“Really, Julia, one would think after sixteen years you would know me quite well enough.” Mercifully there were no more questions. At least, I thought, he remembers how old I am.
At last we reached Istanbul, where we would board the steamer that would take us to our destination of Syria. I had moved so far and so fast, I felt I had glimpsed everything and seen nothing. Now as I stepped from the train, I was aware of stepping into a world that had been made for others and not for me. Everything seemed strange. There was a spicy, ripe smell, as if the country were very ancient, as indeed it was. Men moved about in long gowns or pleated trousers. They wore turbans or fezzes. The sun beat down on me, warming my body; even the cobblestones I stood on radiated heat.
Knowing that Turkish customs officers would board the train, my father had taken measures to conceal any books or papers. Even our Baedeker guidebook was forbidden in Turkey.
“Why are the Turks so suspicious?” I asked.
“They are worried about foreigners bringing in propaganda to incite revolution among their subjects. Since there are revolutionaries like the Young Turks making trouble, I’m not sure they aren’t right to take precautions.”
I quickly looked around to see if any of Father’s Young Turks were about with their troublemaking, but if a revolutionary was nearby, I could not discover him.
The officers inspected our passports and asked the amount of currency we were bringing in: “Combien d’effectif?” Father’s reply satisfied them, and in a moment the officers had passed on to the next compartment.
My frustration at hurtling through countries and seeing so little must have been obvious to my father, for he apologized. “Just now I’m due in Beirut, but when we return, I promise to allow you a few days here in Istanbul.” As a further consolation to me, on the carriage trip that took us from the train to the steamer, Father gave the driver a generous sum to pass the famous mosque known as Hagia Sophia.
I saw with awe how man had made the dome to stretch over his place of worship, as God had stretched the sky over man. In my amazement the only words I could manage were a weak “It’s very large.”
“For so meager a comment, Julia, I might have spared us the trip through these filthy streets.”
I sighed, wondering if I would ever meet my father’s expectations.
I had no sooner become used to the train than it was time to board the steamer that would take us to Syria. Syria was still nothing more than a name, for I had no pictures in my mind to go with it. I thought it a kind of miracle that in a matter of days I could go from one continent to another, and I wondered if my impressions would ever catch up to me.
When we arrived at the dock, Father spoke rapidly to the douanier, the customs officer, in a language I did not understand, handing him some gold coins. A moment before, the man had been ready to delve into our luggage, but this apparently changed his mind. The detour past the mosque had cost us time, and we boarded the steamer just as it was about to sail. There was some confusion about our accommodations, and Father, whose years in the foreign service must have prepared him for misunderstandings, shrugged good-naturedly and went to speak with the purser. I stood alone at the rail, staring greedily at Istanbul’s seven hills, with their white domes and clusters of minarets aimed toward the blue sky like rockets. Seeing what I had not really seen at all, I felt like a child who has been given a shiny new toy only to have it snatched away.
“You look as though you are sorry to leave.” The comment came from a young man standing next to me. He was about my cousin Teddy’s age, tall, with ginger hair and hooded eyes that were amazingly blue. He seemed to approach me for the purpose of amusing himself, as if my response would not matter to him one way or the other. His look of detachment couldn’t quite disguise an underlying impatience, as though he were putting off some extraordinary reward.
“I don’t mean to trespass,” he said, “but you do look terribly wistful. My name is Graham Geddes.”
“I’m Julia Hamilton.” I couldn’t supress a sigh. “In the last few days I’ve traveled so far and seen so little.”
“My experience has been rather the opposite,” he said, and then he quickly changed the subject, as if he wanted to distract me from his first comment. “Surely you saw Saint Sophia?”
“But it’s not a cathedral anymore. It’s a mosque—Hagia Sophia.”
“They’ve added on minarets and plastered over the Byzantine mosaics, if that’s what you mean. What else did you see? The Hippodrome?”
“I’m afraid I don’t even know what that is.”
“It started out as a racecourse for chariots. Emperors were crowned there and the odd martyr burned at the stake.” He saw my look of dismay. “Not your cup of tea? But of course—you are traveling to see only what will give pleasure.”
“I am traveling to see everything that is worth seeing, whether it gives me pleasure or not.”
“Touché,” he said. “You mustn’t mind my boorishness. I haven’t had much practice in the social amenities these last weeks. Please don’t go away. Let me practice on you.”
“You needn’t apologize,” I said. “I freely admit to being uninformed and leading a sheltered life.”
“I’ve heard my sister say the same thing, but I tell her people build their own shelters. She says I’m a pretentious snob, and so I am. Still, I find it hard to look at Istanbul and not remember that only a dozen years ago England and Russia turned their backs while the sultan ordered thousands of Armenians to be slaughtered here.”
I shuddered. “You seem to know a lot about the past, and not very nice things at that.”
“I’m studying history at Oxford, and history is full of unpleasant things.”
“Those warships in the harbor don’t look very pleasant,” I said.
“Those are the sultan’s. He sits in his palace looking out over the Bosporus, hatching his plots and trusting no one, not even his own navy. He doesn’t allow ammunition on those warships, lest his own men turn the guns on him.”
“Might they do that?”
“I fervently hope so.” The anger in his voice surprised me. It was so strong, it appeared almost personal.
I didn’t want to hear any more about warships and burning martyrs and slaughtered Armenians. Graham Geddes seemed to imply there was something to be done about such things, but if there was, surely we would not be the ones to do it. I was attracted to the young man in a way I couldn’t explain. When my father talked about world events, it was so impersonal, I could never find my way into the events and quickly lost interest. Graham Geddes’s emotion made me feel history was alive.
There was something else as well. I supposed it was my hopeless romanticism, but there seemed to be between us some other communication than the one we were speaking aloud, so that even if our conversation should stop, that secret communication would go on.
I became aware that the top button of my blouse had become undone, and I could not think which was worse, leaving it that way or awkwardly fumbling with it. I raised my hand to make some effort.
Graham Geddes had been watching me, and now he leaned over and fastened the closing. It was an impertinent act, but it was done so simply, he might have been dressing a child. He grinned. “Mustn’t be untidy, must we?”
To cover my embarrassment, I asked, “Where are you traveling to?”
“I’m going to see something of Syria for research I’m doing at Oxford, although just lately I’ve been frittering away a few weeks in Athens.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him, for his answer sounded practiced, as if he had rehearsed it. There was some delay over the raising of the gangplank, to allow a pair of Turkish soldiers in smart uniforms and fezzes to come aboard. Graham Geddes’s face turned ashen. He looked as if he might have to undergo a trial and did not have the strength for it. The soldiers were approaching passengers, most of whom looked like Turkish nationals, and asking to examine their papers. I was startled to see one of them approach Geddes. He
recovered his composure and offered his British passport with as much nonchalance as a vicar’s wife handing out a cup of tea.
The soldier painstakingly turned the pages, studying each stamp until one of them caught his attention. “You have come from Salonika?” I was surprised. Geddes had said he had come from Athens, not northern Greece.
“I am a student of history with an interest in the ruins of Macedonia.”
The soldier appeared skeptical. “And now?”
“More ruins—Palmyra.”
For a moment the soldier appeared to consider whether the answer was insolent, even suspicious. And then an odd thing happened. The soldier handed back the passport. “I have a cousin in Salonika,” he said, and smiling at Geddes in a way that could only be described as sharing a secret, he added, “Salonika is a fine city.” He saluted and turned on his heel. In another moment he had joined the other soldier, and the two of them were making their way down the gangplank. The steamer began to shake and lurch, and the strip of sea between the pier and the boat grew wider. I started to tell my companion that my father and I were going to Palmyra as well, but before I could get the words out, he excused himself.
I was alarmed at my reaction to this stranger. I had never felt so attracted to anyone. I wanted to go after him. He seemed to offer more adventure than the trip itself. The exciting thing was that he was my adventure and not my father’s.
When Father joined me on deck, I asked, “Tell me something about the city of Salonika.”
“Salonika is a nest of conspiracy. The Turkish sultan would like to get his hands on Süleyman Nazif and his revolutionary Young Turks, who are making trouble for him there. The Young Turks want to get rid of the sultan and take over the government of the Ottoman Empire.”
“But I saw a Turkish soldier examine the passport of someone next to me, and he seemed more friendly after he saw the man had come from Salonika.”
“That’s a different story. Many of the Turkish solders are sympathetic to the Young Turks.”
“Why is that?”
“I suppose they are tired of poor food and not getting paid. When the term of their forced service in the Turkish army is over, the sultan shoves them back into the army for another stretch. Why are you asking these questions? You’re in a bit over your head, aren’t you? By the way, who was the man you saw having his passport checked?”
“I don’t know. Just some man.” I did not want to share Graham Geddes with my father.
“Surely, pretending as you do to an artist’s eye, you can describe him a little more fully than that.”
“He was an old man with dark skin and white hair.” It was the first lie since I was a child that I had told my father. It didn’t make me feel guilty. I thought it a harmless secret and only fair that I should have a secret of my own: My father had so many.
V
BEIRUT
FATHER LEFT ME at our hotel, promising to be back sometime in the afternoon. He didn’t warn me to stay at the hotel, knowing that in so unfamiliar a city, it was what I was sure to do. Stepping into the unknown streets appeared as dangerous to me as stepping into the middle of a river whose depth I couldn’t guess. “I might just as well be back home,” I lamented, and wandered out into the hotel garden feeling the whole city was for sale and I had no money.
There was little in the garden to cheer me. The stone bench upon which I sat was chipped and cracked, with aggressive vines clawing at its feet. I was surrounded by exotic plants, but they were all shabby: tattered palms, lemon trees with shriveled fruits, and forlorn shrubs with garish blooms the colors and size of gaudy china plates. Rustles and shakings under the foliage suggested there were sinister, impatient creatures waiting for me to abandon the garden and leave them to their evil play.
Although the sun had been at it only a few hours, the sky was bleached white and I had to shade my book with my hand to keep the print from dancing. Everything told me I was a great distance from home. I was wondering what to do about it when Graham Geddes appeared, searching the garden as if he were looking for me. Yet upon discovering me, he feigned surprise.
“We seem to be staying at the same hotel,” he said, then looked about. “Why have you settled down in this ghastly jungle?” His approach was playful, very different from his more serious manner on the ship.
With Graham Geddes’s appearance the day brightened, like polish rubbed onto a tarnished piece of silver. “My father has some business this morning and I don’t have the courage to start out on my own, but it seems a waste to sit still when I’m only going to be in Beirut for a day.”
“Let me offer my services as a guide. I’ve been here before, and I’d enjoy showing off my knowledge.”
I couldn’t disguise my pleasure. “That would be so kind of you, Mr. Geddes. You are sure you’ll have time? How long will you be in Beirut?”
“Call me Graham, please, and like yourself, only one day. I’m going on to Damascus tomorrow and then on a tour to Palmyra.”
“I wonder if it’s the same tour my father and I are going on.” When we compared notes, I found with pleasure that it was. “It seems half the world is on its way to Palmyra,” I said. “We met a Frenchman on the train who was going there. Why are you taking the tour?”
“I’m not enthusiastic about tours: two weeks of enforced company with dull companions—present company excepted, of course—and a stuffy tour leader who knows considerably less than I do. But the Turks have made it a rule that no Europeans can move about unless they are under the thumb of one of their guides, and this tour travels near several Druze villages I wish to visit. The Druze, a religious sect of Arab peoples, are my speciality—their lives and mine are entwined. Now, Miss Hamilton, you must tell me why you are here instead of buying chic dresses in Paris.”
“You must call me Julia. I’m here with my father, who is a solicitor and has business in Beirut. When I heard he was going, I coaxed him into taking me. It was all spur-of-the-moment.”
“A solicitor?” Graham looked surprised and amused, as if he had just heard a delicious secret. “I gather your father knows people in high places. As he was getting into his carriage this morning, I overheard him give the address of the pasha, the ruler here in Beirut; one can’t go much higher than that. I can only feel sympathy for someone who must attempt business in a town where business was invented: It puts you at a disadvantage of several thousand years.”
Then, as if on impulse, Graham said, “I have to confess, I recognized your father when I saw him board the ship with you. I’ll forgive you your little deceit.”
Startled, I was embarrassed at having been caught. I wondered what Father would think when he learned Graham had seen through his disguise. And how, I wondered, did Graham know he was my father?
Graham answered my question when he said, “I knew your father was with the Foreign Office because I heard him when he came to Oxford to give a talk to us students on the Ottoman Empire. I disagreed strongly with your father’s criticism of the Young Turks. I believe the Young Turk movement will bring democracy to Turkey and freedom to all the countries that Turkey now rules over with such tyranny: Armenia and Greece and the Arab countries.”
There was so much emotion in Graham’s words, I had the wild thought that he might be a revolutionary himself.
His face took on an angry flush. “I suppose your father is busy with cunning schemes for getting his hands on one more bit of land for Britain and is eager to thwart any plans the Young Turks might have for bringing a constitutional government to the Ottoman Empire.”
I was about to scold Graham for his unkind words about Father when he said, “Enough about politics. What shall we do today? If we’re going to be together, we might as well make a start. Perhaps we’ll find right off that we hate each other, in which event we won’t have to waste time on meaningless courtesies during the tour.”
I was irritated by Graham’s remarks about Father, but I managed to say, “I understand there’s a mosque.” I k
new very well there was one, for I had studied it in my guidebook.
“Mosques and churches and temples. One would think tourists were all mystics on an eternal religious pilgrimage. Come along, then.” The masterful way he took my arm and hurried me off made me wonder if our accidental meeting in the garden might have been part of a plan. I dismissed the idea as ridiculous, excited to be setting off on an adventure with someone so attractive.
As we made our way down the Place des Canons, the street that divided the city of Beirut, Graham kept up a pleasant chatter—half humorous and half informative. The few women on the Place passed us like shadows, for they were all in black, as if the whole country were in mourning. I don’t know why, but their sight took me back to Durham Place and all those years I was shut away from worlds like this one.
There were coffeehouses along the Place, each one with its group of men sitting outside at small tables. As we passed, the men stopped their lively talk to look at us. I suppose they considered me a bold and wanton woman, walking as I was, unveiled and openly with a man. Their stern faces made me feel I was being judged by some standard I could not understand. I tried to be discreet in my glances, but it was hard to take my eyes from their odd and unfamiliar dress.
Graham said teasingly, “You must not think these people are in costume.” He proceeded to explain how much one could tell about a man from what he wore. He adopted the manner of a bachelor uncle giving his country niece a day in the city. He was jolly and patient, producing little treats of information for me like twists of toffee. It was only when he thought my attention was elsewhere that he stole a look at me with something more than amusement—as though I were a book that might contain some scrap of interest if one could just get to the right page.
Parade of Shadows Page 3