Read Online Sicilian Carousel by Lawrence Durrell - Free Book Online

had to make several trips. Both Deeds and I could afford to be smug, having put our night clobber in one small case, which enabled us to forget the rest. But even this small suitcase became a problem when one found oneself inthe lift with the Frenchman who was humping two large ones and a dozen assorted paper bags. We collided repeatedly and at several angles, bumping first our heads (in a convulsion of reciprocal politeness) and then our booming bags. It was hard to get in and hard to get out; the doors closed automatically if one did not keep them open with one’s foot. Getting out we collided once more in the corridor, when in a sort of hissing anguish my companion said, “ Cher maître , excuse me.”
    My heart sank, for I had been recognized; due perhaps to too many television appearances in Paris. But he went on, “Be assured. Your anonymity is safe with me and with my wife. Nobody shall ever know that Lawrence Durrell is with us.” It was like Stendhal meeting Rossini in the lift. He almost genuflected; I suppose that I swelled up with pride like a toad. He walked away backwards down the corridor to his room—like one does for Royalty or the Pope. I went pensively to mine to unpack. Deeds came in with a hip flask and offered me an aperitif before we went down to the cold collation which had been prepared for us in the dining room of the hotel. He approved of my neat packing, and showed quite a streak of psychological insight, for when I said: “I suppose you detect the signs of old maidishness in this mania for tidiness?” he replied, “On the contrary, I detect a camper and a small boat owner. You simply have to be tidy if you are either; since you weren’t in the army I mean.”
    After dinner we smoked a cigar in the garden of the hotel and I tried to divine the nature of the town by sniffing the night air—which was pure and scentless. We were on a pleasant but suburban street, made somehow agreeable by flowering oleander which reminded me of Rhodes in a way, modern Rhodes whose towns are made beautiful by this graceful and tough bush which can feast on the bare rock or the crumbling shale of a deserted riverbed—as it does in Cyprus and Sicily alike. The night was still, and balmy. As we walked to and fro the Frenchman came out and spotting us came over with his visiting card in his hand. “As an ancien préfet de Paris ,” he said, “allow me to make myself known. Count Petremand at your service.” His manners were delightful and innocent of guile. Then he added, “I had the great honor once to help your friend Henry Miller, and he was grateful enough to immortalize me in a short story under my own name—imagine how that pleased me. He had been picked up by the police for not having a residence permit—after two years, mind you. Luckily I was at the Prefecture and … well, fixed him up.” I vaguely remembered him now. “But Miller was totally unknown then,” I said, “and he had published nothing.” Count Petremand held up his hand and smiled. “He was an artist,” he said, “and that was enough for us.” It wouldn’t, I thought, be enough for the competent authorities anywhere else—except perhaps Greece. He joined us in a cigar and the three of us took a turn up and down the warm still garden.“I was touched by your mention of my incognito,” I said with feeling. “I have never had any trouble with it before. Once or twice I have nearly been declared persona non grata but that is all. In fact the only cross I have to bear is that everywhere I go I am asked to sign one of my brother’s books. It is invariable.” I must have sounded rather vehement for Deeds looked at me in some surprise and said, “It hasn’t happened yet.” “It will, Deeds. It will.” (Two days later it did. As usual I obliged, signing the book Marcel Proust, with the