Now, have you got it? Miss Christy Mansel, daughter of her brother’s son, has come from England to see her, even just for a few moments. Is that clear? Now go and give the message.’
There was no doubt that the old man could hear. Open curiosity showed now in the face that shot forward on its stringy neck to stare at me, but he still made no attempt to go, or to invite us in. He shook his head violently, mouthing at Hamid and holding on to the edge of the gate with what looked like a mixture of obstinacy and apprehension.
I intervened, half uneasy, half repelled: ‘Look, Hamid, perhaps we shouldn’t. I mean, forcing our way in like this … He’s obviously had his orders, and he looks scared to death at having to disobey them. Perhaps if I just write a note—’
‘If we go away now you’ll never get in. It’s not your great-aunt he’s scared of. As far as I can make out he’s saying something about a doctor, “The doctor says no one is to go in”.’
‘The
doctor
?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘I may be wrong, I can hardly make him out, but I thought that’s what he said. Wait a minute …’
Another spate of Arabic, and again the horriblestammering syllables from the old man. Flakes of spittle had appeared at the corners of
He peered out into the light, an oldish man, stoop-shouldered, his skin wrinkled like a prune under the folds of the
kaffiyeh
, or Arab head-dress. His eyes, red-rimmed and puckered against the light, had a greyish look about them which spoke of cataract. He blinked, mouthed something at Hamid which I took to be Arabic, and started to shut the gate.
‘One moment. Wait.’ Hamid was past me into the gap with one quick stride, and had a tough young shoulder against the gate. He had already told me what he intended to say. The quickfire Arabic soundedurgent. ‘This is no ordinary visitor, but one of your Lady’s family, whom you cannot turn from the door. Listen.’
The old man paused uncertainly, and Hamid went on. ‘My name is Hamid Khalil, from Beirut, and I have driven this young lady up to see your mistress. Now, we know your Lady receives no visitors, but this young lady is English, and she is the daughter of the Lady’s brother’s son. So you must go and see your Lady and tell her that Miss Christy Mansel has come from England to see her – Miss Christy Mansel, bearing greetings from all the Lady’s relatives in England.’
The porter was staring, stupidly, almost as if he had not heard. I began to wonder if he were deaf. Then I saw he was looking at me, and that in the opaque eyes a sort of curiosity was stirring. But he shook his head, and again from his lips came those strangled sounds which I realised now were the struggles of someone with a severe speech impediment.
Hamid shrugged at me, expressively. ‘They didn’t tell us the half, did they? “No communication with outside” is right – this man’s all but dumb. However, I don’t think he’s deaf, so I dare say he has some way of taking messages. There’s no need yet for despair.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I was feeling.’
He laughed and turned back to the old man, who, gobbling and muttering under his breath, had been making vague attempts to shut the door against the younger man’s determined shoulder and (by now) foot. Hamid raised his voice and spoke again, sharply.Even without his subsequent translation to me, the gist of what he said was obvious.
‘Look, stop that, you understand me quite well, don’t pretend that you don’t, so stop playing about with the gate, we’re not going away until you’ve taken the message to your mistress, or sent someone who can talk to us … That’s better! Now, have you got it? Miss Christy Mansel, daughter of her brother’s son, has come from England to see her, even just for a few moments. Is that clear? Now go and give the message.’
There was no doubt that the old man could hear. Open curiosity showed now in the face that shot forward on its stringy neck to stare at me, but he still made no attempt to go, or to invite us in. He shook his head violently, mouthing at Hamid and holding on to the edge of the gate with what looked like a mixture of obstinacy and apprehension.
I intervened, half uneasy, half repelled: ‘Look, Hamid, perhaps we shouldn’t. I mean, forcing our way in like this … He’s obviously had his orders, and he looks scared to death at having to disobey them. Perhaps if I just write a note—’
‘If we go away now you’ll never get in. It’s not your great-aunt he’s scared of. As far as I can make out he’s saying something about a doctor, “The doctor says no one is to go in”.’
‘The
doctor
?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘I may be wrong, I can hardly make him out, but I thought that’s what he said. Wait a minute …’
Another spate of Arabic, and again the horriblestammering syllables from the old man. Flakes of spittle had appeared at the corners of
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