The Old House on the Corner

by Maureen Lee

  Driving the colonel to and from the base camp and the scene of battle could be more dangerous than taking part in the fighting. On several occasions shots were fired at the car from a stray German tank that had inadvertently crossed enemy lines. Fortunately, they missed every time and Ernest and the colonel pretended to ignore them, Ernest merely pressing his foot on the accelerator and driving even faster, so the car was submerged in a huge cloud of powdery sand. It didn’t make them less of a target, but they felt safer.

  The colonel was forty-five and had been a soldier all his life. He had fought in the Great War to end all wars. Around his neck, he wore a purple silk scarf that had been given to him by his fiance´e, now his wife, in 1917. It was his lucky mascot and had kept him safe in two world wars. Educated at Eton, Harrow, and Sandhurst, he had a cut-glass accent and the coarsest sense of humour Ernest had ever encountered. Short and tubby with a perfectly round face and a slight squint, he always wore a heavy-weight suede jacket, despite the sweltering heat, and consumed whisky by the bottle, at least one a day, though he managed to remain in control of all his faculties.

  He and Ernest got on well. They argued a lot, mainly about politics. Ernest was a solid Labour man, while the colonel was a right-wing Conservative who considered Churchill a woolly Liberal.

  In the jubilation and chaos following the Allies’ magnificent victory at El Alamein, one morning Ernest was commanded to take the colonel into Cairo so he could buy another supply of whisky. Ernest loved Cairo, having spent a few days leave there a year ago and been captivated by the mysterious atmosphere, the narrow streets, the dirt and the strange smells. He’d already taken the colonel there numerous times for fresh supplies of spirits, when all he’d had to do was wait in the staff car, then carry the crates to the boot.

  The same thing happened that morning and they were on their way back to base camp, the colonel already halfway through a bottle of whisky that usually lasted all day, when Ernest was startled by a shot that sounded alarmingly close, followed by another and another. When he turned, the colonel was firing his pistol out of the rear window with a dangerously unsteady hand, an empty bottle on the seat beside him.

  ‘Got you, you bastard,’ he roared at the empty desert.

  Ernest stopped the car. ‘Will you put that gun away, please, sir?’

  The colonel laughed maniacally. ‘I’m the one who gives the orders round here, Burrows.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of giving an order, sir, I’m just asking you nicely.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ the colonel said grudgingly. He withdrew his hand, dropped the pistol, bent to retrieve it, another shot rang out, and the colonel said disbelievingly, ‘I’ve shot myself in the ruddy foot!’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get you to hospital straight away.’ Calmly, Ernest started up the car and sped in the direction of base camp.

  ‘Turn around, you numbskull,’ the colonel screamed. ‘Take me back to Cairo.’

  ‘But what you need is a hospital, sir!’

  ‘I need medical treatment, but not in a ruddy Army hospital. I’ve just shot myself in my own ruddy foot, man. It’s not what soldiers are supposed to do. If the Army find out, I’ll be in very deep shit. Turn the ruddy car around and take me back to Cairo – that’s an order, Burrows, and if you don’t obey it, I’ll shoot you in the back of your ruddy head.’

  Three hours later, the colonel was ensconced in a bed with gold brocade drapes in a sumptuous bedroom in an apartment belonging to friends whose current whereabouts were unknown – the woman who looked after the place obviously knew the colonel and had let him and Ernest in without a murmur. Her name was Leila.

  A doctor was sent for who spoke excellent English. He removed the bullet – the colonel didn’t even grimace while this was done – dressed the wound, and said he would call again tomorrow. The patient was given tablets to reduce the pain and help him sleep – he immediately took four when he’d been advised to take two, and washed them down with whisky. Minutes later, he was snoring.

  Ernest left him to it and investigated the apartment that comprised the entire third floor of a magnificently gaudy building on the island of Gezira on the Nile, set like a jewel in the very heart of Cairo. There were three more bedrooms, a living room at least thirty feet long, two bathrooms – one black marble, the other cream – a dining room and a study. The door to the kitchen was open, but he didn’t venture inside: he could glimpse Leila sitting patiently at the table, probably wondering what had hit her. She was very old, her brown face a cobweb of creases.

  The place was like a miniature palace: the furniture exquisitely carved, the walls covered with richly embroidered hangings and erotic paintings, the curtains made from thick ornamental silks and brocades. Giant fans rotated on the ceilings and the patterns on the mosaic floors made him dizzy if he looked at them too long. He reckoned the contents of the apartment had cost more money than he would earn in his lifetime.

  Who did the place belong to? Whoever they were, they must be as rich as Croesus. The big room was full of photographs in silver frames. The same couple appeared in every one, a man and woman very alike, middle-aged and elegantly dressed, accompanied by other couples who were never the same. He found one of the colonel with a stout woman wearing layers of floating lace, the elegantly dressed couple either side of them. All four were linking arms.

  What was he supposed to do with himself now? He couldn’t very well abandon the colonel and return to base on his own – not that he felt the faintest inclination to do so. He liked being where he was and decided to go for a walk around Cairo. After a double dose of sleeping tablets, it would be ages before the colonel returned to the land of the living.

  He went into the black bathroom, ran a lukewarm bath, and scrubbed himself with a loofah and a block of highly scented soap. When he finished, the bottom of the bath held a layer of sand that had collected between his toes, under his arms, in his hair, his ears, and in a fine layer all over his body. He dried himself, saw in the mirror that there were too many crinkles around his eyes for a chap of twenty-two, which had come from squinting too much at the sun and the glistening sand. With an expression of distaste, he eyed the baggy, sweat-stained shorts, rancid socks, and rundown boots that he’d recently removed and now felt reluctant to touch, let alone put back on. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt and his beret looked as if it had been used as a football – he vaguely remembered that it had.

  Ernest didn’t hesitate. He went into one of the opulent bedrooms and examined the contents of the wardrobe. It contained only women’s clothing – he wasn’t that desperate. In the next room, the wardrobe was empty except for a row of ruched velvet hangers, but the third was crammed with men’s stuff. He picked out a short-sleeved white shirt, white shorts and white pumps. He’d have everything cleaned before he left and no one would know they’d been used. All he had with him in money was a few piastres, enough to buy a couple of beers.

  This was the life! The sun was going down, the sky was purple with dramatic slashes of blue and green, and a few faint stars had appeared. Ernest jingled the coins in his pocket as he walked slowly along a narrow, lantern-lit street with shops and stalls on both sides and smelling to high heaven, mainly of dung. Within the space of ten minutes, he’d been offered dirty postcards, women, a small, pathetic looking boy, flash jewellery, and some foul looking meat that he wouldn’t have touched had he been about to die of starvation. With every step he took, he was tempted with more women, more postcards, temptations he had no difficulty in turning down.

  There were plenty of servicemen about, not just British, but Australians, Indian troops wearing turbans, the French in their kepis, a couple of New Zealanders. Like Ernest, not everyone was in uniform, but were recognizably fighting men. They nodded at each other or smiled, still buoyed after their recent victory over the Jerries.

  Somewhere in the region there was a British pub run by an ancient geezer called Reuben who’d served in the Boer War. He found it around the next
corner. It was called the Queen Victoria and sold beer like no beer he’d ever tasted before and a selection of Egyptian wines that could take the roof off your mouth.

  Inside, the long tables and benches were packed to capacity and there was little room even to stand. The noise was deafening and the smell of dung had been replaced by one of sweat and musty socks and boots. To whet the appetite, a poster advertising Guinness adorned the clay walls, although it hadn’t been in stock on Ernest’s previous visit and wasn’t now and probably wouldn’t be again until the war was over.

  He bought a pint of watery beer and spent the next couple of hours explaining to fellow soldiers why he looked so clean and smelled so fresh and, no, he wasn’t wearing scent, he said indignantly, it was the soap he’d washed with. When describing the course of his unusual day, he left out the real reason for the colonel’s accident and said he’d tripped getting out of the car and broken his ankle. It wouldn’t do for the truth to get back to those on high.

  When he returned to the apartment, the colonel was still asleep, still snoring, and Leila was still sitting patiently in the kitchen.

  ‘Bed.’ Ernest pressed his hands together and put them against his cheek. ‘You go bed now.’

  She seemed to understand, nodded tiredly, and went through a door at the other end of the kitchen, giving him a little nod as if to wish him goodnight.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Ernest said, and went to bed himself.

  Next morning, the colonel woke in a foul temper. He churlishly refused the ta’amiyya – beans and spices fried in a patty – that Leila brought him, although gulped down the bitter black coffee, then commanded Ernest to give him a hand as far as the bathroom.

  ‘Get me a glass of water,’ he said after he’d been helped back to bed, ‘and put a slug of whisky in it.’

  ‘How much is a slug, sir?’

  ‘An inch or two. And where’s them ruddy tablets the doctor left? My foot’s hurting like blazes.’

  ‘Not surprising, sir, seeing as how you shot it.’

  The colonel gave him a suspicious glare. ‘You’re looking remarkably fit this morning, Burrows. Where did those clothes come from?’

  ‘One of the wardrobes, sir. I hope the owner won’t mind, but me own stuff’s not fit to wear. I didn’t think,’ he added innocently, ‘that I’d need a change of gear when I came to Cairo yesterday. I’ve no money, either, although I suppose I could always drive back to camp and collect me wallet.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. If they see you, they might make you stay and I don’t want to be stuck here on my own.’ He pouted childishly. ‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you got a message through. Tell them I’ve had an accident, that I’ve …’ He paused.

  ‘Broken your ankle, sir?’

  ‘That’ll do fine, Burrows. Thank you. Help yourself to a few quid from my trouser pocket, it’s English and you’ll have to change it – I want it back, mind.’ With that, the colonel took another four tablets with the whisky and water and was fast asleep within minutes.

  Ernest took two pounds out of the trousers, ate his own breakfast, and left the apartment. He remembered that the doctor was coming back today, but Leila could see to him.

  This certainly was the life, Ernest crowed as he strolled across the Qasr el-Nil Bridge, the Nile gleaming beneath him, the air sparkling and as fresh as it could ever be in Cairo.

  He reached the mainland and continued to stroll, passing the British and American embassies, through the Garden City. He’d walked a couple of miles by the time he reached Old Cairo with its narrow streets, bazaars, stalls, tiny coffee houses, and offers of postcards, women, and untouchable food. A goat wandered across his path, he had to move out of the way of a donkey and cart. This was the part he liked most, throbbing with life, noise, music, crime, even depravity – he’d already had two small boys pushed under his nose.

  He was about to enter the Queen Victoria, aching for a pint to quench his thirst, when a woman approached.

  ‘Sir,’ she began, but Ernest interrupted with a curt, ‘Sorry, luv. I’m not interested,’ but the woman persisted.

  ‘Sir, I look for Anna Kosztolanyi, if you please.’

  Ernest shrugged. ‘Never heard of her, sorry. I’m a stranger round here.’

  ‘She live by here, sir.’ She grabbed his bare arm and Ernest, irritated, was about to shake her hand away, when he realized she was holding him for support. Her eyes half closed, her knees buckled, and he managed to catch her just in time, laying her gently on to the ground outside the entrance to the pub.

  He looked at her properly for the first time and was surprised to see she wasn’t a native, but European, about fifty, dressed in black, her head covered with a black scarf. From the well-preserved face he could tell that she was a woman of means, or had been until recently. Now her clothes were thick with dust and the nails on her smooth hands were broken.

  ‘Nana est morte!’ a plaintive voice cried and Ernest suddenly found himself surrounded by children, the biggest, a girl holding a baby in her arms. They were pale-skinned, dark-eyed, and their faces were tight with exhaustion and fear.

  He only knew a few French words and one was morte. It meant dead. ‘Not morte,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Your nana’s just fainted.’

  Two Australian servicemen were about to enter the Queen Victoria. ‘Do us a favour, mate,’ Ernest called, ‘ask Reuben if he knows a woman called Anna something. She lives around here and might be French.’

  One of the Australians returned within a few minutes. ‘She’s Hungarian and she lives in the flat upstairs, the stairs to your right. D’you need a hand, mate?’

  ‘It’s all right, I think she’s coming round.’ The woman’s eyes were flickering open. She groaned, saw Ernest bending over her, and struggled to a sitting position. ‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,’ she stammered, followed by a string of French he didn’t understand.

  ‘The woman you want’s up there.’ He pulled her to her feet and took her to a narrow, stone stairway at the side of the pub, and supposed he’d better help her up. The children trailed after them and he could hear their feet dragging tiredly on the steep, stone stairs.

  Ernest knocked on the single door at the top. A young woman opened it, almost too pretty to be true, with a cloud of golden curls, blue eyes, and rosy lips. Her skin had the lustre of the finest china and he immediately wanted to stroke it, imagining it to be cool and firm underneath his tough, coarse fingers. She was tiny, hardly coming up to his shoulder, and wore a white caftan with embroidery around the neck and hem. Through the thin cotton, he could make out her white brassiere and pants and tried not to stare too openly.

  ‘Anna Kosto …?’ He struggled to get the name out, but couldn’t remember the rest. ‘This lady’s been looking for you.’

  ‘I am Anna Kosztolanyi, yes.’

  The woman burst into tears and, as if this was some sort of signal, the children also began to cry, the baby included. Anna smiled, and the smile almost took Ernest’s breath away. It was so sweet, so welcoming, as if it came from the very bottom of her heart. She reached for the woman’s hand and drew her inside. The children stumbled after her, and Ernest, who had intended making a run for it at this point, found himself following into a large, low-ceilinged room with windows on three sides and furnished with an assortment of chairs, none of which matched, and scraps of faded carpet. Everyone found seats and the woman began to speak in a stream of lilting French, waving her arms dramatically, rolling her eyes, twice even baring her teeth – Ernest assumed she was describing her reasons for being there.

  Anna had seated herself at a table piled with papers and books and an elderly typewriter. She was taking notes and, when the woman had finished, she turned to Ernest and said in a high, bell-like voice with only a trace of foreign accent, ‘Madame Montand has come all the way from Algeria with her six grandchildren. They started off with a car and plenty of money, but first the car was stolen, then the money. They have been walking for weeks, begging for foo
d, sleeping in the desert or in doorways. They are all very tired. I have been asked to tell you that Madame very much appreciates your help, but now you must go. She doesn’t want to take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Why have they come to Cairo?’ Ernest enquired. He didn’t want to go, preferring to stay in the presence of the breathtaking Anna.

  ‘Because Madame Montand and her family are Jewish,’ Anna said a trifle impatiently. ‘Her daughter-in-law, the children’s mother, recently died of blood poisoning and her son is away, fighting the war on the side of the Free French. She is aware of how Jews are being treated in Germany, she has heard of the death camps, she knew Rommel was winning the war in the desert, and was expecting the whole of North Africa to end up in German hands. She wants to get the children to the safety of Palestine before it is too late. Trains go from Cairo to Palestine and I shall arrange the paperwork for her.’

  ‘But the Germans have been beaten good and sound,’ Ernest argued. ‘From now on, she’ll be quite safe in Cairo with the kids.’

  ‘The British won the last battle, but the Germans won many before,’ Anna replied, even more impatiently. ‘Who’s to say there won’t be more battles and their side won’t win next time? They are desperate for control of the Suez Canal; they might try again. Besides, Madame Montand has no money and nowhere to live in Cairo. She has a sister in Palestine she can stay with.’

  Ernest didn’t try to argue with her logic. His heart was racing and he was sweating as he desperately tried to think up reasons not to go. He felt drawn to Anna Kosztolanyi in a way he’d never been to a woman before. He didn’t want to leave, even though she was making it obvious she wanted rid of him.

  ‘Would you like me to fetch something to eat?’ he offered hopefully.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I have plenty of food. In a minute, I shall make some coffee. I think everyone is too tired to eat just now.’ She indicated the children who had all fallen asleep.