MAC LUNCHES WITH THE SULTAN
In the glaring heat of the Egyptian high-noon hours a car drew up
outside the large hotel in the Sharia Kamel and a more or less soiled
and weather-beaten trooper alighted. He made his way up the steps,
across the shady terrace and into the dim cool depths of the pillared
hall. He had been to an excessively sandy inspection that morning
somewhere in the Sahara, and now his mien betokened appreciative
anticipation of a refresher to his dusty throat. After that a wash
would go rather well, perhaps a cigarette, and then lunch. But, alas,
no such luck! Apparently something out of the ordinary was afoot.
Even the dignity of the heavy-weight, superior, self-satisfied, alleged
Swiss _maitre d'hotel_ was for the moment disturbed. Native s'fragis,
neglecting their work, were voluble, gesticulatory, but quite
unintelligible.
Finally, Mac was led to understand that His Serene Highness the Sultan,
learning of his presence at the hotel, had made known the Imperial wish
that he desired to honour the trooper by entertaining him to lunch.
However, there had been grave difficulties in putting the whole affair
in order. Mac had left early for the desert inspection, and several
envoys, calling in regular succession, had been unable to learn his
Christian name. Moreover, it had been deemed necessary to obtain the
assurance of the General Officer Commanding in Egypt that it would be
quite in order to invite a trooper to the palace of His Serene
Highness. But those small difficulties were duly overcome, and now,
twenty minutes before the appointed hour, an extremely gorgeous and
majestic person presented Mac with the Serene invitation.
Now, he had considered it an extravagance to arise sufficiently early
to permit of his being shaved before the parade. Also his garments,
which had wallowed in the mud of Takapau Camp many months ago, were
constructed for a person of smaller dimensions, and his generous
Government had not taken into consideration such occasions as Sultans'
luncheon parties, when designing the uniform. These were small matters
in his mind, and if the Sultan's Imperial wish was to be granted he
should have the trooper, beard, uniform and all. So, with the
immediate dust of the desert removed and with a borrowed but ancient
shako upon his head, he was salaamed down the steps again with unusual
pomp and flourish.
The Royal equipage conveyed him with much dignity down the long Sharia
Abdin and across the great open square to the palace entrance. As he
entered he acknowledged the salute of the gaudy guard in just that
off-hand manner befitting a bush-country shepherd. He was much bowed
into a great room where there was an epidemic of liveried darkies, a
grand chamberlain or so and a few Cabinet Ministers. In common with
the rest, he was subjected to a thorough spring-cleaning with feather
dusters. Before imperturbable and mighty chamberlains, up to his
ankles in crimson carpet and generally struck with the magnificence of
his surroundings, Mac for a moment lost his nerve, but speedily
recovering himself, informed a tarbooshed individual that it was a fine
day. Unfortunately this conversation did not prove fruitful, for,
besides the fact that the subject of the weather in Egypt is a quickly
exhausted topic, the gentleman to whom the remark had been addressed
soon made it evident that he failed to comprehend. However, the
trooper soon unearthed a magnificently emblazoned official from the
Sudan, who happened to be English, and struck up an acquaintance with
him.
A nervous plucking of garments on the part of some of the company
indicated that the prelude was near an end. Slowly the assembly was
ushered from the room, along a hall, up a wonderful staircase, and at
last into the august presence of His Serene Highness. Mac took note of
the contortions through which his predecessors passed, made his bow and
shook hands with becoming dignity, muttered once more that the day was
fine, and backed across the room. All stood round the chamber, and
talked about nothing to no one. Others entered and did their
gymnastics, until the room contained the whole Cabinet, all portly
persons in tarbooshes, the afore-mentioned Sudan gentleman, and a few
British people, one in khaki. Now came the real thing. All in order,
according to their great greatness or their lesser greatness, filed
from the room, Mac bringing up the rear. The dining-room was an
apartment of a gorgeousness, the like of which he had not seen before.
He was accorded the gentleman from the Sudan on one side, and a Cabinet
Minister with an unpronounceable name on the other. The table was oval
and loaded with a munificence of delicacies on dishes of gold and
silver and a riot of strange exotic flowers.
The epidemic of servants in post-impressionist attire had spread to the
dining-hall. Savoury dishes of rare and exceeding excellence appeared
and disappeared in rapid procession. Dusky men switched one dish
silently away before Mac had half tasted its delights and promptly
replaced it by another. Breakfast was some distance in the rear and
this food of kings was more to his palate than sand stew "_à la_
Zeitun," and the wine stood high in comparison to the watered beer of
Ind, Coope. So all went well. The gentleman from the Sudan talked of
many things, and Mac told him nearly all about God's own country. The
Cabinet Minister chipped in occasionally, but scarcely seemed to
comprehend the vastness of a sheep station with 200,000 sheep and only
a score of shepherds to tend them.
Coffee came, cigars followed, and the trooper made hay while the sun
shone.
Eventually a retreat was made to the ante-room. The haze of tobacco
smoke filled the place, and those who had a language in common spoke
cordially one to the other. At length a thrill ran instinctively, it
seemed, through the company, and all became severely courtly once more.
Chamberlains took up their accustomed places, people said formal things
to each other; obeisances were indulged in, hands shaken, courteous
remarks made, and thus the company gradually evaporated. Mac's turn
came. Before His Serene Highness he successfully accomplished his
sweeping earthward curves, thanked the Sultan for his kindness, but,
unaccustomed to the retrograde manner of leaving a room backwards, he
unfortunately found that the door was in the wrong place, and met the
wall with a resounding thwack. However, it was all in the game, even
though he did not think much of this method of quitting a room. So,
leaving by the normal mode, he was soon back in the old spring-cleaning
room, being salaamed, his hat and appurtenances being returned to him
with the usual Oriental ceremony.
Mac was not quite certain of the rest of the programme and was somewhat
surprised to find that the next act was the meeting at the station of
the New High Commissioner for Egypt. However, why not? It was all
very interesting and there was one of the Sultan's cars waiting. So,
waving a return salute to the Sudanese guard, as it presented arms, he
embarked upon this next little jaunt.
Away through the sun-baked Abdin Square again, back along the Sharia
and past the Ezbekieh, he was soon passing down the narrow lane between
throngs of garlic-scented humanity. At the great iron gates of the
Boulak Station, the car with the trooper, solitary and dignified
within, entered the avenue of Sphinx-like dragoons, well polished and
groomed. This led to a square lined with infantry. In the centre on
one side was the Royal door thrown wide, towards which stretched a
broad ribbon of crimson carpet. The car came to a standstill. Nothing
daunted, the trooper descended in solitary state. An unearthly silence
held the throng and to Mac the carpet seemed interminable, but at last
it ended, and, passing through the cavernous, gloomy opening, he was
soon swallowed up in a great crowd of mighty dignitaries. Acres of the
same crimson carpet covered the platform, its far limits bordered by
khaki soldiers. On it moved a kaleidoscopic gallery of tarbooshes, red
tabs and top hats. Never before had top hats been used officially in
Egypt, and, resurrected from long neglect, were mostly relics of a past
decade. Mac thought they were about as suitable for the climate as a
cellular shirt in the Antarctic. Most of the company looked rather
bored, and he could find no one to speak to, for all were apparently
inwardly dwelling too much upon costume and coming formalities. The
train was late. They grew still more bored. At last, hideously
decorated with flags and shrubbery, it rattled in, hissing and
steaming. From a saloon carriage stepped the new arrival, garbed in
court apparel. Taken in charge by some great officials, he was being
introduced to all and sundry. Mac rather wondered under what high
title, he, a mere private, might be introduced. Among all the mighty
men there, the only one he knew was his Army Corps Commander; so,
placing himself at that gentleman's back, he awaited events. Slowly
the lengthy procedure went on, and slowly the bobbing and bowing grew
closer. At length, clad in clothes of finest silk, the great man came
before the General and his staff, when in due course with a graceful
sweep of his feathered hat he acknowledged the introduction of Mac as
one of the general staff. In the course of time it was all over.
Out through the great porch again, out into the air the great people
passed and dispersed. Mac neglected His Serene Highness's Imperial
conveyance and sought a common taxi, went down the khaki lanes and back
to his hotel. There once more he gained a secluded corner, ordered a
drink and unbuttoned the collar of his tunic.
The Sultan did not forget his guest, Mac. Amidst all his busy life, he
heard, nine months later, that his trooper lay wounded and sick in a
hospital at Alexandria. He despatched an envoy to express his deepest
sympathy, his hopes for better health, and a desire to know the extent
of his wounds. Then, when Mac reached England, the Sultan sent further
messages and inquiries concerning the trooper whom he had honoured at
his table at the Abdin Palace.