While he worried Hakki by playing truant, Edith bullied Hakki with questions of a morbid nature. “What do you mean by ‘John the Baptist’s head’? Do you mean the skull, or was there some mummification? If not, how could they tell whose head it was?” Edith had all the scientist’s tedious insistence on detail, so the striking effect fell apart into a muddle of dull pieces.
Our eyes on Hakki’s furled umbrella, we were about to ascend the narrow stairway of a galleried minaret for a view of the city when Graham held me back. “Why don’t we leave Hakki to the tender mercies of Edith and Louvois and see something of the city for ourselves? We’ll learn much more in the bazaars than in the mosque.”
I was delighted to have the chance to visit the bazaars, whose many booths suggested what I had never before had—unlimited choice. To see it with Graham was a double pleasure. He grabbed my hand, and we ran away like two children, reaching the street breathless and, after the dark mosque, blinded by the sun. We stood for a moment until the world around us emerged from its dazzle.
I said, “You don’t seem fond of Paul Louvois.”
“He has a very greedy eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t mean to roll up the whole country and take it home to France.”
We fell into a more leisurely pace and were soon surrounded by small, ragged children demanding baksheesh. “Ma fish, I have nothing,” Graham told them.
“Allah yatik,” they replied good-naturedly. Graham translated this for me: “May God give thee.” Graham appeared to be looking for a certain café. When he finally chose one, I assumed the reason he had singled it out was its pleasant location. The outdoor café was set in the middle of a garden with pomegranate and fig trees, whose leaves spread a dappled shade over the tables and chairs. Just below, a small stream wound in and out of a ravine. It was a pretty stream until you looked more closely and noticed it served as a deposit for broken bottles and clumps of concrete. The café was frequented by Muslims who sat cross-legged, smoking water pipes and playing some game that looked to me very like backgammon. The men did not look up from their games or their pipes, but I was sure they missed nothing about us.
“What are the pipes they are smoking?” I asked.
“They are nargilehs, or hubble-bubbles.”
The proprietor of the café was perched on a stool near the kitchen, examining us through half-closed eyes. He was wearing European clothes and was clearly a Turk. I would have liked to sketch the man’s face. It was all sharp planes and dark shadows, the face of someone to whom surprise would be impossible. As a waiter started for our table, the proprietor stopped him and, climbing down from the stool, came himself. Graham ordered two coffees and then said a few words I did not understand, after which the man did not so much leave our table as withdraw from it.
“What language were you speaking to him?”
“Turkish. I picked up a few words. I’ve asked him to join us. You don’t mind?”
Of course I didn’t mind. I could hardly believe that I was in this distant city, sitting in an exotic café with someone as charming as Graham, and about to share the table with a mysterious man.
The man returned carrying a tray on which were arranged three tiny cups of dense black coffee and a plate of six pastries. He produced a smile, but I didn’t believe in it.
“Cream tarts,” he said. “They are a speciality here in Damascus.” His English was as thick and sticky as the tarts themselves. He pulled out a chair and sat down, offering the tarts with so much reluctance, I guessed that before bringing them out to us, he had agonized over whether one apiece might not do.
The man tilted his head in my direction as if to ask, Can we ignore her? Something in Graham’s demeanor must have suggested they could. In English the man said to Graham, his lips hardly moving, “You are welcome in Syria. We have made contacts, and there will be help along the way.” His voice hardened. “You understand we would prefer to do these things ourselves, but we are all known and watched by the sultan’s spies.” In a quick movement the proprietor finished his coffee, and with a curt nod in my direction he left the table, taking away with barely concealed greed the three remaining cream tarts.
When the man was out of hearing, Graham took my hand. I saw the men with the pipes cringe at the liberty.
“Was I right to trust you?” Graham asked. “I must have your word that you won’t mention this meeting to your father.”
“Of course you have my word.” I was delighted at his sharing his secrets with me and happy that at last I was beginning to have a life apart from Father.
Graham stood up. “Now it’s time I made good my promise to show you the bazaars.” When we left, the proprietor was gone from his perch.
We entered the souk between enormous Corinthian columns. “Hadrian’s Temple of Jupiter,” Graham said. “Many civilizations were here before this one.” The stalls that lined the maze of crooked streets sold flatbread; plump, sticky dates buzzing with flies; chests inlaid with mother-of-pearl; swords worked in silver; bloodred Turkish rugs; trays of rosy copper and bright brass scrolled all over with intricate engraving; piles of cucumbers and beetroots, walnuts and pistachios, fragrant cinnamon and cardamom; strange beetles and coiled snakes.
After I haggled over a length of pale green silk for Aunt Harriet and Turkish slippers with turned-up toes for Teddy, we came upon Monsieur Louvois, linen suit rumpled, chamois gloves shoved into a coat pocket. He was carrying on a conversation in rapid French with the owner of a stall where clay and bronze cylinders, no more than an inch or two in length, were set out on a frayed red velvet tray. When he spotted us, he abruptly ended his conversation.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, a guilty expression on his face. “Hakki was très douloureux at your departure. Never mind. I too escaped, leaving the poor man with Edith, who was worrying him about the identity of a flower carved in the architrave above a gate. I felt sorry for the man; certainly she was punishing him, but for what I don’t know.”
“I don’t think Edith cares much for Turks,” Graham said. “I suspect that riding about the desert with Arabs has made her adopt the Arabs’ anger at being ruled by the Ottoman Turks.” Graham was anxious to get away, but Paul Louvois caught my arm and drew me into the stall.
“You must see these seals,” he said, urging me. “Contracts here are not signed: A man puts his seal to them. This man has some very old seals that are parfait. Let me have the pleasure of buying you one.” Hearing Monsieur Louvois’s offer, the shopkeeper’s fingers moved quietly as if he were counting.
“I thought you couldn’t take old things out of the country,” I said. I was holding a seal on which a leaping stag was carved. It was delicately done and I coveted it, but I meant to be honest and handed it back to the disappointed merchant.
Monsieur Louvois protested. “Something so small as that would never be noticed. It is only a trifle.” When Graham started to lead me away, he said in a rather nasty voice, “It is said that the British are honest in small things, but they do not hesitate to steal an entire country.”
Graham warned him, “If you insist on carrying these things out of the country, Louvois, you will certainly end up in prison.” When we were out of Monsieur Louvois’s hearing, Graham said, “Cheeky, impertinent creature. He’ll get us all in trouble with his cravings. The French think they own the Levant and can do as they please here.”
As we passed the Banque Ottoman, Graham paused. “You don’t mind if I run into the bank, do you? I’ll only be a moment and you’ll be quite safe.”
More and more, I was seeing a secret side of Graham. I turned to explore a nearby stall where a young boy, who could not have been older than seven or eight, was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, embroidering a jacket. A man sat beside the boy, doing the same work. They had no light and their eyes were screwed up with the effort of working in the darkness. Impulsively I reached into my purse and took out some coins, which I handed to the surprised boy. “Buy yourself some candles,” I sa
id. The man snatched the money from the boy and secreted it somewhere among his robes. “My son does not understand English.” He held out his hand. “Candles are costly.”
I gave him more coins, but I knew the money would not go for candles.
The street boys had watched me handing over money and now began to worry me with pleas for baksheesh. I couldn’t recall the words Graham had used to send them away and began to feel panic as they closed in around me, pulling at my dress and my purse. For the first time that day my eagerness to see the city turned to fear at how little I really knew about what I was seeing. I decided it would take many lifetimes to study so old a country, and then it would be just a beginning.
To escape the boys, I turned a corner. Immediately in front of me was a man in a tattered loincloth spinning in circles and howling at the top of his lungs. His body was filthy and crusted with scabs, his long hair was matted, and strings of spittle clung to his beard. His eyes were turned up so that only the whites showed. He threw himself down, writhing in the middle of the dusty road. He was uttering appalling guttural sounds, and his twitchings were bringing him closer and closer to me. I wanted to run, but a crowd was closing in around the man, blocking my escape. For one frightening moment all the distance between Durham Place and Damascus stretched out before me, an endless span with no return. I pushed rudely through the crowd and ran until I reached the bank, where I searched for Graham with no thought but my need to be with someone of my own kind.
Graham was at the counter, and I hurried to his side. He looked around, and for a moment, before he could mask it, there was an expression of irritation on his face. The man at the counter was leaning toward him speaking in a quick, low voice. “We will see that the funds are passed on to the Young Turks here in the city.” He hastily returned Graham’s passport, bowed slightly, and murmured, “Es-salaam aleikum.”
“Aleikum es-salaam,” Graham responded, and then he led me out of the bank. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The man was still in the street, his cries and writhings more loathsome than ever. Graham reassured me: “Merely a dervish and quite harmless. They’re a part of Sufism. An aspirant to the Sufi priesthood must serve in the lowest rank for one thousand days, and should he fail in the least thing in his training for the priesthood, he must begin all over again. Be thankful you belong to a faith that concentrates on forgiveness rather than perfection.”
As I listened to Graham, I realized what it was that had nagged at me all day. It was the feeling that Graham’s wish to be with me was not for the pleasure of my company but a desire to be seen with a suitable companion, someone who would allay suspicion. It was the same feeling my father had given me when he had said I might make the trip with him. I felt small and used, and all the pleasure and excitement of the day was gone. My disappointment was even greater when I reached the hotel and Graham hastily excused himself to hurry to his room. He obviously had no further need of me. I felt a terrible disappointment. I told myself that I should simply enjoy Graham’s company without taking him seriously, but it was too late for that. I already took him seriously.
Abandoned, I wandered into the garden with some idea of wanting to cool off and came upon my father. He was sitting on a bench with a book. I said, “You look pleased with yourself.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? You are hot, dusty, and fatigued, while I am cool, clean, and rested. You can see which of us is the more knowledgable traveler.”
“But I have seen something you haven’t.” I described the dervish.
“A sight worth seeing and no need to be frightened. They are merely one of the more showy forms of the Muslim faith. Sufism teaches that there are among the Muslims a very few who are in direct contact with God. Such men carry out the plan of God in the world by a kind of invisible government known only to themselves. There are times when I have thought Sufism a most comforting belief—the idea of the world in the hands of a secret few, busy doing what God wishes done on earth, with no need for us to involve ourselves. At other times it is a scheme that fills me with terror. But I don’t mean to foist my little worries upon you. Instead, we should be looking forward to our adventure. Tomorrow night we will be sleeping in tents under the Syrian blue.”
VIII
BY DRAGOMAN
AS WE SAT AT BREAKFAST in the hotel, an efficient Hakki handed around his agreement with the dragoman for everyone to see. A dragoman, Father explained, was a sort of native guide in charge of mukaris, who were the men who did the work. The very reading of the agreement seemed an adventure.
1. The dragoman, Abdullah el Feir, contracts to conduct Hakki Mahir Bey, agent for Charles Watson & Sons, and his tour group of five from Damascus to Palmyra via Jerud and Karyatein, returning through Forklus to Homs. The tour is to leave the morning of April 4.
2. There shall be provided four sleeping tents, a dining tent, and a cabinet tent. Six cots will be furnished, plus tables and chairs, cooking and eating vessels, and clean mattresses and bedding.
3. Three mukaris, including one cook, shall be provided. The dragoman will hold himself responsible for the conduct and the honesty of the mukaris.
4. The tour leader will fix the hours of departure and halting.
5. The pay due the dragoman for each day of travel shall not exceed the amount agreed upon and will include the cost of the wages of the mukaris, food, horses, camel, donkeys, baksheesh, and all other expenses. One half of the amount due for the trip shall be paid at the beginning of the trip and the remainder at the trip’s end.
6. In the event the dragoman is discourteous or does not adhere to this agreement, the tour director may dismiss him.
Abdullah el Feir Hakki Mahir Bey
The talk of tents and camping out that had seemed so alluring in Durham Place now filled me with uncertainty. If it hadn’t been for Graham and what my father would say about my romanticism colliding with reality, I would gladly have taken the first train for Beirut and home. I confessed to Edith, “I’m no good on horseback.”
Edith, like me, wore a costume for desert travel: a khaki shirt and a divided skirt suitable for riding; however, Edith’s jacket was composed almost entirely of pockets, all of them stuffed to overflowing with bits and pieces of plants. We both had heavy-soled boots. I had a straw hat with a wide brim, while the brim of Edith’s crushed felt hat seemed to turn up and down at the same time.
“These hired Arabian horses will be very gentle,” she said, looking expectantly toward the kitchen and brightening as boiled eggs and toast were placed before us.
I had other worries. “How do you manage washing up and all that sort of thing?” I hadn’t been able to bring myself to ask Graham or my father.
“It will all be handled in the simplest way possible. Natural human functions are common to all of us, and high time you realized it.” Edith, as handy with a knife as ever, deftly sliced off the top of her boiled egg and began to spoon out its soft center with a frightening ruthlessness. “You will discover there is nothing quite so fine as the desert and its people. They have a simplicity that is very attractive to me. One can pack all one needs in a bedroll and travel for a thousand miles living on a bit of bread and a bowl of sour camel’s milk.”
“That’s not a terribly attractive picture,” I said, adding mischievously, “I can’t think you would make do with a diet like that for long.”
Edith, ignoring my remarks, spread a thick layer of fig preserves on her bread. “Enjoy your breakfast,” she cautioned me. “You won’t get another like it for a long time.”
As I packed, I wandered in and out of Edith’s room, inquiring as to what must remain in my trunk and what must accompany me, relieved to have her advice. Looking at the pile of luggage that was accumulating around Edith, I teased, “You’re not exactly traveling with a simple bedroll.”
Edith said, “All this is necessary: canvas bags for the seeds, drying paper, plant presses, bottles, boxes of shavings for any small shrubs I nip. Everything must get
back to the Royal Botanic Gardens in the best possible condition.” It was true that the bulk of her gear was for her collections. Edith’s wardrobe consisted of little more than a flannel nightgown and a few pairs of pink knickers.
Edith said, “I pride myself on how little I require for myself, taking for my model the Bedouin. Their breeding of camels makes nomads out of the Bedouin. There is not much vegetation in the desert, so the Bedouin must move their camels from one small patch to the next.” She sighed. “Reluctantly, I have to admit I am getting too old to wander about alone in the desert as I used to. I will never again have the feeling that I am seeing what no one has seen before me. Everything is becoming too easy, too accessible. One sad day the Arabs will awaken to find cities springing up in the desert and foreigners everywhere.” Her voice took on a strange and angry tone as she said, “I promise you I will do everything in my power to delay that day.”
Two carriages arrived to carry us to our departure point on the city’s outskirts. Our trunks were left behind, to be sent on by railway to the city of Homs, where our first camping trip would end. I saw with disappointment that Hakki had arranged the seating in the carriages so that Monsieur Louvois, Edith, and I were in the first carriage and Father and Graham in the second. As everyone scrambled to be sure their belongings were put in the right carriages, Graham pulled me aside. “Remember, you have promised not to say anything of what you saw or heard yesterday. Perhaps I shouldn’t have involved you, but I feel you are someone I can trust.” He squeezed my hand and gave me a conspiratorial look. In my pleasure at his telling me he trusted me, I forgot all my suspicions of the day before.
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