“He did, did he?”
Things were bound to be fishy in these troubled waters, thought Hornblower, with a simultaneous disapproval of the style of that sentiment.
“Midshipman of the watch!”
“Sir!”
“What do you see over towards the town?”
Smiley trained his glass across the Bay.
“Boat putting out, sir. She’s the same lateen we saw before.”
“Any flag?”
“Yes, sir. Red. Turkish colours, it looks like.”
“Very well. Mr. Jones, we’re going to have an official visitor. You may pipe the side for him.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Now, Mr. Turner, you don’t know what the Mudir wants?”
“No, sir. He wanted to see you, urgently, it seems like. ‘Il capitano’ was all he’d say when we landed — the market was supposed to be ready for us, but it wasn’t. What he wanted was to see the Captain, and so I said you’d see him.”
“He gave no hint?”
“No, sir. He wouldn’t say. But he was agitated, I could see.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” said Hornblower
The Mudir mounted to the deck with a certain dignity, despite the difficulties the awkward ascent presented to his old legs. He looked keenly about him as he came on board; whether or not he understood the compliment that was being paid him by the bos’n’s mates and the sideboys could not be determined. There was a keen hawk‑like face above the white beard, and a pair of lively dark eyes took in the scene about him without revealing whether it was a familiar one or not. Hornblower touched his hat and the Mudir replied with a graceful gesture of his hand to his face.
“Ask him if he will come below,” said Hornblower. “I’ll lead the way.”
Down in the cabin Hornblower offered a chair, with a bow, and the Mudir seated himself. Hornblower sat opposite him with Turner at his side. The Mudir spoke and Turner translated.
“He hopes God has given you the gift of health, sir,” said Turner.
“Make the correct reply,” said Hornblower.
As he spoke he met the glance of the sharp brown eyes and smiled politely.
“Now he’s asking you if you have had a prosperous voyage, sir,” reported Turner.
“Say whatever you think fit,” answered Hornblower.
The conversation proceeded from one formal politeness to another. This was the way of the Levant, Hornblower knew. It could be neither dignified nor tactful to announce one’s business in one’s opening sentences.
“Should we offer him a drink?” awed Hornblower.
“Well, sir, it’s usual over business to offer coffee.”
“Then don’t you think we’d better?”
“You see, sir, it’s the coffee — it’ll be different from what he calls coffee.”
“We can hardly help that. Give the order, if you please.”
The conversation continued, still without reaching any point. It was interesting to note how an intelligent and mobile face like the Mudir’s could give no hint at all of any emotion behind it. But the coffee brought about a change. The sharp eyes took in the thick mugs, the battered pewter coffee pot, while the face remained impassive, and while the Mudir was going through the ceremony of polite refusal and then grateful acceptance; but the tasting of the coffee effected a transformation. Willy nilly, the Mudir could not prevent an expression of surprise, even though he instantly brought his features under control again. He proceeded to sweeten his coffee to a syrup with sugar, and he did not touch the cup, but raised it to his lips by means of the saucer.
“There ought to be little cakes and sweetmeats, too, sir,” said Turner. “But we couldn’t offer him blackstrap and biscuit.”
“I suppose not,” said Hornblower.
The Mudir sipped cautiously at his coffee again, and resumed his speech.
“He says you have a very fine ship, sir,” said Turner. “I think he is coming to the point soon.”
“Thank him and tell him what a wonderful village he has, if you think that’s the right thing,” said Hornblower.
The Mudir sat back in his chair — it was plain that he was not accustomed to chairs — studying first Hornblower’s face and then Turner’s. Then he spoke again; his voice was well modulated, well controlled.