The Revolt of Aphrodite: Tunc and Nunquam

by Lawrence Durrell

  “You killed a man?” I said admiringly.

  “Yes … well … rather” said the Count with modesty.

  He lay back, closing his eyes and breathing coolly through his nose. Then he said in somewhat oracular fashion: “Haven’t you noticed Charlock that most things in life happen just outside one’s range of vision? One has to see them out of the corner of one’s eye. And any one thing could be the effect of any number of others? I mean there seem to be always a dozen perfectly appropriate explanations to every phenomenon. That is what makes our reasoning minds so unsatisfactory; and yet, they are all we’ve got, this shabby piece of equipment.” He would doubtless have had more to say, but sleep gained on him steadily and in a while his mouth fell open and he began to snore. I slipped off the light and closed the door softly.

  * * * * *

  Sacrapant was as good as his word and appeared next morning on the dot—but this time with a big American car driven by a Turk dressed in a sort of bloodstained butcher’s smock. He was all frail animation and charm as we bumped and careered down towards the waterside sectors of the town, through souks rendered colourless now by the dreadful European reach-me-downs worn by the inhabitants of this artificially modernised land. At the best the Turks of the capital looked opium-ridden, or as if clubbed half insensible; the clothes set off their mental disarray to perfection. Of course I did not voice my sentiments as strongly as this, but my hints were enough to convey the general drift of my thoughts to Mr. Sacrapant. To my surprise he expressed stern disapproval. “They may be ugly” he said. “But thanks to them we brought off one of our biggest coups. The firm was in touch with Mustafa’s party when it was still a secret society. It knew his plans, and that when it came to power it would abolish the fez and the Arabic script. It waited. By skilful bribing we made an agreement, and the very day the firman was launched, we had six ships full of cloth caps standing by in the roads! We swamped the market. We had also collared the contracts for printing of stamps and the national stationery—we had been importing presses for months. You see what I mean? Doing business in the Levant is rather a special thing.” He bridled, flushed with pride. I could see that all right, O yes.

  The oldfashioned counting-house, down among the stinking tanneries of the yards, was rather impressive; the interior walls of three large factories had been taken out and replaced by a huge acreage of tile floor. Here, cheek by jowl, worked the Merlin employees, their desks brow to brow, practically touching one another. A deep susurrous of noise rose as if from a wasp’s nest, deepened by the throaty echo of electric fans. Here there seemed to be no sleep—I could hardly see one face that did not signal itself as belonging to a Greek, Jew, Armenian, Copt, Italian. A sort of dramatic electrical current seemed to have generated itself. Sacrapant walked between the desks, bursting with a kind of hallowed civic pride, nodding to right and left. I could see from the way he was greeted that he was much beloved. He walked as a man might show off a garden, stopping here and there to pluck a flower. I was introduced to a few people, a swift sample, so to speak; they all spoke good English and we exchanged pleasantries. Also, in one corner—the only screened section —I was presented to three elderly men of Swiss accent and mien: they looked both authoritative and determined. They were dressed in formal oldfashioned tail-coats which must have been stifling to wear in summer. “They speak all our languages” said Mr. Sacrapant, adding: “You see here each man is very much head of his own section. We have decentralised as much as humanely possible. The great variety of our work permits it.” He picked a bundle of ladings and C.I.F. telegrams off a desk and rapidly clipped out the words “Beirut, Mozambique, Aleppo, Cairo, Antananarivo, Lagos.”

  I accepted a traditional black coffee of the oriental variety and expressed my approval of all this creditable activity; afterwards we stepped out blinking into the sunlight. Sacrapant had taken the day off in order to show me something of the town and together we walked laterally across it, making clever detours to visit the choicer monuments. In the honeyed gloom of the covered bazaars I bought a few coins and some beaten silver wire of Yemeni origin, with the vague intention of presenting them to Hippolyta on my return. We sauntered through the courtyards of sunbaked mosques, pausing to feed the pigeons from a paper bag full of Indian gram. Thence to Al Quat for a really excellent lunch of pigeon and rice. It was late afternoon by the time we started to saunter back to the hotel, and by now I had come to see what an immense graveyard Stamboul is, or seems to be. The tombs are sown broadcast, not gathered together in formalised squares and rectangles. Graveyards were spread wherever humanity had scratched up a tombstone behind it, as in a cat-box; here death seemed to be broadcast wholesale in quite arbitrary fashion. A heavy melancholy, a heavy depression seemed to hang over these beautiful empty monuments. Turkey takes time to know.

  Truth to tell, I was rather anxious to leave it and get back to the noisy but freer air of Athens. “You have brought your box, of course?” said Mr. Sacrapant. “I know that Mr. Pehlevi is most anxious to see it.” But of course he would not be available for another twenty-four hours; yes, I had brought my box. Mr. Sacrapant accepted tea and toast and reminisced awhile about the business community of Smyrna where he had learned his English. In parenthesis he added: “By the way, Mr. Pehlevi told me to tell you that there is a commercial counsellor here and he will insist that any contracts we offer you should be seen by him. Just in case you have no business head. He wants everything to be above board and clear. It is part of our policy. I have told Mr. Vibart and he agrees to advise you. So all is in order.” I have no idea why this remark should have seemed slightly ominous to me but it did. He sighed, and with great reluctance excused himself, saying that he had a dinner engagement. For my part, after so long and exhausting a walk, I was glad to go to my room and siesta—which I did to such good effect that it was after dark when I awoke and groped my way distractedly down to dinner. There was no sign of Banubula in the dining room, and there were few other guests whose appearance offered hope of time-killing conversation. But later I ran him down in the sunken billiard room playing mournful Persian airs on a very tinny cottage piano. Several large whiskies stood before him—a precaution against the barman with his capricious habits of shutting up the bar when drinks were most needed. He was, I should say, a little less drunk than he had been the evening before, though the number of the whiskies boded little good; he allowed me to take one and sit beside him. He was in a morose, cantakerous mood, and was hitting a lot of false notes. At last he desisted, banged the piano shut. “Well,” he said, sucking his teeth “tonight I will be handing over Sipple, and then byebye to Polis.”

  “Handing over? Is he in irons?”

  “He should be” said Banubula savagely. “They all should be.”

  He growled awhile into his waistcoat and then went on. “I suppose you have seen Pehlevi, eh? That swine!” Such an outburst from this mild, courteous and bookish man was astonishing.

  “Tomorrow.” Banubula sighed and shook his head with a gloomy star-crossed expression.

  “Tomorrow you will be in, over my head.”

  It was my turn to get annoyed by this repetitive and meaningless reiteration—this eternal mélopée. “Listen to me” I said poking his waistcoat. “I am not in, not out, and will not be. This might be a commercial agreement over a small toy which may make me some money, that is all. Do you hear?”

  “You will see” he grunted.

  “Moreover any contracts will be vetted by the commercial consul” I added primly.

  “Ha ha.”

  “Why ha ha?”

  “Over whose dead body?” said Banubula inconsequentially. “Over mine, my boy. In you go and out I shall stay.” He drained a tumbler and set it down with exaggerated care. Then all of a sudden the cloud seemed to lift a little. He smiled complacently and stroked his chin for awhile, looking at me sideways. “Caradoc does not spare our infirmities” he said.

  “Is he in?”

  Banubula looked at m
e incredulously. “Of course” he said with disgust. “Has always been in; but he wants to get out!”

  “It’s like a bloody girls’ school” said I.

  “Yes” he said with resignation. “You are right. But let us talk about something pleasanter. If I had not been on duty here I might have shown you some of the sights of the capital. Things that most people don’t see. In one of the kiosks of the Seraglio, for example, is Abdul Hamid’s collection of dildoes, brought together from all over the world; all carefully labelled and dusted. He was impotent, they say, and this was one of his few pleasures.”

  “Is old Merlin still alive?” I asked suddenly. Banubula shot me a glance and sat up straight for a moment. Ignoring my remark he went on: “They were kept in a long row of pipe-racks presented by the British Government in a vain attempt to curry favour with him. The names were so beautiful—passiatempo in Italian, godemiche or bientateur in French. No? They illustrate national attitudes better than anything else, the names. The German one was called the phallus phantom—a ghostly metaphysical machine covered with death-dew. Alas, my boy, I have not the time to show you this and other treasures.”

  “It’s a great pity.”

  Banubula consulted his watch with pursed lips. “In another half hour they will take over and I shall be free. But I think I should just make sure that Sipple is all right. Do you want to come with me?”

  “No.”

  “It won’t involve us in anything, you know.”

  I looked and felt somewhat doubtful; depressed as I was at the thought of spending another evening here alone I did not want to become involved in any of the Count’s escapades. On the other hand I was a bit anxious for his own safety. It seemed unwise to leave him alone. I must have looked as confused as I felt for he said, cajolingly, “Come on. It will take me a quarter of an hour. I will just peep through the curtain at the Seamen’s Relief Club, and then we can return happy in the thought of duty well and faithfully done.”

  “Very well” I said. “First let me see that you can walk straight.” Banubula looked wounded in his self-esteem. He rose heavily to his feet and took a very creditable turn or two up and down the room. His own steadiness rather surprised him. He looked somewhat incredulous to find himself navigating with such ease. “You see?” he said. “I’m perfectly all right. Anyway we will take a cab. I’ll send these remaining whiskies up to my room for safety and we can go. Eh?”

  He pressed the bell for the waiter, and gave his instructions in faultless Turkish which I envied him.

  Once more we slanted down the ill-lit streets where the occasional tram squealed like a stuck pig. Banubula consulted a pocket notebook which appeared to have a rough plan pencilled into it. Why not a compass? I wondered. So like an explorer did he behave. We left the taxi on a street corner and set off in an easterly direction, skirting the bazaars. The Count walked in what I can only describe as a precautionary way, stopping from time to time, and looking behind, as if to see whether we were being trailed or not. Perhaps he was showing off? The town smelt heavily of tannin and garbage. We crossed a series of small squares and skirted the walled exterior of mosques. The city seemed to become more and more deserted and somewhat sinister. Finally however we reached a corner where light and noise abounded, where spits hissed and bagpipes skirled. A section of the sky had been cut out by the flares. There can be no mistake about the Greek quarter of any town. An infernal industry and gaiety reigns. Here we entered a large café the interior of which was full of mirrors and birdcages, and domino players, and crossing it reached a courtyard where, in the dimness, a notice could just be discerned which read “Seamen’s Relief Club”. Banubula grunted as he addressed himself to a flight of creaky stairs. “How does one relieve a seaman?” I asked, but the Count did not reply.

  On the first floor there was a sort of large drill hall full of smoke and the noise of feet and chairs scraping; there was also a good deal of laughter and clapping, as if at some performance or other. Banubula stopped outside a dirty door sealed by a bead curtain. “I’m not going in,” he hissed “but we’ll just see. I think he’s acting the fool for them now.” And with sinking feelings I heard the flat nasal whine of Sipple, punctuated by the roars of laughter of the merry tars. “Yes, you may laugh, my sirs, you may laugh—but you are laughing at tragedy. Once I was like you all, I wore me busby at an angle. Then came that fatal day when I found myself abrogated. I found myself all slanting-dicular to the world. Up till then my timbrel was normal, my pressure quite serene. I lived with Mrs. Sipple in a bijou suburban house with bakelite elves on the front lawn. Not far from Cockfosters it was. (Cheers!) Every day I rose, purified by sleep, to bathe and curl my hair, and put on a clean artichoke. I travelled to Olympia in a Green Line bus like the public hangman with my clothes in a bag. It wasn’t exacting, to act the clown—a pore fart-buffeted blorque. But when me whiffler abrogated I lost all my confidence. (Clapping.) Ah you may laugh, but when your whiffler becomes a soft lampoon what’s to be done? I found my reason foundering, gentlemen. I started drinking tiger-drench. I had become alembicated. I had begun to exflunctify. Then when I went to see the doctor all he said was: ‘Sipple you are weak in Marmite.’”

  All this must have been accompanied by some fitting stage business of an obscene kind for it was greeted with roars of laughter. From where we stood we could not see Sipple; the balcony overhung him. He was immediately beneath us; all we could see was, so to speak, his reflection in the semicircle of barbarous faces, expressing a huge coarse gratification. Banubula consulted his watch. “Four more minutes” he said. “And then he’s off. Phew, what a relief!” He stretched in the gloom and yawned. “Now let’s go and have a drink, what?” We went downstairs again and crossed the courtyard; as we reached the lighted café a large black car drew up in the street outside and two men climbed out, yawning, and made their way directly past us, looking neither to right nor left. Banubula watched them pass with a smile. “That’s the committee” he whispered. “Now we are free.” And in a heavy jolting way he started to hurry along the street towards the corner of the square where the taxis were, coiling and uncoiling long legs.

  “I can’t tell you the relief” he said sinking back at last on the back seat cushions and mopping his brow. Indeed his face had become almost juvenile and unlined. “Now you can come and watch me pack, and I will share my whisky with you.” I was puzzled by my own equanimity, by the ease with which I seemed to be accepting this succession of puzzling (even a little disquieting) events. “I’ve stopped asking questions” I said aloud to myself. Banubula overheard me and gave a soft chuckle. “Just as well to save your breath” he said.

  I sat on the bed and watched this infernally clumsy bear-like man trying to fold a pair of trousers and squeeze them into his suitcase. He was a trifle tipsy again, and his little performance would have almost done credit to the clown Sipple. “Here,” I said “let me help you.” And gratefully Banubula slumped into a chair and mopped his white brow. “I don’t know what it is about clothes” he said. “They have always eluded me. They seem to have a life of their own, and it doesn’t touch my life at any point. Nevertheless I wear them very gracefully, and pride myself on being quite smartly turned out. These shoes come from Firpo in Bond Street.” He stared at them complacently.

  I had shaken a batch of notepaper out of his coat pocket; it fell on the floor. “O dear O dear,” said the Count “how forgetful I am.” He took the papers, set them alight in the ashtray and sat watching the flame like a child, poking at it with a matchstick until the paper was consumed and the ash broken up. Then he sighed and said: “Tomorrow I shall return to Athens and my dear. To resume my old life again.”

  “And Sipple?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “What will become of him?” Banubula played with his lucky charm and reflected. “Nothing very special” he said, “No need for dramatic imaginings. Hippolyta says she was told that he was an expert on precious stones; that would give him a connection with Merlin
all right. Then someone else said he was retained by the Government to supply political intelligence. There again … much can be learned in the brothels of Athens. Politicians build up dossiers about each other’s weaknesses and there is hardly one who hasn’t some pretty little perversion up his sleeve which could lay him open to political pressure, or even blackmail. Graphos makes them dress up and whips them mildly, so they say; others have more elaborate needs. Pangarides insists on the ‘chariot’….”

  “What is the chariot?”

  “It’s really a Turkish invention I suppose. A sort of en brochette effect. I’ve never tried. It’s having a small boy while the small boy himself is having a girl. With clever timing it is supposed to…. But heavens, why am I telling you all this? I am usually so discreet.”

  He sighed heavily. I could see that he was possessed by a heavy sense of regret that he should soon be called upon to resume the trappings of respectability in Athens. “Why don’t you stay here, and live in a bagnio?” I asked and he sighed. Then his expression changed: “And the Countess, my wife? How could I?” Affection for her flooded into him; tears came to his eyes. “She is devoted to me” he said under his breath. “And I have nobody else in the world.” His tone touched me.

  “Well. Goodnight, then” I said, and he shook my hand warmly.

  Next morning I slept late, and when at last I came downstairs I found that the Count had left for Galata; he had favoured me with a last communication in the form of a visiting card with a crown below the name Count Horatio Banubula and a few words pencilled on it. “Above all be discreet” he had written. But what the devil had I to reveal—and to whom?

  Sacrapant was not due to appear before dusk so I lazed away the heat of the day in the garden under the shining limes watching the shifting hazes of the skyline condense and recondense as the sun reached its meridian. As it overpassed and began to decline the army of domes and steeples began to clarify once more, to set like jelly. Light sea airs from the Bosphorus were invading the Horn now, driving the damp atmosphere upwards into the town. It must have been some sort of festival day, too, for the sky was alive with long-tailed kaleidoscopic box-kites—and by the time we reached the water under the Galata Bridge to pick up the steam pinnace which had been sent for me, I could look back and upwards at a skyline prepared as if for some mad children’s carnival. In such light, and at such a time of day, the darkness hides the squalor and ugliness of the capital, leaving exposed only the pencilled shapes of its domes and walls against the approaching night; and moreover if one embarks on water at such an hour one instantly experiences a lift of the senses. The sea-damp vanishes. God, how beautiful it is. Light winds pucker the gold-green waters of Bosphorus; the gorgeous melancholy of the Seraglio glows like a rotting fish among its arbours and severe groves. Edging away from the land and turning in a slow half-arc towards Bosphorus I allowed Mr. Sacrapant to point out for me features like the seamark known as Leander’s tower, and a skilfully sited belvedere in a palace wall whence one of the late Sultans enjoyed picking off his subjects with a crossbow as they entered his field of vision. Such were the amenities of palace life in far-off times. But now our wake had thickened and spread like butter under a knife, and Sacrapant had to hold on to his panama hat as we sped along, curving under the great placid foreheads and wide eyes of two American liners which were idling up the sound. It grew mildly choppy too as we rounded the cliff heads and turned into the Bosphorus. The light was fading, and one of the typical sunsets of Stamboul was in full conflagration; the city looked as if it were burning up the night, using the approaching darkness as fuel. Sacrapant waved his arm at it and gave a small incoherent cry of pleasure—as if he had momentarily forgotten the text of the caption which should go with such a picture. But we were near in to the nether shore now and travelling fast; stone quays and villages of painted wooden houses rolled up in scroll-fashion and slipped away behind us. Here, rising out of a dense greenery, one caught glimpses of walled gardens, profiles of kiosks smothered in amazed passion flowers, marble balconies, gardens starred with white lilies. Then higher up again small meadows shaded by giant plane-trees, leading to softly contoured hilltops marked with umbrella pine or the slim pin of a cypress, eye-alerting as a cedilla in some forgotten tongue. Thickets of small shipping passed us, plodding industriously into the eye of the sunset, heading for Galata. Somewhere hereabouts, in one of the small sandy coves with high cliffs, would be the wooden landing stage which marked the entry to that kingdom Merlin had called “Avalon”. Sacrapant explained that it was a ruin when Merlin bought it—part Byzantine fortress and part ruined Seraglio which had belonged to a rich Ottoman family that had fallen into disgrace. “The sultan expunged them all” said Sacrapant with a kind of sad relish. “It was named thus by Mr. Merlin himself.” He made a motion with his slender hand.