“Why would crusaders willingly leave the green island of England for this godforsaken outpost?” Father asked no one in particular. He had been looking weary, and I thought his question reflected something of his own feelings.
Unlike my father, I was growing to love the desert more each day. Years of the dull life I had lived disappeared, until all that was left of my mind was a clean emptiness. I was becoming accustomed to Fadda’s gait and gave myself over to the little horse’s movements. Fadda picked her way gracefully over the stones, leaving me to think my own thoughts of how far I had traveled and how eager I was to see what surprises further travel would bring.
Graham interrupted my thoughts to point out a patch of sky where bright blue was giving way to a sulfurous yellow. “What is it?” I asked, only mildly curious, considering it another display set forth by the desert for my amusement.
“I’m afraid it might mean a storm, and a bad one.”
“It rains in the desert?”
“Yes, and like all things in the desert, the rains are unusually harsh.”
Abdullah was already signaling the caravan to stop. The horses sensed the storm; shivering and tugging at their reins, they were made secure, then we riders huddled together while the sky darkened and the wind rushed through the slot of the wadi. Abdullah shooed us out of the wadi’s dry river course, for though it was dry now, rainwater would soon come surging through it.
We grabbed whatever protection we could find. Hats were pulled down and jacket collars turned up. Hakki threw saddle blankets at everyone and implored us to stay together. Only the camel, having changed itself into a boulder, was indifferent to the approaching storm.
At a little distance Abdullah and the mukaris gathered their robes around them, transforming themselves into shapeless black humps. Graham joined them and crouched next to Mohammed, with whom he quietly carried on an intense conversation.
Edith made a tent of her blanket and used the halt to jot some notes, continually losing bits of paper to the gale. Monsieur Louvois, looking put out, as if the storm were some trial sent solely for his torment, hunched himself into as small a target as possible. Father pulled me down next to him. The rough texture of his tweed jacket and the familiar smell of tobacco sent me back to some unremembered sheltering in my childhood.
“You won’t like this,” he said. “It’s not like London, where you can escape a little shower by running into the nearest tea shop.” I felt a splash on my hand and another on my face. The next moment the wind snatched away my hat and tugged at my clothes. A cloud of brown dust flew up at the same moment that a wall of water slammed into us. I could barely see my father, who was only inches away. The rain poured down, drenching us until we were sodden sponges. Water careened over the hills that edged the wadi, puddling among the rocks and pebbles, creating rivulets that swelled into sluices, filling the wadi with a torrent of water. My hair had blown loose and was plastered in wet rags against my face. My jacket and skirt clung to me, smothering like a second, damp skin.
The mukaris cursed while the camel made a kind of coughing noise and the horses whinnied and neighed their complaints. Worst of all were the winds, which lifted the sand and dust so the rain was a brew of silt congealing into a mucky slime on our wet faces and clothes. When the rain finally stopped and we saw one another, our alarm and misery dissolved into laughter.
Graham said, “We look like prehistoric creatures climbing out of the primordial mud.”
“Something of a nuisance,” Edith said, “but most welcome. One rain like this will grow flowers for years to come.”
We begged Abdullah for water to wash in, but he refused, warning, “There is no water between here and Karyatein. We mustn’t waste what we have.” He pointed to the puddles. “You may wash with that, but do not drink it.”
Graham soaked his handkerchief in the water and, tilting up my chin with his hand, began to scrub my face. Laughing, I reached up and did the same for him while Father scowled at our foolishness. The coolness of the water was pleasant, and Monsieur Louvois, seeing the camel drinking, put a little of it in his mouth, only to spit it out. Abdullah, watching him, laughed; nothing pleased him more than one of us making a fool of himself. “How can it rain salt water?” Louvois asked.
“The hills are of salt,” Abdullah said. “The rain carries salt with it. To the camel it makes no difference.”
We were a ragged group coming into Karyatein, but the villagers were too busy repairing the damage the rain had done to their homes and tents to bother with us. Only the children took notice, running alongside our horses and laughing at how we looked. Karyatein was a nondescript jumble of white blockhouses surrounded by Bedouin tents woven from black goat hair. Camp was set up at the edge of the village, and each of us was given a basinful of water to clean up. Toward the end of our washing, the water was thick mud. It was Mohammed who saved us by learning from the villagers that a small stream ran through the village.
Edith and I were given the privilege of bathing first, while the men, well away from the stream, stood with their backs turned to us to preserve our modesty against a knot of curious children. The stream was lukewarm and little more than a trickle; worse yet, while walking down to its bank, Edith and I saw the camel urinating into the water, its head held up in a kind of offhand ecstasy, but the water appeared clear and in our grubbiness we didn’t care. Before the men had their turn, we changed into clean clothes, Edith borrowing a robe from Mastur.
Mastur had managed to shoot some rock partridges, and Edith in a fit of enthusiasm went off looking for wild asparagus while Hakki stared after her, fretting. Father oversaw the cooking of the birds, and Edith returned with a bag of small green spears and a handful of wild garlic. Monsieur Louvois had discovered there was a local wine. Although the Arabs do not drink, Karyatein had vineyards.
Monsieur Louvois said, “They appear not to care about the corruption of infidels, and send their wine on with traders traveling to Damascus.”
Hakki, happy to see us all getting along, beamed at us like a parent whose children are enjoying themselves in a harmless way. It was Monsieur Louvois who ended Hakki’s pleasure by asking him where he had taught school.
“In Damascus.”
“What kind of school was it?” Everyone listened politely to Monsieur Louvois’s questions and Hakki’s answers.
“It was just a special school of no particular importance.”
“It was for special students, n’est-ce pas?”
“In a way.” Hakki was growing uncomfortable.
Monsieur Louvois persisted. “What kind of special students?”
Hakki was goaded into the truth. “They were the sons of soldiers,” he mumbled.
“You were an employé of the Turkish military?”
“Only to teach their children,” Hakki insisted, but Monsieur Louvois, Father, and Graham were all looking at Hakki in an odd way. Only Edith appeared unsurprised. After a bit everyone went back to eating and the banter died out, but I could see the men had become suspicious of Hakki’s relationship with the Turkish army.
The tents were pitched within sight of the town, and all during dinner we heard eerie music, its notes drawn out as though they were being pulled endlessly through some musical knothole. Interspersed with the music were shouts and laughter. When we questioned Abdullah, he said, “The daughter of the local sheikh, the head of this tribe, has just been married, and the village will celebrate for three days.”
With no thought that my wish would be taken seriously, I said, “I’d have given anything to see that celebration.”
Abdullah bowed in my direction and went jogging off in the direction of the music. A few minutes later he returned with the father of the bride, a short, squat man with a moon face and eyes that were all over us. He bowed obsequiously, and Abdullah translated the man’s cordial invitation for us to “bring honor to my humble house.”
The more he groveled, the more we were sure he did not want us, but it was t
oo late to refuse. The irony did not escape Father. “We irritate him if we come and insult him if we don’t.”
Monsieur Louvois said, “We must bring a cadeau, some little gift. Money?”
“Money would insult him further,” Edith said, and Father agreed.
“What about this?” I held up a small silver case. “I haven’t powdered my nose since we left Beirut.”
“Just the thing,” Edith said. “She can keep her henna in it.” Edith turned to me, explaining, “Henna is a reddish-orange powder the women put on their faces and hands to enhance their beauty, rather in the way an Englishwoman might use rouge.”
The father of the bride sent one of his sons, a slim, handsome boy with glistening oiled hair and a friendly manner, to escort us. Only Father stayed behind. “I have been to more wedding receptions than I care to recall, and I am sure one is much like another.”
The entire village was crowded into a courtyard over which a huge tent had been erected. The tent was illuminated by torches casting eerie shadows.
Everything was revealed slowly in the dim light; handsome rugs and cushioned banquettes, and in the center of the tent long boards supported by trestles and spread with embroidered cloths. On these improvised tables were dishes of pickled aubergine and boiled eggs, brass trays heaped with fresh and dried fruits, and enormous bowls of rice and mutton kept warm on braziers. Pastries oozing a gooey mix of almonds and honey were arranged in pretty patterns on palm fronds. As our little company walked into the tent, there was a sudden silence, but almost at once the music and laughter resumed; even the sight of a band of exotic foreigners—a young Turk, an older woman dressed in the robe of an Arab, and an English girl who kept looking at a man with hair the color of fire—could not squelch their enthusiasm.
The tent was divided by a light curtain. The men were gathered on one side of the tent, wearing white robes. Some wore the fez, others the kaffiyeh. They shouted back and forth to one another, their voices rough and boisterous, their laughter bawdy. At their center was the groom, in a white robe and a white kaffiyeh tied with a gold cord. His robe was too large for him, and he walked with a swagger. Looking closely at him, I saw that he had no beard.
Giggles and trills of pleasure came from the other side of the tent, where the women were circling a dais in a measured dance. They were dressed in brightly colored burkas. Their faces, except for their heavily kohled eyes, were veiled. On the dais was seated the bride, who we were told had to remain on view as a kind of ornament throughout the three-day celebration. She was enveloped in colored shawls and bedecked with gold bracelets, earrings, and nose ring. An intricate design was picked out in indigo dye on the skin of her neck, and the palms of her hands were hennaed. A crown, slightly askew, was on her head. Like the groom, she seemed a child got up in a costume for some school play.
Monsieur Louvois and the other men gravitated to the men’s half of the tent, while I entered on the women’s side to give the silver case to the bride. She looked up at a stout woman hung with bangles for permission to accept the present. The woman nodded, her bangles tinkling with assent. Only then did the girl allow herself to take the case into her hands and examine it, which she did with pleasure. I showed her how it opened, and she cried out with delight at the surprise of a mirror inside.
After a bit I left the women’s side and found Graham waiting for me. “How old do you think the bride is?” I asked.
“Not more than thirteen, perhaps younger.”
“But that’s terrible. How can she know her own mind at that age?”
“There is no need for her to know her mind; her father will have made the choice for her, and this will be her first glimpse of her husband.”
“But that’s barbarous.” I was shocked.
Graham smiled. “You can’t pretend marriages in our country are not arranged with an eye to class and money.”
“But at least the principals know each other,” I protested.
“And how many truly happy marriages have you witnessed in our country?”
I laughed. “You’re too cynical. I think it’s a show you put on.”
Smiling, he said, “What does it matter how the marriage turns out if the wedding is an occasion for pleasure?”
We stood together in the darkness, watching the festivities in the divided tent. The men danced, the silver and brass handles of the daggers they held aloft reflecting the light from the torches. I had never seen men dance together, and it had a strange effect upon me. I turned to look for Graham, wanting him next to me, but he was gone. One of the men smiled at me, catching my eye each time he whirled around.
The man’s smile now became a hungry leer. I moved quickly into the safety of the women’s side. The young girls were clustered together in a corner, giggling behind their veils. Only the older women danced. They moved more slowly and more circumspectly than the men, but the slowness that at first seemed stately became provocative, and the swaying women looked naked in their robes.
The music became louder and louder until my ears were ringing. The torches and braziers threw off so much heat in the crowded tent that it grew stifling. I slipped out for some air and, walking a short distance from the celebration, fell at once into the emptiness of the desert. In London I rarely saw the stars, and then only the bright ones. In the desert the sky was populated with countless stars and looked like a great black tent pricked all over to let in the light of some night sun.
Drawn into the desert’s silence, I wandered a distance from the tent until I heard voices talking together so softly that I was sure the words were meant only for the two speakers. The voices came from two figures in the shadows of a cluster of huts. I recognized the sound of Graham’s voice. The other man was Mohammed.
I heard Mohammed say, “There is nothing to be done here. This sheikh will not hear of the Young Turks; to him all Turks are evil and will never change their ways. This sheikh prefers to play a game of intrigue with Britain and France, but he is a fool if he believes Britain and France will do something for his people. In Palmyra I will take you to many tribes that will welcome the revolution of your Young Turks.” Mohammed, suddenly aware of my presence, melded with the shadows and disappeared. Graham came up to me and, grabbing my arm roughly, said in an accusing voice, “I thought you were with the others.”
“I could say the same.”
His hand was hurting my arm. I pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve grown to suspect everyone.”
“Why should you suspect anyone?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can only ask you to trust me and to promise not to repeat anything you might have overheard.”
“You are always asking me to keep your secrets, but you won’t confide in me.”
“I’ll ask something more of you: that you say you and I wandered away from the wedding together. It isn’t for my sake that I ask it but for Mohammed’s. He is taking a risk in associating himself with my cause.”
“What kind of risk? And what kind of cause?”
“No more questions. Later, perhaps. Will you promise?”
I nodded and then, realizing he could not see me in the darkness, said, “Yes.”
His voice was suddenly chilling. “Why are you out here? Perhaps your father sent you. I gave him my word not to reveal his identity, but I won’t have him spying on me.”
“How can you suggest something like that? I’m not to ask questions of you, but you may ask questions of me?”
His voice softened, and he took my face between his hands. “Julia, I trusted you at the café in Damascus and I promise to tell you the rest later.”
When we heard someone approaching, Graham hastily kissed my forehead and moved away from me. Edith frowned when she saw me with Graham, but all she said was “You two missed a delightful speech by the father of the bride honoring his new son-in-law. The same speech might have been given in any English city—Newcastle or Stoke-on-Trent.”
At the camp we found F
ather and the dragoman, Abdullah, talking together, Father in a camp chair, Abdullah squatting next to him. They drew apart, Abdullah making a pretense of feeding thorn branches into the fire and Father leaning back in his camp chair. They had the air of conspirators. Graham looked at me reproachfully, as if to say, “You see, your father has his own secrets.”
Later that night I lay awake listening to the tent creak and whisper in the wind. I knew my father was on a mission for the Foreign Office and that Graham had some plan of a revolution by the Young Turks against the sultan. I longed to be caught up in my father’s and Graham’s worlds of conspiracy and passion. At the same time, I was put off by their greediness for land and souls that did not belong to them. I was suspicious of Father’s involving Abdullah and of Graham’s involving Mohammed in their schemes. Even Edith seemed to have a secret relationship with Mastur. I felt as if I were in the middle of some dangerous conspiracy and at any moment something might happen that would change all our lives.
I was just drifting off when I heard a bloodcurdling shriek. Edith sprang out of her bed and, grabbing her robe, ran from the tent. Afraid Graham might be in some danger, I followed her. The screams were coming from Habib, who was rolling over and over on the ground, his face contorted. Graham, in a flannel robe, his hair tousled, was holding up a lantern while Abdullah tried to restrain Habib.
Father strode up wearing his oilskin over his pajamas. The green-and-white-striped pajamas were familiar to me. I had taken them from the laundress and placed them in my father’s dressing room dozens of times. Seeing them now made me feel for a moment that I was back home in Durham Place and had run into my father on the staircase or along a hall. Then I remembered Habib writhing on the ground.
“What is happening here?” Father demanded as if he were a commanding officer faced with soldiers who had started a battle without his permission.
“Habib has been bitten by a snake,” Graham said. “He was sleeping on the ground, and the snake must have crept close to him for warmth. When the poor fellow got up to relieve himself, the snake bit him.”
Parade of Shadows Page 9