The Key to Rebecca (13 page)

“Ease up on the sirs. No bull in the bar, what?”

“Of course.” Another error.

“What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey and water, please.”

“Shouldn’t take water with it if I were you. Comes straight out of the Nile, they say.”

Wolff smiled. “I must be used to it.”

“No gippy tummy? You must be the only white man in Egypt who hasn’t got it.”

“Born in Africa, been in Cairo ten years.” Wolff was slipping into Smith’s abbreviated style of speech. I should have been an actor, he thought.

Smith said: “Africa, eh? I thought you had a bit of an accent.”

“Dutch father, English mother. We’ve got a ranch in South Africa.”

Smith looked solicitous. “It’s rough for your father, with Jerry all over Holland.”

Wolff had not thought of that. “He died when I was a boy,” he said.

“Bad show.” Smith emptied his glass.

“Same again?” Wolff offered.

“Thanks.”

Wolff ordered more drinks. Smith offered him a cigarette: Wolff refused.

Smith complained about the poor food, the way bars kept running out of drinks, the rent of his flat and the rudeness of Arab waiters. Wolff itched to explain that the food was poor because Smith insisted on English rather than Egyptian dishes, that drinks were scarce because of the European war, that rents were sky-high because of the thousands of foreigners like Smith who had invaded the city, and that the waiters were rude to him because he was too lazy or arrogant to learn a few phrases of courtesy in their language. Instead of explaining he bit his tongue and nodded as if he sympathized.

In the middle of this catalogue of discontent Wolff looked past Smith’s shoulder and saw six military policemen enter the bar.

Smith noticed his change of expression and said: “What’s the matter—seen a ghost?”

There was an army MP, a navy MP in white leggings, an Australian, a New Zealander, a South African and a turbaned Gurkha. Wolff had a crazy urge to run for it. What would they ask him? What would he say?

Smith looked around, saw the MPs and said: “The usual nightly picket—looking for drunken officers and German spies. This is an officers’ bar, they won’t disturb us. What’s the matter—you breaking bounds or something?”

“No, no.” Wolff improvised hastily: “The navy man looks just like a chap I knew who got killed at Halfaya.” He continued to stare at the picket. They appeared very businesslike with their steel hats and holstered pistols. Would they ask to see papers?

Smith had forgotten them. He was saying: “And as for the servants : .. Bloody people. I’m bloody sure my man’s been watering the gin. I’ll find him out though. I’ve filled an empty gin bottle with zibib-you know, that stuff that turns cloudy when you add water? Wait till he tries to dilute that. He’ll have to buy a whole new bottle and pretend nothing happened. Ha ha! Serve him right.”

The officer in charge of the picket walked over to the colonel who had told Wolff to take off his hat. “Everything in order, sir?” the MP said.

“Nothing untoward,” the colonel replied.

“What’s the matter with you?” Smith said to Wolff. “I say, you are entitled to those pips, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Wolff said. A drop of perspiration ran into his eyes, and he wiped it away with a too-rapid gesture.

“No offense intended,” Smith said. “But, you know, Shepheard’s being off limits to Other Ranks, it’s not unknown for subalterns to sew a few pips on their shirts just to get in here.”

Wolff pulled himself together. “Look here, sir, if you’d care to check—”

“No, no, no,” Smith said hastily.

“The resemblance was rather a shock.”

“Of course, I understand. Let’s have another drink.
Ezma!”

The MP who had spoken to the colonel was taking a long look around the room. His armband identified him as the assistant provost marshal. He looked at Wolff. Wolff wondered whether the man remembered the description of the Assyut knife murderer. Surely not. Anyway, they would not be looking for a British officer answering the description. And Wolff had grown a mustache to confuse the issue. He forced himself to meet the MP’s eyes, then let his gaze drift casually away. He picked up his drink, sure the man was still staring at him.

Then there was a clatter of boots and the picket went out.

By an effort Wolff prevented himself from shaking with relief. He raised his glass in a determinedly steady hand and said: “Cheers.”

They drank. Smith said: “You know this place. What’s a chap to do in the evening, other than drink in Shepheard’s bar?”

Wolff pretended to consider the question. “Have you seen any belly dancing?”

Smith gave a disgusted snort. “Once. Some fat wog wiggling her hips.”

“Ah. Then you ought to see the real thing.”

“Should I?”

“Real belly dancing is the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.”

There was an odd light in Smith’s eyes. “Is that so?”

Wolff thought: Major Smith, you are just what I need. He said: “Sonja is the best. You must try to see her act.”

Smith nodded. “Perhaps I shall.”

“Matter of fact, I was toying with the idea of going on to the Cha-Cha Club myself. Care to join me?”

“Let’s have another drink first,” said Smith.

Watching Smith put away the liquor Wolff reflected that the major was, at least on the surface, a highly corruptible man. He seemed bored, weak-willed and alcoholic. Provided he was normally heterosexual, Sonja would be able to seduce him easily. (Damn, he thought, she had better do her stuff.) Then they would have to find out whether he had in his briefcase anything more useful than menus. Finally they would have to find a way to get the secrets out of him. There were too many maybes and too little time.

He could only go step by step, and the first step was to get Smith in his power.

They finished their drinks and set out for the Cha-Cha. They could not find a taxi, so they took a gharry, a horse-drawn open carriage. The driver mercilessly whipped his elderly horse.

Smith said: “Chap’s a bit rough on the beast.”

“Isn’t he,” Wolff said, thinking: You should see what we do to camels.

The club was crowded and hot, again. Wolff had to bribe a waiter to get a table.

Sonja’s act began moments after they sat down. Smith watched Sonja while Wolff watched Smith. In minutes the major was drooling.

Wolff said: “Good, isn’t she?”

“Fantastic,” Smith replied without looking around.

“Matter of fact, I know her slightly,” Wolff said. “Shall I ask her to join us afterwards?”

This time Smith did look around. “Good Lord!” he said. “Would you?”

The rhythm quickened. Sonja looked out across the crowded floor of the club. Hundreds of men feasted their eyes greedily on her magnificent body. She closed her eyes.

The movements came automatically: the sensations took over. In her imagination she saw the sea of rapacious faces staring at her. She felt her breasts shake and her belly roll and her hips jerk, and it was as if someone else was doing it to her, as if all the hungry men in the audience were manipulating her body. She went faster and faster. There was no artifice in her dancing, not any more; she was doing it for herself. She did not even follow the music—it followed her. Waves of excitement swept her. She rode the excitement, dancing, until she knew she was on the edge of ecstasy, knew she only had to jump and she would be flying. She hesitated on the brink. She spread her arms. The music climaxed with a bang. She uttered a cry of frustration and fell backward, her legs folded beneath her, her thighs open to the audience, until her head hit the stage. Then the lights went out.

It was always like that.

In the storm of applause she got up and crossed the darkened stage to the wings. She walked quickly to her dressing room, head down, looking at no one. She did not want their words or their smiles. They did not understand. Nobody knew how it was for her, nobody knew what she went through every night when she danced.

She took off her shoes, her filmy pantaloons and her sequined halter, and put on a silk robe. She sat in front of the mirror to remove her makeup. She always did this immediately, for the makeup was bad for the skin. She had to look after her body. Her face and throat were getting that fleshy look again, she observed. She would have to stop eating chocolates. She was already well past the age at which women began to get fat. Her age was another secret the audience must never discover. She was almost as old as her father had been when he died. Father ...

He had been a big, arrogant man whose achievements never lived up to his hopes. Sonja and her parents had slept together in a narrow hard bed in a Cairo tenement. She had never felt so safe and warm since those days. She would curl up against her father’s broad back. She could remember the close familiar smell of him. Then, when she should have been asleep, there had been another smell, something that excited her unaccountably. Mother and father would begin to move in the darkness, lying side by side; and Sonja would move with them. A few times her mother realized what was happening. Then her father would beat her. After the third time they made her sleep on the floor. Then she could hear them but could not share the pleasure: it seemed so cruel. She blamed her mother. Her father was willing to share, she was sure; he had known all along what she had been doing. Lying on the floor, cold, excluded, listening, she had tried to enjoy it at a distance, but it had not worked. Nothing had worked since then, until the arrival of Alex Wolff ...

She had never spoken to Wolff about that narrow bed in the tenement, but somehow he understood. He had an instinct for the deep needs that people never acknowledged. He and the girl Fawzi had recreated the childhood scene for Sonja, and it had worked.

He did not do it out of kindness, she knew. He did these things so that he could use people. Now he wanted to use her to spy on the British. She would do almost anything to spite the British—anything but go to bed with them ...

There was a knock on the door of her dressing room. She called: “Come in.”

One of the waiters entered with a note. She nodded dismissal at the boy and unfolded the sheet of paper. The message said simply: “Table 41. Alex.”

She crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor. So he had found one. That was quick. His instinct for weakness was working again.

She understood him because she was like him. She, too, used people—although less cleverly than he did. She even used him. He had style, taste, high-class friends and money; and one day he would take her to Berlin. It was one thing to be a star in Egypt, and quite another in Europe. She wanted to dance for the aristocratic old generals and the handsome young Storm Troopers; she wanted to seduce powerful men and beautiful white girls; she wanted to be queen of the cabaret in the most decadent city in the world. Wolff would be her passport. Yes, she was using him.

It must be unusual, she thought, for two people to be so close and yet to love each other so little.

He
would
cut her lips off.

She shuddered, stopped thinking about it and began to dress. She put on a white gown with wide sleeves and a low neck. The neckline showed off her breasts while the skirt slimmed her hips. She stepped into white high-heeled sandals. She fastened a heavy gold bracelet around each wrist, and around her neck she hung a gold chain with a teardrop pendant which lay snugly in her cleavage. The Englishman would like that. They had the most coarse taste.

She took a last look at herself in the mirror and went out into the club.

A zone of silence went with her across the floor. People fell quiet as she approached and then began to talk about her when she had passed. She felt as if she were inviting mass rape. Onstage, it was different : she was separated from them by an invisible wall. Down here they could touch her, and they all wanted to. They never did, but the danger thrilled her.

She reached table 41 and both men stood up.

Wolff said: “Sonja, my dear, you were magnificent, as always.”

She acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

“Allow me to introduce Major Smith.”

Sonja shook his hand. He was a thin, chinless man with a fair mustache and ugly, bony hands. He looked at her as if she were an extravagant dessert which had just been placed before him.

Smith said: “Enchanted, absolutely.”

They sat down. Wolff poured champagne. Smith said: “Your dancing was splendid, mademoiselle, just splendid. Very ... artistic.”

“Thank you.”

He reached across the table and patted her hand. “You’re very lovely.”

And you’re a fool, she thought. She caught a warning look from Wolff: he knew what was in her mind. “You’re very kind, Major,” she said.

Wolff was nervous, she could tell. He was not sure whether she would do what he wanted. In truth she had not yet decided.