reluctantly. In Baedeker land one doesn't often run across impostors. Duplicity is against the law, it is being a Bad Fellow.
But they were only posing as tourists. Playing a game different from Max's; and it frightened him.
Talk at the table stopped. The faces of the three men lost whatever marks of specific passion they had held. The cause was approaching their table: an unremarkable figure wearing a cape and blue eyeglasses.
"Hullo Lepsius," said Goodfellow. "Tire of the climate in Brindisi, did you?"
"Sudden business called me to Egypt."
So the party had already grown from four to seven. Max remembered his vision. What quaint manner of peregrine here: these two? He saw a flicker of communication between the newcomers, rapid and nearly coinciding with a similar glance between Porpentine and Goodfellow.
Was that how the sides were drawn up? Were there sides at all?
Goodfellow sniffed at his wine. "Your traveling companion," he said at last. "We'd rather hoped to see him again."
"Gone to a Switzerland," said Lepsius, "of clean winds, clean mountains. One can have enough, one day, of this soiled South."
"Unless you go far enough south. I imagine far enough down the Nile one gets back to a kind of primitive spotlessness."
Good timing, Max noted. And the gestures preceded the lines as they should. Whoever they were it was none of your amateur night.
Lepsius speculated: "Doesn't the law of the wild beast prevail down there? There are no property rights. There is fighting. The victor wins all. Glory, life, power and property; all."
"Perhaps. But in Europe, you know, we are civilized. Fortunately jungle law is inadmissible."
Odd: neither Porpentine nor Bongo-Shaftsbury spoke. Each had bent a close eye on his own man, keeping expressionless.
"Shall we meet again in Cairo then," said Lepsius.
"Most certainly"; nodding.
Lepsius took his leave then.
"What a queer gentleman," Victoria smiled, restraining Mildred, who'd cocked an arm preparing to heave her rock at his retreating form.
Bongo-Shaftsbury turned to Porpentine. "Is it queer to favor the clean over the impure?"
"It may depend on one's employment," was Porpentine's rejoinder: "and employer."
Time had come for the Fink to close up. Bongo-Shaftsbury took the check with an alacrity which amused them all. Half the battle, thought Max. Out in the street he touched Porpentine's sleeve and began an apologetic denunciation of Cook's. Victoria skipped ahead across rue Cherif Pacha to the hotel. Behind them a closed carriage came rattling out of the drive beside the Austrian Consulate and dashed away hell-for-leather down rue de Rosette.
Porpentine turned to watch it. "Someone is in a hurry," Bongo-Shaftsbury noted.
"Indeed," said Goodfellow. The three watched a few lights in the upper windows of the consulate. "Quiet, though."
Bongo-Shaftsbury laughed quickly, perhaps a bit incredulous.
"Here. In the street . . ."
"A fiver would see me through," Max had continued, trying to regain Porpentine's attention.
"Oh," vague, "of course, I could spare it." Fumbling naively with his wallet.
Victoria watched them from the curb opposite. "Do come along," she called.
Goodfellow grinned. "Here, m'dear." And started across with Bongo-Shaftsbury.
She stamped her foot. "Mr. Porpentine." Porpentine, five quid between his fingertips, looked around. "Do finish with your cripple. Give him his shilling and come. It's late."
The white wine, a ghost of Alice, first doubts that Porpentine was genuine; all could contribute to a violation of code. The code being only: Max, take whatever they give you. Max had already turned away from the note which fluttered in the street's wind, moved off against the wind. Limping toward the next pool of light he sensed Porpentine still looked after him. Also knew what he must look like: a little halt, less sure of his own memories' safety and of how many more pools of light he could reasonably expect from the street at night.
IV
The
But they were only posing as tourists. Playing a game different from Max's; and it frightened him.
Talk at the table stopped. The faces of the three men lost whatever marks of specific passion they had held. The cause was approaching their table: an unremarkable figure wearing a cape and blue eyeglasses.
"Hullo Lepsius," said Goodfellow. "Tire of the climate in Brindisi, did you?"
"Sudden business called me to Egypt."
So the party had already grown from four to seven. Max remembered his vision. What quaint manner of peregrine here: these two? He saw a flicker of communication between the newcomers, rapid and nearly coinciding with a similar glance between Porpentine and Goodfellow.
Was that how the sides were drawn up? Were there sides at all?
Goodfellow sniffed at his wine. "Your traveling companion," he said at last. "We'd rather hoped to see him again."
"Gone to a Switzerland," said Lepsius, "of clean winds, clean mountains. One can have enough, one day, of this soiled South."
"Unless you go far enough south. I imagine far enough down the Nile one gets back to a kind of primitive spotlessness."
Good timing, Max noted. And the gestures preceded the lines as they should. Whoever they were it was none of your amateur night.
Lepsius speculated: "Doesn't the law of the wild beast prevail down there? There are no property rights. There is fighting. The victor wins all. Glory, life, power and property; all."
"Perhaps. But in Europe, you know, we are civilized. Fortunately jungle law is inadmissible."
Odd: neither Porpentine nor Bongo-Shaftsbury spoke. Each had bent a close eye on his own man, keeping expressionless.
"Shall we meet again in Cairo then," said Lepsius.
"Most certainly"; nodding.
Lepsius took his leave then.
"What a queer gentleman," Victoria smiled, restraining Mildred, who'd cocked an arm preparing to heave her rock at his retreating form.
Bongo-Shaftsbury turned to Porpentine. "Is it queer to favor the clean over the impure?"
"It may depend on one's employment," was Porpentine's rejoinder: "and employer."
Time had come for the Fink to close up. Bongo-Shaftsbury took the check with an alacrity which amused them all. Half the battle, thought Max. Out in the street he touched Porpentine's sleeve and began an apologetic denunciation of Cook's. Victoria skipped ahead across rue Cherif Pacha to the hotel. Behind them a closed carriage came rattling out of the drive beside the Austrian Consulate and dashed away hell-for-leather down rue de Rosette.
Porpentine turned to watch it. "Someone is in a hurry," Bongo-Shaftsbury noted.
"Indeed," said Goodfellow. The three watched a few lights in the upper windows of the consulate. "Quiet, though."
Bongo-Shaftsbury laughed quickly, perhaps a bit incredulous.
"Here. In the street . . ."
"A fiver would see me through," Max had continued, trying to regain Porpentine's attention.
"Oh," vague, "of course, I could spare it." Fumbling naively with his wallet.
Victoria watched them from the curb opposite. "Do come along," she called.
Goodfellow grinned. "Here, m'dear." And started across with Bongo-Shaftsbury.
She stamped her foot. "Mr. Porpentine." Porpentine, five quid between his fingertips, looked around. "Do finish with your cripple. Give him his shilling and come. It's late."
The white wine, a ghost of Alice, first doubts that Porpentine was genuine; all could contribute to a violation of code. The code being only: Max, take whatever they give you. Max had already turned away from the note which fluttered in the street's wind, moved off against the wind. Limping toward the next pool of light he sensed Porpentine still looked after him. Also knew what he must look like: a little halt, less sure of his own memories' safety and of how many more pools of light he could reasonably expect from the street at night.
IV
The
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