Adam Foulds - In the Wolf's Mouth

‘The Bey. Local royalty. As I understand it, he hasn’t had much to do since the French took over. He lives in a palace and he wants to talk to me. A car will collect me tomorrow evening.’

‘Arab johnny?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably dressed up like the bleedin’ haberdashery department. Don’t tell him anything, will you.’

‘I’m not planning to tell him anything. I’ll tell him that we’re going to win the war and I’m wondering what he has got to tell me.’

‘We are going to win the war.’

‘I know we are.’

‘And what does he want you for anyway?’

‘His adviser, his courtier, tells me that he wishes to make contact with his British friends.’

‘Wants a nice white arse then. And don’t go stealing anything.’

‘I wasn’t planning to.’

‘I know it’s tempting. Some fat Arab with more money than sense. He’ll have a lot of knick-knacks, I reckon.’

The car that collected Will was certainly beautiful but he thought that the tyres needed air. They had a rather glutinous grip on the road, stones pinging under the rubber as the car snaked its way along the coast road and Will slid to and fro across the leather upholstery. He held onto the handle above the window to preserve his dignity and looked out at the lilac sea, the landscape pitted with shadows. He looked at the back of the driver’s slender neck that emerged from a wide starched circle of collar; his uniform looked big on him. On top of his head he wore a dove-grey chauffeur’s cap. His gloved hands rotated and Will gripped the handle as the car turned uphill, inland, through orange orchards towards the palace. Will recognised them as orange orchards despite the absence of fruit. The trees were regularly spaced, the leaves waxy dark green. In the dusk, without fruit or blossom, they were dowdy as cattle. Will regretted that it was the least romantic time of the year to see them.

The car slowed to a squidgy halt and the driver sprang out to open Will’s door. Will stood up, ignoring the man, and walked to the palace gate where a guard stood who looked more at home in his uniform. An enormous African, his skin mauve in the evening light, his chest pressed smooth the dark blue cloth of his jacket, tasselled with gold braid. On his head he wore a red fez. In his right hand he held a bared scimitar, its blade shining blue. He pulled open the gate and waited for Will to pass through, his eyes dead ahead. Behind Will, the car rumblingly withdrew.

Another guard or functionary approached wearing a different uniform, a red sash around his waist, and led Will up through a rose arbour to the palace garden. The building itself appeared, large, its many windows mostly unlit, clean cut against the early stars.

And then the man who Will thought must be the Bey appeared in white, smooth-faced, floating towards him. ‘So good of you to come. Welcome.’ He had a neat, subdued moustache and a beard that ran only along his jawline, framing large, plush, shaven cheeks.

‘Your highness.’ Will bowed very slightly from the waist.

The Bey stood still a moment, examining Will or expecting him to say something further. Either way, he was completely motionless, a mannequin standing there, his hands by his sides. Just as Will was about to say something, he jerked back to life. ‘Come. Come and join me.’

He gestured for Will to walk ahead to a table topped with ceramic tiles with a lamp on it beneath an arch of greenery. Will sat and twisted round in his chair when he heard a dry, flustered noise that turned out to be a bird in a large metalwork cage. The bird bounced from perch to perch. A servant approached and placed on the table before them two cups of mint tea, the gold patterning on the glass shining in the lamplight.

‘So,’ the Bey began. ‘Where did you school?’

Will’s school would have been unknown to the Bey. He pretended to misunderstand him. ‘I was at Oxford.’

‘Ah. How excellent. So was I. At Exeter College. Do you miss it? I do, in my maudlin moments. I miss the climate from time to time, would you believe it. Also here there really is nowhere to play golf.’

‘I do miss it I suppose,’ Will said without really meaning it. ‘I’m happy to be out, though. Oxford is where I learned my Arabic.’

Another servant appeared with a silver platter on which were arranged squares of folded cloth. Having sipped his tea, the Bey picked one up with his fingertips, patted his lips with it and let it drop to the floor. When the tray was proffered, Will did the same and discovered that the linens were chilled and scented with rose water. Just dropping it onto the ground was a strange, slightly dreamlike thing to do.

‘Yes, I’ve heard that you speak Arabic. Do you mind, old thing, if we stick to English? It’s such a pleasure for me to speak it.’

‘Not at all, your highness. You speak it so well.’

The Bey tutted at the formulaic compliment and closed his eyes briefly.

‘The reason you were invited here was because the world is at an interesting moment. Things are in flux, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I would.’

‘Of course. Wars. Empires.’ He gestured with a ringed hand. ‘We’ve had rather a lot of them in this part of the world. It seems that one empire is passing so it is time to consider the future, hopefully without barbarians or dark ages.’

‘I see. I’ve met — I think you know I’ve met — countrymen of yours who are preoccupied with the same questions. They are devising some answers.’

‘So I gather. But are they the barbarians, perhaps? It is an interesting question. Perhaps there are other more time-tested forms of authority that could emerge. Once the ghastly French have gone back to Rouen and Dieppe or wherever, their boulevards and puffy old mistresses, as I see it this country will head in one of two ways.’

‘Chaos or …’

‘No, not that. I mean two kinds of state: either a socialist republic or a stable royalist state. I think the gentlemen you have been meeting in déclassé cafés are rather militating for the former but I think that is really in nobody’s interest. Their activities could be useful in creating the latter but I’m hoping for a way in which such things wouldn’t be necessary at all.’

‘Either way, an independent state.’

The bird started jumping again, half opening its wings.

‘Of course. There are Sicilians here contending for the same choices. Did you know that? They’re here, apparently, because they believe or know that once your lot have swept through here, Sicily will be next, and then up across the Continent, and they wish to free Sicily from Italy.’

‘I didn’t know that. I haven’t seen them if they are here.’

‘Possibly you have without realising. I’m told that because of Norman and Moorish invasions, a Sicilian will look either like a Frenchman or like an Arab. That is very convenient here, evidently.’

‘That would be.’

The Bey sipped his tea again, again the servant stooped forward with his platter. The Bey patted his mouth and dropped the cloth.

‘But we’re getting off the topic there,’ the Bey said. ‘I fear that you’ve leaped to a conclusion there with the notion of an independent state. A fledgling state would be a delicate thing. Complete independence might be too much for it. It should be protected, let’s say, helped into the world. Why you are here is because I’d like to put to you a proposition to take away and discuss with others and quietly to set in motion. I would like us to become here, once the French have finally buggered off or been pushed out, rather, I’d like us to become a part of the British Empire.’