The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘You come,’ the boy said, going to the staircase.

  ‘Don’t we get to choose?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘All is good,’ the boy said, his foot on the first step. ‘You come.’

  Bert followed, and the men followed Bert. They climbed the stairs and found themselves in a corridor which stretched away from the street and seemed to indicate that the house was far larger than it had appeared from the outside. There was a barred window at the far end which admitted some light, and they could see a succession of doors leading off.

  The boy opened the first door. ‘You come in,’ he told Bert.

  ‘See you later,’ Bert said, and went inside. The room contained an iron bedstead with an uncovered horsehair mattress, and nothing else. Not even a washbasin. But what the hell, he thought; I’ll wash her off in the sea when I get back to camp.

  ‘You strip, eh?’ the boy asked, and closed the door on him.

  Bert took off his uniform and underclothes, sat on the mattress. He hadn’t had a woman since Annaliese. He hadn’t wanted one. After hearing about how she had betrayed him, he had wanted one even less, and had not applied for a pass throughout the regiment’s stay in the camp by the beach — much to the disgust of his crew, because no men had been allowed into Alexandria save under the command of an NCO. But suddenly he wanted one very badly. He was as hard as a rock at the very thought of it. He should have had one long ago, and got rid of the woman from his mind. But he was going to do that now.

  The door opened and he stood up in anticipation. But it was the boy again, who looked him up and down in appreciation, and said, ‘You pay first, eh?’

  ‘You’re the head ponce, right? At your age? How much?’

  ‘One pound.’

  ‘You have got to be joking.’

  ‘One pound,’ the boy said. ‘This is a very good house.’

  Well, he was there, and he wanted. Bert picked up his trousers, found the money, held it out. The boy took it, folded it into his pocket, and then removed his shirt and fez. Bert watched him with only mild interest. Then the boy dropped his pants as well, to reveal himself just as aroused as Bert was. ‘You want me first, or you?’ he asked.

  Still Bert didn’t understand what he meant. The boy grinned at him, went to the cupboard in a corner of the room, and took out a jar of grease. ‘I make it easy, eh?’ he suggested.

  The penny dropped in Bert’s brain. ‘You silly bastard!’ he snapped. ‘I came here for a woman, not a boy.’

  ‘A woman? There are no women here, effendi. Save my mother.’

  ‘Who ought to be ashamed of herself. I’ll have my pound back.’

  ‘You have paid, effendi,’ the boy said, his face set in stubborn lines. ‘Now come into me.’

  Bert was suddenly very angry. He swung his hand. The boy ducked but not far enough. Bert’s fist caught him on the side of his head and he tumbled across the bed. Bert picked up the boy’s pants and retrieved his money, then pulled on his battledress and stepped outside, where his men were already waiting.

  ‘Jesus, Corporal,’ Payne said. ‘This place...’

  ‘Forget it,’ Bert said.

  ‘Mama, Mama,’ the boy was screaming, and was now joined by a chorus from his compatriots in the other rooms. There was a good deal of noise from downstairs, and when the troopers reached the steps they found themselves looking at half a dozen young men, most considerably older than their recent companions, and bigger and stronger, too.

  One of them said, ‘You give us back the money, effendi.’

  ‘You be damned,’ Bert told him.

  The young man looked at his fellows, and spoke in Egyptian.

  ‘Corporal,’ Griffiths asked, his voice trembling. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We,’ Bert announced, feeling happy for the first time in two months, ‘are going to break this fucking place up.’

  *

  ‘Now there is a sight I had never expected to see,’ Colonel Wilkinson said. ‘Stop the car a moment, will you, Peters.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The car stopped at the side of the road.

  ‘The wonder of the world,’ Wilkinson said reverently.

  Even Fergus was impressed. It was something over a hundred miles from Alexandria to Cairo, and the road had been dusty and not in the best of repair. It had also been crowded, with military as well as civilian traffic, which might vary from huge trucks making for the coast road and presumably the army entrenched before Sidi Barrani, to donkey carts laden with dates or household goods. It had been a tiring journey.

  The road had also followed the river, and that had been of endless interest. If Wilkinson was absorbed by man’s previous puny efforts on earth, Fergus found the sight of the river, which had been flowing through this desert ever since time had begun, far more evocative. Because Egypt was a desert to either side of the river, at a distance of not more than ten miles. And yet, within that so narrow strip, all was cultivation and profusion.

  But now nature’s artistry and man’s had come together, and he had to admit it presented an unforgettable sight. To their left was the railway line, which they had accompanied all the way from Alexandria, first on their right, but crossing it a few miles farther back. Beyond the line was the river, and beyond the river rose the rooftops and minarets of Cairo, glowing in the late afternoon sun. While in the strongest contrast, on their western side of the river, on a low plateau there rose the perfectly triangular shapes of the pyramids, guarded, at a lower level, by the massive body of the Sphinx.

  ‘Four thousand years,’ Wilkinson said. ‘Give or take a century or two. Napoleon once fought a battle on this very spot. The Battle of the Pyramids. That must have been a marvellous occasion.’

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to do the same,’ Fergus commented.

  ‘He formed squares, and repelled Mahomet Ali’s cavalry,’ Wilkinson said. ‘I can just see it. Ah, well, drive on, Peters.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the patient driver.

  Wilkinson had booked them rooms at Shepheard’s, and after a bath and a change of uniform, they went to the Gezira Club, where they gathered in the bar with a large number of other officers. ‘Royal Western Dragoons,’ remarked one colonel. ‘Had no idea you were in Egypt, old boy.’

  ‘Well, sir, you must be the only person in Egypt who doesn’t know we’re here,’ Fergus said. ‘Or in Libya, either.’

  ‘I know, dashed difficult to keep things quiet here. I’ve been down in the Soudan, actually, making sure all is well there. Just got back in time for Jacki’s party. You fellows are going, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Wilkinson confessed. ‘We don’t know anybody named Jacki. We’re certainly not invited.’

  ‘My dear fellow, that doesn’t matter. You must come. When are you off for the front?’

  Fergus coughed, but Wilkinson was already speaking. ‘Two days’ time.’

  ‘Then you simply must come. Oh, indeed, I insist. You’ll be my guests. Harrison is the name. Jacki is an old friend. Yes...’ he frowned at their pale-blue undress uniforms. ‘I’m sure we can fit you out with something to wear. As soon as we’ve had another whisky. Party doesn’t start until eight.’

  *

  Mess jackets and trews were provided, albeit taken from a Scottish regiment. ‘I feel like a spy,’ Wilkinson remarked.

  ‘And I think perhaps we should behave like spies,’ Fergus suggested, retying his bow tie in an effort to get it straight. ‘We don’t know who’ll be at this beastly party. I really don’t think we should tell anyone that we’re moving up to the front in the next couple of days.’

  ‘Don’t you think they know already?’ Wilkinson asked. ‘But we’ll be mum if it makes you happy.’

  The party was in a flat in a building overlooking the Nile, and even the pyramids, although they were now lost in darkness. Presumably there were blackout regulations for Cairo, but nobody seemed to pay them the slightest notice, and indeed the whole city was a blaze of light.

&nb
sp; The flat itself was large and ostentatiously furnished. It belonged to a titled lady who was apparently either widowed or divorced — Fergus never did discover which —but liked to be called Jacki and was obviously very rich. Her hobby was, as she admitted, entertaining British officers. ‘Well, you are all doing such a frightfully good job, don’t you know, keeping Musso out of the Gezira Club. We poor females must do our bit.’

  She was about forty, thin and angular, with an apparently bottomless ability to drink gin and enough jewels to pay for the war effort on her own. ‘Rumour has it she’s looking for a husband,’ confided Colonel Harrison. ‘But I don’t think she’s looking very hard. I say, fellows, let’s circulate.’

  The room was crowded, with a mass of officers, as well as a smattering of civilians, and even one or two Egyptians, obviously very upper crust. There was also a matching number of women, all wearing evening gowns and seeming to be competing for the prize for displaying the deepest décolletage, either front or back; their ages ranged from what seemed to be teenagers to elderly matrons, and they also included several Egyptian ladies. Fergus decided to approach one of these, as it was their country, however occupied by the British, and try to discover something about what they were like. He found it heavy going, however, between trying to balance smoked salmon sandwiches — the food was provided by a finger buffet — and champagne in one hand, and talk with the other: the lady he had chosen spoke poor English.

  ‘You would do better in French,’ a voice sparkled at his elbow, and he turned to look at a tall, dark young woman, with green eyes which matched the quality of her contralto. She smiled at him. ‘I’m Monique Deschards,’ she explained. ‘And you are Major...?’

  ‘Fergus Mackinder.’ The décolletage of her midnight-blue gown was as deep as anyone’s, and she had a wealth of heavy brown hair. He could hardly remember ever having been so instantly attracted to anyone.

  ‘I knew you were Scottish, from your uniform. Gordon Highlanders, is it?’

  ‘Ah...yes.’ Fergus had never actually told a lie in his life, and to lie to this magnificent creature seemed doubly disgraceful.

  ‘Fatima has lived a sheltered life,’ Monique Deschards said, continuing to smile at him.

  Fergus had lost all interest in Fatima. ‘Your glass is empty,’ he protested.

  ‘Why, so it is.’ She gave an artificially helpless glance to left and right.

  ‘I’ll find you a refill,’ he volunteered.

  ‘I will come with you,’ she said. ‘If I lose my glass, I may never see it again. Or you,’ she added.

  He reminded himself that he was engaged to be married, to the most beautiful girl in the world. But he was off to battle in two days’ time, and Monique was just a ship, passing in the night. But what a delightful ship.

  They found themselves on the balcony, looking down at the river. ‘Do you think I should wear my ring?’ she asked. He didn’t know what to reply to that.

  ‘My trouble is,’ she confessed, ‘that I don’t know whether my husband is alive or dead.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Fergus remarked: he was on his fourth glass of champagne.

  ‘He was in the Maginot Line when it was overrun, and was posted missing. He could be a prisoner.’ She glanced at him. ‘But if he was a prisoner, would I not have been informed?’

  ‘Well...’ of course you would have, he wanted to say. But that might depress her. ‘It would be likely.’

  ‘But not certain. It is a very difficult position for a woman to be in. So... I came out here to join my father. He is in business in Cairo. That was lucky for me, eh?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. And for Cairo.’ He had spoken without thinking, and instantly regretted it, especially as she did not reply. ‘I was in France,’ he ventured, hoping to mend bridges.

  ‘I did not doubt it. You were at Dunkirk.’

  ‘Ah...yes.’

  She smiled, in the darkness. ‘You think I am a spy.’

  ‘Well...it’s a good rule to keep one’s movements to oneself. In wartime.’

  ‘But you are in Cairo. You cannot keep this secret. From me, at the least.’

  ‘Well...I suppose I can’t,’ he agreed.

  ‘And in the next few days you will move up to the front to fight the Italians.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘But why else would you be here? And everyone knows there is going to be a battle in a few days.’

  ‘Do they?’ he asked in alarm.

  ‘Of course. The Italians are about to attack.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gave a faint sigh of relief. ‘Yes, I suppose they could be.’

  She gazed into the night. ‘You will drive off into the desert, to kill, or be killed. The desert is very beautiful, but not when one is dying.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he agreed.

  She glanced at him. ‘When do you return to your camp?’

  ‘Ah...’ But surely there could be no harm in telling her that. ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘You are spending tomorrow in Cairo? Doing what?’

  ‘Well...my colonel wants to have a look at all the antiquities, I imagine.’

  ‘Then let him. Why do you not let me show you the desert. At peace, and beautiful? Before you begin to destroy it?’

  ‘Do you know,’ Fergus said, ‘I think that would be an absolutely splendid idea.’

  3

  The Desert, 1940-41

  ‘Well, well,’ remarked Johnny Wilkinson. ‘Off to the desert with a femme fatale, eh?’

  ‘I am certain she is not a femme fatale,’ Fergus objected. ‘She is a war widow. Like...well, Annaliese. I suppose.’

  ‘Something you want to remember,’ Wilkinson said severely. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  He departed with several other officers for a closer look at the pyramids.

  ‘Do you wish to look at the pyramids?’ Monique asked, when, a few minutes later, she arrived at Shepheard’s in her father’s touring car.

  ‘Not right this minute,’ he said. ‘Everybody else is doing that.’

  She smiled. ‘I promised you the desert.’

  They drove across the bridge and took a road leading to the south-west. They passed the pyramids, huge and much less perfect at close quarters, on their right, but Fergus found a lot more to look at nearer at hand; Monique wore a white linen dress with a blue cardigan — it was still fairly early in the morning and decidedly cool — and sandals, and her hair was kept from blowing all over the place by a bandeau: the canvas roof was down. He found her a quite beautiful picture.

  She glanced at him. ‘The desert is an evocative place.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘But you do not find it so.’

  ‘When you’re in an armoured regiment, sand becomes merely a damned nuisance. Oh, my God, I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Then I will forget you did. But today I can tell you do not really belong to the Gordon Highlanders.’

  Because without thinking he had put on his usual uniform. Another stupid mistake. My God, he thought, if she really is a spy...

  ‘So I will forget both what you wear and what you said,’ she volunteered. ‘I find the desert beautiful.’

  She gazed in front of her at the road, while for the second time in her company he mentally kicked himself. But she was the sort of woman one instinctively made these remarks to. ‘This road,’ she said, ‘leads to an oasis. It is about fifty miles. And not all of it is as good as this. But we could make it for lunch. And, surprisingly, there is quite a good restaurant there. Would you like that?’

  ‘I think that would be a splendid idea. If you can spare the petrol.’

  She laughed. ‘There is always petrol, if you know where to look. Today the tank is full.’

  The road did indeed deteriorate, quite quickly, but it was absolutely free of traffic, and Monique was a superb driver. Fergus found himself wondering how well she would do under the eagle eye of Sergeant-Major Blair. But Monique Deschards would do ver
y well under anyone’s eye, however eagle. And however often she had to twist the wheel she remained cool and unhurried, although, as it warmed up and she removed the cardigan, he noticed little traces of damp at her armpits. These he found entrancing.

  While she talked throughout the journey, about France, which she obviously loved dearly, about the guilt she felt at having fled, her anxiety to get back. ‘When we return,’ she said. ‘Your army and mine, eh, Fergus?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ he agreed enthusiastically.

  They reached the oasis, and she took him for a walk around the village, a kaleidoscope of closely packed houses painted in a variety of pastel shades, pinks and blues and yellows, all huddled beneath the tall tower of the minaret, and clustered around the bubbling pool of water which irrigated the green fields that surrounded the houses for a distance of about half a mile before ending abruptly in stony desert. ‘There is so much water under the desert,’ Monique said. ‘If one only knew where to look.’

  Lunch was somewhat crude, goatsmeat and soggy beans, but it was heavily spiced and the wine was good if heady. After the meal, as the sun was now very hot, Fergus helped Monique put the canvas hood up, and then leaned back as she commenced the homeward journey. But after they had driven for an hour she pulled off the road. ‘I have drunk too much wine to concentrate,’ she announced. ‘I think I need a siesta before we go on. Unless you would like to drive.’

  They gazed at each other. He should say yes, I will drive, he knew. But he also had drunk too much wine. Not too much to be unable to drive. Just enough not to wish to, but rather to wish to prolong this marvellous day to its ultimate moment. ‘I think a siesta would be rather a good idea,’ he said.

  Monique smiled, and kicked off her shoes. ‘The back seat is more comfortable.’

  He didn’t know whether she was actually inviting him, or not. ‘Supposing someone comes along.’

  ‘And you have not brought your revolver? Never mind, there is a pistol in my handbag.’