by Damon Galgut
Money again. The young man seemed to be genuine, but what if his affections were for sale? It would tarnish every word that had passed between them.
An incident which occurred soon afterwards, however, pushed Morgan’s doubts aside. An inspector climbed onto the tram a little while after he did and asked to see his ticket. Mohammed spoke to the man in Arabic, and a heated exchange followed. When things cooled down again, Morgan asked what was happening.
“I have told him you have authorisation from the Station Manager.”
“But that isn’t true.”
“I find a certain amount of lies necessary to life.”
This reply silenced Morgan, but at the next stop the inspector halted the tram while he climbed down and telephoned back to the station. Another explosive row ensued before the man waved the tram on, leaving Morgan alone with his friend.
After the shouting, the silence seemed big.
“Is everything all right? I knew I should pay for my ticket.”
The dark eyes of the conductor were a little darker, but otherwise his expression was serene. “I am to get the sack,” he told Morgan.
“What?” He peered into the young man’s face, hoping that he was joking. “But this is too awful, too appalling . . . ”
“Why so? I have performed a good action.”
The answer was given with perfect sincerity. In a moment Morgan saw his new friend differently. Mohammed stood to lose his livelihood, and he wasn’t appealing to the Englishman for help. On the contrary, he seemed to want to comfort him. Seeing Morgan’s distress, he said innocently, “Please answer me one question. When you went to India, how many miles was it?”
“I don’t know or care!” His mind was scrabbling for purchase in a new, uncharted territory. “Whenever shall I see you again?”
The conductor thought the question over. “I might try to meet you one evening. In my civil clothes, perhaps.”
Flustered, feeling dizzy, Morgan alighted from the tram. Watching it recede from him, carrying the small, dark figure that stood out now from all others, he was awash in emotions, none of them happy. What had he been playing at, accepting charity from somebody poorer and weaker than himself? In a whimsical, half-asleep way, he had brought about a great calamity for this young man, whose welfare he’d wanted to care for.
He went to see Robin Furness the next morning. Furness knew a great many people; if anybody could suggest a solution, it would be Robin. Though it had to be approached delicately. A great deal between the two men was understood, but not explicitly. One could easily be too blunt about these matters.
So Morgan spoke about the fine young fellow he’d met on the tram, and how much better he was than the usual examples of his class, and the kindness he’d tried to show by not letting him pay; and how he, Morgan, had taken an interest—perhaps misguidedly—in him, though not of course in any inappropriate way; and how the best intentions had somehow gone awry and led to this terrible misunderstanding . . . And when the situation—haltingly and evasively—had been made plain, Robin nodded.
“As it happens,” he said, “I know the Station Manager and I’m going to be seeing him later. Even better, he owes me a favour. I’ll speak to him and let you know what he says.”
“Oh. But that’s splendid. Perhaps it can all be settled then.”
“Perhaps it can.” Robin shifted behind his desk, not quite meeting Morgan’s eyes.
By midday, a note was brought to Morgan at the Red Cross offices. All was well, it told him; but in any event Robin would like to see him that evening at the club to talk the matter through.
Morgan was elated. He had done something for his new friend! And his gratitude to Robin was correspondingly voluble. It was such a kind deed, and really it was a favour to Morgan, not to the tram conductor, whom Robin had never met, and if there were ever an opportunity for him, Morgan, to repay the generosity, Robin had only to say the word. The British Empire was at its best under men like him, and all its injustices were somehow made invalid when the right thing was done . . .
Tall and dry, composed of jointed segments like a large, untidy bird, Robin seemed always uncomfortable, but more than usually so at this moment. “Yes, yes, quite so, it’s good of you to say it.” He waved a big hand in dismissal. “However, Morgan . . . ”
“Yes?”
He had become serious. “It’s not for me to advise you, of course. I’m sure you can take care of yourself. But in matters like these, where there is such a difference in every way, you know, class and worldview and all that, I’m sure you understand . . . ”
“I’m sure I do.”
“One can’t be too careful. People talk, you know, people notice. One has to observe the proprieties. I’m as enthusiastic as you are, naturally, about somebody like this fellow, who tries to rise above his position. But you can’t always believe what you’re told. He was never going to get the sack, for one thing. He was merely going to be fined.”
“I think that’s a problem of language, Robin. His English isn’t excellent.”
“Yes, perhaps. But how do you know he wasn’t deceiving you?”
“A fine for somebody in his position is bad enough.”
“I take your point. But do you take mine? I’m only saying that perhaps you ought to find out more.” He considered Morgan over the rim of his brandy glass. “Perhaps you ought to learn a lot more about him before you think of . . . showing an interest. One knows nothing about these people. They present a friendly face and one wants to believe it, but, you know, a situation can develop. Like this one, which has happily been resolved, of course, but next time . . . ”
“Next time may not be so simple.”
“Quite so. I do hope you understand that I speak to you as a friend. At the very least, Morgan, I think you should refrain from travelling on this man’s tram. You have got him out of a tight spot and that’s enough. Perhaps later you can resume the acquaintance, but for the moment . . . ”
He felt sobered by the warning. And for a few hours afterwards, he contemplated its implications. Robin had got the wind up, and had put the wind up him.
But he felt this way only briefly. The next day, through all his hours of work, he kept thinking about Mohammed, remembering the calmness of his face as he’d said that he’d performed a good action. The qualities he’d seen in him didn’t belong with Robin’s warning. No, Mohammed wasn’t a deceiver; he was the missing piece of Egypt that Morgan had been longing for and, if he gave in now to his fears, this one chance would pass him by.
So it was with relief and a curious sense of pride that he boarded the tram that evening. The two of them looked at each other and smiled; something had been agreed between them.
“Did you speak to the Manager?” Mohammed asked immediately.
“No, I didn’t.”
“But the problem is disappear.”
“Yes, I know.”
Mohammed might have asked more, but there were a few other passengers and he was kept busy for the first part of the journey. When the car was emptier, he moved towards Morgan and sat on the seat beside him. Their thighs, in their respective khaki uniforms, pressed momentarily together.
“I want to see you after work,” Morgan said. “Will you meet with me?”
The reply was soft but vehement. “Any time, any place, any hour!”
Six words that struck him like a slap. He was so filled with feeling that he got off the tram at Sidi Gaber, several stops early, and had to stumble home on foot through the dark.
* * *
It was with deep anxiety that he waited on the Sunday evening in Mazarita. He kept taking out the tram ticket, on the back of which he’d written directions, in order to read them again. People were pushing past, and a minute of confusion followed before he understood that the quiet, smart figure standing close by was Mohammed.
T
hey hadn’t recognised each other because for the first time neither was in uniform: Morgan wore tennis whites, which for some reason had seemed appropriate, and the Egyptian a dark coat, white flannel trousers and gym shoes. He also had on a pair of spectacles, which changed the shape of his face. They had stepped outside the world in which they’d met, and both of them were curiously shy.
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.
