My new passport would not carry me without the Zabit or Police
Magistrate's counter-signature, said H.B.M.'s Consul. Next day I went
to the Zabit, who referred me to the Muhafiz (Governor) of Alexandria,
at whose gate I had the honour of squatting at least three hours, till
a more compassionate clerk vouchsafed the information that the proper
place to apply to was the Diwan Kharijiyah (the Foreign Office). Thus a
second day was utterly lost. On the morning of the third I started, as
directed, for the Palace, which crowns the Headland of Clay. It is a
huge and couthless shell of building in parallelogrammic form,
containing all kinds of public offices in glorious confusion, looking
with their glaring
[p.20]white-washed faces upon a central court, where a few leafless
wind-wrung trees seem struggling for the breath of life in an eternal
atmosphere of clay-dust and sun-blaze.[FN#5]
The first person I addressed was a Kawwas[FN#6] or police officer, who,
coiled comfortably up in a bit of shade fitting his person like a robe,
was in full enjoyment of the Asiatic "Kayf." Having presented the
consular certificate and briefly stated the nature of my business, I
ventured to inquire what was the right course to pursue for a visa.
They have little respect for Darwayshes, it appears, at Alexandria.
M'adri-"Don't know," growled the man of authority, without moving any
thing but the quantity of tongue absolutely necessary for articulation.