Arctic Summer (25 page)

For the first few moments they didn't know where to go. Then Mohammed said, “Let us go and sit in Chatby Gardens.” As they started to walk, he added nervously, “I call them Chatby Gardens because they are near Chatby. I give them that name—it may not be their name. I give all sorts of things a name.”

They were only the Municipal Gardens. It was a good place to be, because it was unlikely that other Europeans might see them there. Both of them were scratchily uneasy to begin with. They pretended to be interested in the pink Ptolemaic column at the western end, and the lion-headed statues beside it. But as they walked in the last sunshine, between the remnants of old Arab walls, a genuine lightness took hold of Morgan. Why couldn't life always be this easy and this free? If you wanted to meet your friend, you simply met him, and what did it matter if he was from another race and class, and the social gulf was huge?

But of course it
did
matter, and when he took out a bag of sticky cakes he'd bought, thinking them a nice gift, Mohammed became sullen and suspicious.

“I don't like cakes,” he said, tasting the edge of one nevertheless. “What did you pay for them?”

“I really don't remember.”

“No? How many centuries ago did you buy them?”

“Why does it matter what I paid?”

“Because next time you will put me to similar expense.”

“There is a Greek proverb you should know. ‘The possessions of friends are in common.' I believe that.”

“I do not. I have many friends, but what is theirs belongs to them. You cannot have everything.”

“You are angry today.”

“No, I am not angry. I am only different to you. You are a gentleman, but look at me. Even a butcher's son . . . ” His voice trailed off. It was almost dark by now. As they settled themselves on a bench at the edge of a pond, Mohammed told him, very seriously, “I am still only a boy.”

By now Morgan had sensed his fear: sensed it almost with gratitude. They were not so unalike, after all! Butcher's son and gentleman—they were both human and afraid, and enjoying the warm evening together.

“Well,” Morgan said. “You are a
gentle
boy.”

Mohammed smiled. The right words had been spoken at last, and they began to converse in a more natural, less guarded way. On the last few occasions they'd seen each other, on the tram, Morgan had been overcome with sensual feeling, but it wasn't like that today. He was fascinated instead by his friend's character and talk. Desire was shading off into interest; the two men turned gradually towards each other on the bench, shifting a little closer.

Then Mohammed seemed to make a decision. He said suddenly, “Do you want to see my Home of Misery? It will be
dreadful
.”

Morgan fetched up one of his deeply wrung laughs, a spasm more like agony than mirth. “I would like that very much.”

On the tram ride Mohammed was in festive mood, doling out the sticky cakes to the other passengers and joking with them. But in the narrow, dirty streets of Bargos, his neighbourhood, he became quieter. The Home of Misery turned out to be hardly more than a room, very bare, very basic, with a bed and a wooden trunk. A lamp threw big rippling shadows on the wall. Mohammed looked anxiously at his guest, but Morgan was cheerful. “I see no misery,” he said.

“You are lying, I think.”

“What did you say to me on the tram? A certain amount of lies . . . ”

“ . . . is necessary to life. Yes, please, sit.”

They sat on the bed. A plate of food—dates and bread—was produced and set down between them. As they chatted and ate, Mohammed slowly relaxed. Questions at this stage were all from the English side, but the answers became fuller and less reserved. Morgan learned that Mohammed was about eighteen, but his parents were illiterate and the date of his birth had never been recorded. He'd been taught English at the American Mission school. His family continued to live where he'd been born, in a town in the Nile Delta called Mansourah. He spoke warmly about his mother and brother, but he was frank in his dislike of his father, as well as his father's new wife and family.

“I have always ate apart and lived apart and thought apart. Perhaps I am not my father's son.”

Morgan smiled. “That is always possible. But you will find out in time, if you inherit your father's face.”

“Hmm, perhaps, but I do not find rules useful. All is exceptions in men as in English grammar.”

Morgan was charmed by these eccentric phrases, their oddness renewing the sound of his own language for him, as well as illuminating their speaker. He was beginning to see Mohammed differently. He hadn't expected the intelligence or humour he was discovering, nor the honesty that now suddenly showed itself.

“I will tell you something. Until this moment I did not trust you. But my mind is change, I want to show you everything.”

He jumped up to his feet and flung open his little wooden trunk. He began to throw out his belongings, item by item, onto the bed, naming each one as he did so, sounding almost angry.

“My notebook, my pen. My bible, although I do not follow religion any more. My father told me it would be shameful to leave the religion in which I was brought up, but I did not refuse for so foolish a reason, but because I did not like Christianity. And here are my clothes. Not many of them. Here is my conductor's badge, which you have seen already many times. Here is my needle and thread. And this is lip salve.”

He tilted the trunk so that Morgan could see it was empty.

“Not much, but all clean,” he said defiantly. “Now I have shown you all there is to show.”

 

* * *

 

It was only at the end of their second meeting a few weeks later, as they parted at the station, that Mohammed said, “I have the honour to ask your name.”

“Edward Morgan Forster.”

“Forster. I am happy to meet you.”

From that moment on, Mohammed called him by his surname. In the beginning it seemed like a liberty, and Morgan was almost offended. But then he decided that it was a sign of equality between them, and he became pleased.

Thus far, relations between the two men had followed a familiar pattern. Raw physical yearning had been covered over with restraint, and their meetings were in danger of becoming permanently respectable. But Morgan was more preoccupied than ever by sexual thoughts, which disordered the normal workings of his mind. He wanted to live like one of the young men Cavafy described in his poems, who indulged his desires without guilt. He was very far from everything that mattered, on the fringes of events; there was nobody to see him, to report him to his mother or cause a fuss. But if he didn't
do
something, their friendship would remain forever frozen like this between decorum and fear.

The trouble was, he didn't know how to go about it. In his mind, he dwelt often on the encounter he'd had on the beach at Montazah. But that had happened wordlessly, in accordance with laws that he didn't understand, and he couldn't approach Mohammed in the same way. For one thing, at the Home of Misery he felt too out of place, too uncertain of himself, to try to set a seduction in motion.

The best option might be to attempt something in his own rooms. Though that, too, was not a straightforward proposition. His landlady, Irene, could be overbearing: she continually thrust her head around the door to see what he was doing and was full of intrusive advice about what sort of people he ought to be mixing with. She liked Morgan and thought well of him and the idea of disappointing her was overwhelming. It was unthinkable that he should bring Mohammed there when Irene was at home.

But after a while, fate threw an opportunity in his path. Irene had two boarding houses, in Camp de César and in Saba Pasha, and it was her habit to move from one to the other, according to the whim of the week. She liked Morgan to accompany her each time, so that he sometimes felt like a doll being carried about. But on this occasion, when she tried to get him to move, he refused. There was a small crisis between them, till eventually she gave up.

Immediately he invited Mohammed to visit him at home. It was so simple, so easy, yet once the arrangement had been made, he suffered through waves of apprehension and longing. It wasn't enough only to have the opportunity; he now had to act on it.

On the evening in question, nothing felt sure any more. He met Mohammed at the station and walked him to the house and, as they drew closer, Morgan began to worry. By the time they came to the front door, he was almost stammering with anxiety.

Once they were indoors, he calmed. Nobody had seen them, and the world outside continued in its usual way. In the end they were just two people in a room.

“
My
Home of . . . I don't know what.” Morgan had always thought of it as spare, but from the paintings on the wall, to the carpets on the floor, to the view from the window, there was nothing miserable about it. “Comfortable loneliness, perhaps.”

“You are loneliness?”

“Sometimes.”

Mohammed seemed unable to settle, wandering around the room, picking up objects and setting them down again. He was frowning.

One of the objects, at least, provided a way forward. “Do you play chess?”

“A little.”

“Shall we have a game then?”

They settled themselves on the red bedspread with the board between them. Morgan kept looking at his friend. It seemed astonishing that he was here—a young Egyptian tram conductor—in his room. The game was an abstraction; it was this other presence, lying close by, that had substance.

He felt both cold and hot with fear. It was clear to him that the first move had to be his. The difference in their social standing, combined with Mohammed's pride, meant that nothing would come from the other side. Though he thought that the Egyptian might respond to a physical overture. When they had bumped against each other accidentally in the past, Mohammed hadn't pulled away. More interestingly, he kept his hands in his pockets for the first few minutes whenever they met, and Morgan suspected that he was concealing his arousal. So the signs were propitious.

This was the moment. He had to take steps, but he didn't know what they should be. How did other people—Cavafy, Searight, Carpenter—how did they know what to do? What the right words were to speak? It was probably best simply to submit to desire, and let the body follow. Even if it was trembling, and its heartbeat seemed to fill the room.

Now a peculiar ritual started, not unlike the strategic dance of the pieces on the board. In reaching for a pawn, Morgan touched his friend's knee and let his fingers linger. If there had been the slightest recoil, the smallest shrug, he would have withdrawn, but instead Mohammed inclined towards him. It was all right; he could proceed.

He lifted his hand to stroke Mohammed's hair. The feel of it was very distinct, as if his sense of touch had been magnified. He was frightened, because he couldn't pretend that his interest was casual. If there was cruelty, it would come now.

Mohammed said something.

“What was that? I didn't hear you.”

“I said—short hair. But crisp.”

His voice sounded strangled. “I like your hair.”

“No. Yours is better.” Mohammed's hand lifted now, to touch Morgan's head in turn. Barriers were falling down; huge distances were vanishing. “Beautiful hair,” he said.

“No.”

“Yes. I'm happy . . . ”

“And I.”

They were sinking down now, into a simulation of tiredness, though Morgan had never been so awake. He found himself lying on Mohammed's arm. It was clear to him that this moment had always been waiting for him, just below the surface of his life, pulling him towards it through all his empty years. He was blank with terror, yet nothing was required of him except that he follow the actions that had long been prepared for him and had been stored here all this time, ready for him to take them up. Leaning forward, closing his eyes. Pressing his lips against those of his friend. Becoming aware of sensory impressions: the faint taste of tobacco. The dry texture of skin. Thinking:
not since Hom. Not even close. Kissing
.

He was kissing Mohammed.

As if this were entirely natural, they pulled back from each other a little and smiled. But excitement overran all his reserve and Morgan couldn't hold himself back. He shifted his position and the chess board overturned, all the pieces sliding and skidding.

“What are you doing?”

“How fond of me are you?”

“What do you mean?”

Feeling dizzy, he reached down to unbutton his friend's trousers. There was no resistance at first and they both looked down, almost in shock, at the shape of his erection, straining under the thin cotton layer of an undergarment.

Morgan was unbuttoning his own trousers now.

“Hmm,” Mohammed said. His hand had moved to cover himself. “My damned prick stands up, whoever it is,” he said. “It means nothing.”

He sounded almost bored and had started to do up his buttons again. Morgan reached to stop him and he made a sudden movement, its vehemence at odds with the calm tone of his voice.

“You hurt my hand.”

Mohammed didn't answer. The mood between them had changed into crossness and bafflement. And the pain in Morgan's hand wasn't small. But more painful was the idea that this moment had closed to him and would never open again. He tried to reach for his friend's face and the defensive movement, so sudden and violent, was repeated. This time he felt a fingernail catching on something.

“Now you have hurt me too.”

“It wasn't intentional. It was you who . . . Oh, you're bleeding.”

He had torn a soft place close to Mohammed's eye. The nick was small, but the blood flowed freely. It gave a new focus to the two men, who might otherwise have become knotted up in embarrassment. They got off the bed and fussed around the wash-basin. All the tenderness of a few minutes before had become displaced into clinical ministrations with water and cotton wool. Neither of them mentioned what had happened and, not long afterwards, Mohammed said that it was best for him to go.