The Night Manager

"It was my weekend off," Jonathan replied nimbly, since he did not feel inclined, at this early stage in their relationship, to discuss his sleeping habits.

"Do you always sail on your weekends off?"

"When I'm invited."

"What else do you do on your weekends off?"

"Play a little tennis. Run a little. Consider my immortal soul."

"Is it immortal?"

"I hope so."

"Do you believe so?"

"When I'm happy."

"And when you are unhappy, you doubt it. No wonder that God is so fickle. Why should He be constant, when we are so faithless?"

She was frowning in rebuke at her gold sandals, as if they too had misbehaved. Jonathan wondered whether after all she was sober and merely maintained a different rhythm from the world around her. Or perhaps she does a little of Freddie's drugs, he thought: for there were rumours that the Hamids traded in Lebanese hash oil.

"Do you ride horseback?" she asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"Freddie has horses."

"So I hear."

"Arabs. Magnificent Arabs. People who breed Arab horses are an international elite. You know that?"

"So I have heard."

She allowed herself a pause for meditation. Jonathan availed himself of it: "Is there something I can do for you, Madame Sophie?"

"And this minister, this Mr...."

"Ogilvey."

"Sir Something Ogilvey?"

"Just Mister."

"He is a friend of yours?"

"A sailing friend."

"You were at school together?"

"No. I wasn't at that kind of school."

"But you are of the same class, or whatever the expression is? You may not breed Arab horses, but you are both ― well, my God, what does one say? ― both gentlemen?"

"Mr. Ogilvey and I are sailing companions," he replied with his most evasive smile.

"Freddie also has a yacht. A floating bordello. Isn't that what they are called?"

"I'm sure not."

"I'm sure yes."

She made another pause while she reached out a silk-clad arm and studied the underside of the bracelets on her wrist. "I would like a cup of coffee, please, Mr. Pine. Egyptian. Then I shall ask a favour of you."

Mahmoud the night waiter brought coffee in a copper pot and poured two cups with ceremony. Before Freddie came along she had belonged to a rich Armenian, Jonathan remembered, and before that an Alexandrian Greek who owned dubious concessions along the Nile. Freddie had laid siege to her, bombarding her with bouquets of orchids at impossible moments, sleeping in his Ferrari outside her apartment. The gossip writers had printed what they dared. The Armenian had left town.

She was trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking.

He struck the lighter for her. She closed her eyes and drew on the cigarette. Lines of age appeared on her neck. And Freddie Hamid all of twenty-five, Jonathan thought. He put the lighter on the desk.

"I too am British, Mr. Pine," she remarked, as if this were a grief they shared. "When I was young and unprincipled I married one of your countrymen for his passport. It turned out he loved me deeply. He was a straight arrow. There is no one better than a good Englishman and no one worse than a bad one. I have observed you. I think you are a good one. Mr. Pine, do you know Richard Roper?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But you must. He is famous. He is beautiful. A fifty-year-old Apollo. He breeds horses, exactly as Freddie does. They even talk of opening a stud farm together. Mr. Richard Onslow Roper, one of your famous international entrepreneurs. Come."

"Not a name to me. I'm sorry."

"But Dicky Roper does a lot of business in Cairo! He is English, like you, very charming, rich, glamorous, persuasive. For us simple Arabs, almost too persuasive. He owns a splendid motor yacht, twice the size of Freddie's! How come you do not know him, since you are also a sailor? Of course you do. You are pretending, I can see."

"Perhaps if he has a splendid motor yacht he doesn't have to bother with hotels. I don't read the newspapers enough. I'm out of touch. I'm sorry."

But Madame Sophie was not sorry. She was reassured. Her relief was in her face as it cleared and in the decisiveness with which she now reached for her handbag.

"I would like you to copy some personal documents for me. Please."

"Well now, we do have an executive sendee’s bureau directly across the lobby, Madame Sophie," Jonathan said. "Mr. Ahmadi usually presides at night." He made to pick up the telephone, but her voice stopped him.

"They are confidential documents, Mr. Pine."

"I'm sure Mr. Ahmadi is perfectly dependable."

"Thank you, I would prefer that we use our own facilities," she retorted, with a glance at the copier standing on its trolley in the corner. And he knew she had marked it on her journeys through the lobby, just as she had marked him. From the handbag she drew a wad of white paper, bundled but not folded.

She slid it across the desk to him, her ringed fingers splayed and rigid.

"It's only a very small copier, I'm afraid, Madame Sophie," Jonathan warned, rising to his feet. "You'll have to hand-feed it. May I show you how, then leave you to yourself?"

"We shall hand-feed it together, please," she said, with an innuendo born of tension.