Jerusalem Commands

by Michael Moorcock

  It seemed to me that his understanding of Islam was limited, but I said nothing, for I was as anxious to agree with Kolya as I was with the Arabs.

  He had by now been accepted as a rebel, a sharif (minor noble) and a scholar, while I was identified as his idiot kinsman, employed from the goodness of his heart. This story was thin, but perfectly acceptable to our confederates who rarely demanded the truth of anyone, but felt it a matter of good form for someone to present a lie with grace, wit and dignity.

  In the main the Arabs are a tolerant people prepared to take any man at his own value until he proves himself an antagonist. My Arabic being specific and limited, I had no other choice but to accept the idiot rôle.

  I was, for those first weeks, incapable of speaking anything but the Arabic God had trained me to speak. Since we had joined the moving sprawl of burdened camels and trudging drivers, following the old trading road from oasis to oasis, up and down dunes as high and steep as the English Pennines, deep into the Western Desert, I dreamed of nothing but God’s penis and every night relived my terror, my mouth now bound at my own request for fear that the Bedouin in their nearby tents might discover that a Nazrini had insinuated himself into their company. If they suspected me, I would have been betrayed by a double blasphemy, for which I have since been redeemed, but Kolya quieted me with his familiar soothing ways and turned terror into comfort and comfort into pleasure, until I began to calm. He said I was like a terrified stray, jumping at every sound.

  Inta al hob. Inta al hob. I shall never forget her yearning voice, that woman singing from the Bedouin tent. It is you I love. You are the love. I could not tell if she sang to God or to a man. Kolya wept when I asked him this. ‘Who can say?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can she?’ Once or twice he also wept at the thought of my humiliating ordeal but we were both consoled by his opium which we smoked in the traditional style, through the narghila. This brought me some rest at last. Little by little I recovered my old personality. So far, I said, the desert lacked the romance I had come to anticipate from Pierre Loti or Karl May. Kolya believed the former too feminine, the latter too masculine. Actually the desert was paradoxically a place where such divisions ceased to exist, where even life and death were blurred, and yet always there was the threat of sudden extinction. He said the desert quickened the senses but offered no easy release. It produced, in a subtle being, an extraordinary state of perpetual piquancy. Fine wine and good cocaine were to a true aesthete, he said, mere substitutes for the desert. I had not until then encountered this epicurean definition of the Sahara. It reminded me that Kolya was truly born a little too late. Sometimes it seemed the flawed genius himself, a slender Oscar Wilde, rode his beautiful aristocratic grey camel at my side. The Arabs, who constituted the bulk of our party (we also had blacks and, of course, the Caucasian Berbers), treated my prince with a certain respect while making comradely fun of his poor riding, saying he had spent too long in the cities with the Franks—now in the desert he would learn to become a true Arab again. They were impressed, however, by his elaborate garments, which he wore with considerable panache. To the Arabs they suggested he had powerful family connections. Contrary to the ridiculous myths which the tourists take out with them, the Arab is as vain as any other man and likes nothing better than posing for a camera or an artist’s pencil. It is not the Koran but puritanical tradition, an interpretation of our common Old Testament, that forbids images. The Arab’s love of display makes a Neapolitan gigolo’s seem like modest shyness. One glance at a French drawing-room wall shows how gladly these people will model. They have learned, too, that the tourist expects to reward them for their delicious experience! The Brownie is raised, the hand is held out in demand, the exchange is made and the happy Arab, like his fellow spirits throughout the world, adopts the most romantic and unlikely posture, thus confirming every stereotype which ever put a distance between himself and his equally ordinary brothers around the world. Any picture taken in the Middle East and North Africa bears the unmistakable stamp of this game-cockery, whether it be Haramin posing on their borrowed camels before Giza’s pyramids at sunset or Marakshi riders galloping about and letting off their rifles for the benefit of wealthy Europeans watching from the balconies of the Atlantic Hotel. But these are Buffalo Bill’s Wild West to the ordinary reality of prairie life. The long dull days of the caravan trek teach the European the thorough lesson of this ordinariness. However, if the average life of a desert warrior is somewhat less stimulating than the daily round of a suburban office worker, the Arab’s imagination is more vivid and his vocabulary is on the whole more colourful, resembling the combined invention of a French sansculotte, a Russian whore, a Greek cab-driver and an English public-schoolboy, developed through use and habit into an instrument of extraordinarily fluent and specific obscenity. As a people whose chief entertainment is from spoken language it is no surprise they have evolved an oral art no whit less impressive than our own Ukrainian tradition. Such an art cultivates the mind as well as the tongue. It is never a mystery to me that so many poets under Stalin were capable of committing whole volumes of verse to memory. An oral literature depends on intonation. A good Arab story-teller learns the music of discourse and dramatic narrative. He has developed and refined his conventions as Western novelists have developed subtleties of punctuation and grammar. Only on the page is an Arab’s story simple. His literary conventions seem theatrical and whimsical only to those who do not understand their function. It is much the same with Shakespeare. I think however my own raving obscenities would have shocked those Arabs. Happily I had vented most of them on Kolya alone in the desert three hundred miles west of Aswan, before we joined the caravan. But I still asked Kolya to bind my mouth and sometimes my limbs at night until, gradually, though I used Arabic, I raved only of God. This was acceptable to the Moslems who became convinced that I was actually some kind of idiot divine. But it was not until we were nearing the great oasis city of Khufra that I trusted myself to sleep only with the aid of the hashish. As slowly the devils were driven out of me I became more comfortable in my consciously acted part of cheerful fool whom all men sought out, with a kind word and a coin, for the blessing of my sweet smile. I had become, in God’s care, a far finer actor than ever I had been in Hollywood.

  Gradually the more visible aspects of my terror were brought in check. The Bedouin became familiar. I grew to enjoy their bluff good-heartedness towards any creature not a sworn blood enemy. They are at once less cruel and less noble than the characters of Karl May and the more doting arabistes of my boyhood.

  Benighted barbarians that they were, the majority showed courtesy and concern for those they accepted. They were like peasants anywhere in the world. Once Kolya saved me from their more amorous notions I received the best of their hospitality, their rough, manly affection. Of course I perceived the irony of my position, yet in my miserable loss of dignity and self-respect I discovered a kind of innocence. In this way I had something in common with the devoted Musselman.

  Those qualities we so despised in the camps can, in certain circumstances, be a kind of strength. I remained proudly glad to be free of their worst sexual banter. I remained terrified of sex. Sex had brought me to my present predicament.

  They called me the Lucky One, Beloved of Camels and they liked to call me al Sakhra, the Hawk, when I flapped my arms for them and imitated the screech of the hunting bird. They said they would catch me an ostrich for a mate. Amongst themselves they continued to indulge in a farrago of boastful reminiscence and slavering anticipation of the women they would fuck in Khufra, where (Kolya told me) only overworked and generally clappedout old whores would be available to them. They discussed the qualities of Nubians and Jews with all the authority and sophistication of schoolboys in a locker-room. Another irony; while my Bedouin comrades longed for the sexual experience they had never known I longed to forget all that I had ever learned. I wish I could have distributed my wealth of memory to them, scattering amongst a hundred or two the unsough
t-for sensual knowledge of an unnaturally concentrated lifetime; which might have had the mutually beneficial effect of satisfying their frustrations while saving me the disturbance of their conversation. I was grateful that the Bisharim, the long-skulled Nubian nomads whose forms of religion were a matter of dismay to our few Wahabim, generally spoke their own language but sometimes told stories in Arabic of the Berber women warriors—whole tribes who would set upon a man in the desert and make use of him until he died. They also spoke of the Berbers’ general partiality for human blood and the sacrifice of babies, of their hideous methods of torture. I came to realise that to these people a Berber was merely the manifestation of all their unfocused fears. He was to be avoided if possible and traded with only cautiously, for in the art of bargaining he was worse than a Jew. Sometimes the astonishing and complicated racialism of these people was blood-curdling! It was only matched by their sense of commonality. This, as usual, resulted in the notion of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ Berbers, Jews, Nazrini or Nubians and so on; that is to say, the ones with whom you got along personally were evidently good; the ones you despised, feared, loathed and were sworn to kill on sight were the ones you would never meet. We have similar notions of our own about Arabs. Such ramshackle logical adjustments do admittedly reduce potential bloodshed and, because it is alert to mysterious danger, makes the average caravan as prey to banditry as the average Pullman. I have yet to meet an Arab or anyone else who would not, if left to his own devices, prefer to talk and trade, in that order, rather than fight. Anyway it is only the unfortunate Jews of the mellah who get hurt in any numbers during an Arab war, as one side or another ‘takes’ a town and performs a little ritual slaughter before riding out again. The Jews themselves seem singularly free from any genuine sense of outrage. It is as if the loss of a few sons, the rape of a few daughters, is some kind of local tax they must pay. Those Jews of the oases make me afraid. I was abandoned to the shtetl, but their darkness was worse than the shtetl, perhaps because here, in their own birthplace, they had more choice. They had chosen this life! Every honest Arab will agree that even amongst such creatures, with their ostentation and their devotion to usury, you can often find one or two of the noblest type, great craftsmen, intellectuals, artists. But it is not the Jew’s love of art the Arab fears. It is the Jew’s love of money, his substitute for patriotism. With a love of money comes a quest for security. A quest for security becomes a quest for power, a quest for power becomes a lust for land, and there you have full-fledged Zionist imperialism against which of course the jihad is the only effective weapon! Such a Holy War began the Nazi success. Hitler’s lowly origins were, in the end, however, his downfall. Someone better educated and better bred might have tackled the Jewish problem with greater moderation. In the end the exterminations lost them the support of many ordinary decent Germans. Herman Goering was the only gentleman in the group but unfortunately had not been well educated. He had found, as it were, his natural level. In another age he would have gradually become the butt of the Bierkeller, but, as I have reason to know, he was a good-hearted creature in his own way and had an excellent grasp of engineering principles. Goebbels had more intelligence, but he was incapable of gentlemanly behaviour.

  The rituals by which we order and contain our terror of death are as varied as they are immutable. Before we ever dare to re-examine and perhaps change them we defend them by herculean efforts of the imagination, sometimes to the very death we most fear. I remarked on this to Kolya. ‘Is there a vicious circle of terror and tyranny which is destined to enslave forever even the most enlightened of us?’ He thought this was a pointlessly pessimistic question brought on by my ordeal. He saw in everyone, no matter how degenerate or immoral, a spark of goodness which would always respond to what he called the ‘reasoning voice of love’. Only rarely did there emerge a truly terrifying intelligence which could take even that spark of goodness and corrupt it.

  I was relieved, when he mentioned this idea, that I had been unable to kill the blind boy. I remember an old rabbi telling me that when he was asked, ‘Where was God in Auschwitz?’ he would say ‘God was there with us, violated and blasphemed. Ask rather—Where was Man in Auschwitz?’ For my own part, I never became a Musselman. I still know exactly what he means.

  I told Kolya how Esmé had betrayed me; how I had given up the chance, nevertheless, of escape without her. I still hoped to find who had bought her. He was oddly unsympathetic, but he had not known her as well as I. I was surprised, however, at his next response. ‘I doubt if you will ever realise the extent or the nature of her suffering. I would imagine that, perhaps on a level she dare not admit, her anguish is now nearly unbearable.’

  I laughed. I might imagine him to be in love with her himself! But now I think he meant, like Mrs Cornelius, that it might have been better if I had never taken her from her Constantinople whorehouse to offer her a future in Hollywood. She did not possess the character for it. But at least she had more than most girls of her type who are merely promised such things!

  This was to be the last rigorous step of our journey into the desert. At night, when it grew chill, tents were pitched for almost a mile along the trail and fluttering fires disappeared into infinity. From everywhere came the aroma of cooking, of hot charcoal, of dung and urine, of spices and perfumes, of animals mid men. I wondered if it had been like this in the Old West, on a wagon train, or perhaps more closely a great cattle-drive such is the brothers Butch and Hopalong ramrodded into Mexico. I saw it on the television. The cowboy films are the only things that have any real morality, these days. Sometimes I hope in all the Hoot Gibsons and W.S. Harts they will turn up one of mine. But those days are too distant for them. Our work is no longer entertainment, it is now a social archive. They want to forget those old lessons, I suppose. Even John Wayne seems happy to play some Falstaffian lawman in mockery of all he ever stood for, so I do not hold out much hope. The Western no doubt descends into sensational bloodshed, substituting violence for technique, like the detective story, the exotic romance and the chiller.

  At this time of year the day’s heat was not unbearable; for Russians, used to the most modest summers, we adapted well. We took the precaution of wearing thick headcloths and veils against the glare and dust while we did everything ‘Arab-fashion’. We were sparing with all our supplies, even the cocaine. I was surprised at the quantity and quality that he carried. He was amused. He told me mysteriously that the hump of the camel was the choicest part of the beast. Had he murdered al-Habashiya for his drugs? He laughed. ‘That fat pervert got into a business dispute with someone who had his measure, that’s all. Nobody will mourn him. But yes, I think we are probably both hoping to escape, if that was your implication. I need to be my own man again, Dimka dear. I would like to be free of Stavisky and there could be an opportunity in the offing. I could still be his agent. It depends who is waiting for us at al-Khufra. Meanwhile no one will spend much time searching for us, even if they see our tracks. They will not know who we were. The news will travel through the underworld, as it must, and those who do know us will assume us killed in the dispute. There was, you know, quite a quantity of corpses and general shambles in the end. Poor, silly Sir Ranalf was left holding a somewhat messy baby. But he’s been a lazy beneficiary of al-Habashiya’s bounty for many years. He’ll no doubt be paying a proper price for his pleasures.’

  I was thinking of the film. There must have been miles of it. Could its origins be identified? Somewhere in the world, even today, my poor, scarred black and white bottom rises and falls between bruised little legs as I perform the rape scene and few who watch will even think the people on the screen are real, will even want to ask how they came to be there. If they watched it today they would be howling with laughter at our quaintness. It makes me wonder if our increasingly abstract society is not wholly the creation of Mr Kodak and his colleagues.

  I told Kolya that I would not feel easy until we were in Europe again and all this far behind us. I pointed out that I
no longer had any identity papers. ‘I left your passport behind deliberately,’ he said, ‘and changed my own for something more suitable. That gives us a double opportunity.’ That night in our tent he showed me a variety of passports he had taken from al-Habashiya’s. ‘I was looking for money. But he was too old a dog to keep much there. At least we can take our pick of identities now, Dimka dear. I know a man in Tangier who can work wonders with documents.’ His hope was to get to Tripoli and from there reach Tangier by ship. From Tangier, with new identities, we could go anywhere we wanted.

  The pile of passports disturbed me, recalling a dozen ghoulish images, but I said nothing. Indeed, I still had little urge to speak, even after five weeks in the desert, and publicly contented myself with the grinning gesticulation which so pleased the other travellers. Alone with Kolya, I mostly sat and wept. Frequently, with superb tact, my friend would leave our tent and stroll about in the desert, sometimes for hours at a time, respecting my grief.

  The stink and constant bustle of the caravan became a familiar comfort. There was always an incident, usually domestic, always gossip and banter to while away the patient hours, and the five prayers gave a welcome structure to the day as we proceeded at a camel’s walk across the hostile waste of sandstone, dust and biting winds, of unwholesome heat and wells gone dry, of yielding dunes and barren wadis on a trek that was for some of us the first stage of a journey the equivalent of a walk from New York to Los Angeles—three thousand miles of desert, of sudden death and infinite boredom. Those extremes created the Arab’s unique soul and made him such a frustrating enemy, forever changing sides on a whim; for an Arab is a fatalistic and practical creature used to thousands of years of unchallenged despotism. He is encouraged by his religion to submit, encouraged by his traditions to aspire to power through a cruel despotism, for shame and pride are his poles, and his society demands of him at least a well-advertised display of violence. The Israelis have learned his language. They have given up trying to speak to him in the reasoning vocabularies of America and Germany.