City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “The Saqr. I had no idea what Gabriel did out here.”

  He smiled. “Every cause needs a myth to believe in. During the war, the story of the Saqr inspired our men, gave them hope during dark hours when the Turks raided. It was a black time for us. Whole villages were burned or driven to caves to starve. Livestock were killed, tents put to the torch and more men than I care to count were thrown down wells to drown. The Turk wrote his resentments with the blood of the Bedouin, and even now, the sight of a Turk can anger a desert-dweller like nothing else. They had a talent for cruelty.”

  “Did Gabriel, in his role as the Saqr, drive them out?”

  “No, little sister. The Bedouin is warrior enough to defend his own. But the Bedouin are scattered across the desert like so many grains of sand. Over the generations, our ways have changed. The Bedu of the north does not love his brother from the south. The Bedu of the east does not love his brother from the west. Howeitat, Ruwallah, Mezrab—and a hundred more. We are brothers, and yet we forget to understand one another. We share blood, but blood feuds, as well, and it is these quarrels that keep us divided. We needed something to unite us, to remind us that we are one and the same. Your Colonel Lawrence did so in the south. But here, we had the Saqr, the falcon who flies with us.” His eastern cadences and poetic language slipped for a moment and he grinned. “Besides which, Djibril is a bloody brilliant fighter.”

  I returned the smile. “You have an acute grasp of the power of an image in popular imagination.”

  He shrugged. “Not unlike your picture in front of an aeroplane holding a packet of washing powder. Does not the common Englishwoman see such a thing and think to herself, ‘I, too, can be like this daring and beautiful woman if only I wash my things in Daisy Biological Washing Powder’? Of course she does. And the Bedu looked to him and believed they could be like him, like they once were, princes of the desert, sons of the wind.”

  “They might have looked to you for that example,” I pointed out. “You have all the same qualities as Gabriel.”

  He shrugged. “But I am known to them. There is a mystique about the foreigner, don’t you think? You like us because we are different from you. We live in tents and tend our sheep, and we live as our people have since the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Our language, our laws, our customs, all are different and strange to you. And yet yours are just as curious to us. We are amused and puzzled and intrigued by you, and if one of your kind finds our cause just, perhaps it persuades us even more that we must prevail.”

  “So you found Gabriel to be useful, a propaganda tool,” I said slowly.

  He smiled again. “I would not have phrased it thus, but yes. It suited my purposes to have him here. And it suited him, as well. You must know he served our cause out of a belief in its rightness. And we have loved him for that, as he loves us. It grieved him deeply when the promises he made in the name of his English colleagues were not honoured.”

  “I am starting to understand,” I told him. “I think he must have felt he failed you.”

  “He did. But the dishonour was not his. He put his trust in men who were not worthy of it, but that was his only crime.”

  I lifted a cup. “A toast, then. To your new king, Faisal. Long may he reign.”

  Sheikh Hamid bowed his head. “Your sentiments are kindly, but I do not think he will last.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean? Surely he will rally the rest of the country behind him. Look how easily a handful of your men routed the deserters from the outpost.”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. “Tell me, little sister, when you were in Damascus, could you tell the difference between a fruit seller from the land around Hebron and a merchant from Aleppo? Can you look at a man’s robe and know he is from Palestine or hear a man speak and know he is Egyptian?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Precisely. To the English, one Arab is like another. We are interchangeable to them. But as we say, people are like the hand—all fingers are different. We are no more alike than a Welsh coal miner is to a Kentish farmer or a London barrister. Always the English, the French—they look at us and see nothing but men in robes with camels. But King Faisal is a Hashemite from Arabia. It will take much for a Syrian to accept him. He has cooperated too much with the French in the past, given in too easily to the whims of the English. We want a strong king, and I fear he will not be the one to lead us. It is like expecting a Cornishman to rule over a Highlander. It will not happen easily. But perhaps I am wrong. Only time will tell, little sister. Only time will tell.”

  * * *

  In Damascus, we packed up our things as quickly as we could, and in two days we had made our preparations to leave the city. The trains were thronged with fleeing Europeans, but with Aunt Dove’s connections we managed to make our way to Beirut, where we found a small cabin on a tiny steamer bound for Greece. From there we booked passage on a much more comfortable ship to Southampton. The voyage would last the better part of a month, but neither of us was in any hurry to get home. The events of the past weeks had been exhausting and exhilarating, and although we did not speak of it, I think we both wanted some time to think matters through before we had to face the press.

  The afternoon before we left, when our suite was in a riot of tissue paper and farewell fruit baskets from Aunt Dove’s admirers, I received a note. It had been handwritten, hastily, and it had been carried by messenger. There was just a single line, but it was enough.

  I found a hat and clapped it on, calling out to Aunt Dove as I went.

  “I’m going out for a bit, darling. I’ll be back by dinner.”

  Aunt Dove was busy fussing over Arthur. “As you like, my dear. You might think about finding a bookstrap when you’re out, if you don’t mind. I seem to have acquired too many books to tuck in my bag, and I do hate to leave them behind now that we’ve got the luxury of travelling with as much baggage as we like.”

  I pulled a rueful face. “That’s the one blessing to not flying home, I suppose,” I told her.

  She gave me a fond smile. “Never mind, darling. We’ll find you a spiffing new plane when we get back to England. You’ll see.”

  I waved goodbye and left her. There was no point in mentioning that I couldn’t buy a new plane as I simply didn’t have the money. There had been a pile of telegrams waiting for us at the hotel, and most of them had been from sponsors outraged that the Jolly Roger had been wrecked in the desert. No successful tour, no proud newspaper mentions or short films for them. A few had even threatened to ask for their money back, but a quick trunk call to our solicitor in London had assured me they couldn’t go quite so far. But they could, and did, remove their support entirely and immediately. Only the last of our meagre funds and the generosity of a few friends had settled the hotel bill and paid our passage back home. What we were to do there, I could not imagine, but I refused to think of it until I absolutely had to. The afternoon was brilliant, soft spring sunshine gilding the ancient stone to warm honey, and somewhere, tantalising, just out of reach, the scent of jasmine rose above the odours of donkey and charcoal and leather.

  It was astonishing to see how much Damascus had changed in the few short weeks I had been gone. The streets were teeming with men, most of them in groups and talking, the Arab-speakers loudly and with passionate gestures, while the Europeans looked tense and preoccupied. Mindful of Sheikh Hamid’s questions, I looked at the people in the streets, searching out the differences. And for the first time, I began to see. I saw them not as exotic window-dressing of a land I had come to love, but as individuals. I saw the students of the Q’uran walking quickly with their heads together, discussing their studies. I saw the pearly toothed smile of a tiny girl eating her first rose toffee, and I saw the same laughter in the eyes of her grandmother above the veil that concealed her face. I saw the halal butcher sharpening his knife as he prepared to teach his son his
trade, and I saw a stout matron quarrelling with a vegetable seller over his courgettes. They might have been characters from any English village—the schoolboy, the tradesman, the housewife—but they were unique to this time and this place, and I wanted desperately to know their stories. To know them and to tell them.

  But there was another story to learn first. I walked quickly, stopping only once at a florist’s shop for an armful of blooms, and in a few minutes I was at the European hospital, knocking at the door to a private room.

  “Come in,” came the sharp reply.

  I entered, closing the door softly behind me.

  “I am glad you have come,” said the plump little figure in the bed.

  “And I’m glad you’re all right. You are going to be all right, aren’t you, Herr Doktor?”

  He smiled and patted my hand. His other arm was in a sling against his chest, but his colour was good and he seemed cheerful. “I am Uhlan, child. It would take more than a desert to kill me.”

  In a chair next to the bed, Gethsemane Green was looking closely at me.

  “It’s all right, you know. I’m not going to smother him in his sleep,” I told her a touch acidly.

  She flushed a little. “I do not blame you for being cross with us— Oh!” She broke off suddenly.

  “That is a dreadful pun,” I told her. I took the other chair in the room, handing the flowers off to Miss Green. “You might want to put those in some water. I should think the nurse could oblige you.”

  She withdrew discreetly, leaving Herr Doktor and I alone while she took the warmly fragrant jasmine.

  “I don’t think I will ever be able to smell that scent again and not think of Damascus,” I told him.

  He spread his hands. “It is a city of miracles, child.”

  “It is indeed. I’m rather going to miss it, I think.”

  “You are leaving soon?”

  “Tonight. There’s a train to Beirut and a steamer bound for Greece. My aunt and I will be on it.”

  His eyes gleamed brightly. “Just the two of you?”

  “And her parrot, but I’m afraid that’s all. If you’re thinking of intercepting us to get your hands on the Cross, you’ll be courting disappointment. We haven’t got it. I can’t prove that, of course, but you must simply take my word for it.”

  He puffed up a little, his complexion turning bright red. “Och! Did I suggest such a thing? No, I want nothing to do with your Cross,” he said, his vehemence ringing in every word. “I want only to be left in peace with my lady.”

  “Is she your lady, then?”

  “I am,” she said coolly. She had come in quietly, carrying a heavy vase full of starry white blossoms. “I don’t know if Wolfram has told you yet, but I am his wife. We married this morning.”

  I gaped at them, managing to stammer my congratulations.

  She fussed with the flowers a moment then put them on the windowsill. She went to him, taking his hand almost defiantly as she looked at me. “You needn’t sound so surprised, Mrs. Starke. Wolfram and I have been very fond of each other for many years. And when I thought I had lost him over this absurd business with the Cross, well...” She stopped and cleared her throat, patting her British reticence firmly into place. “I was being a fool. There’s no other word for it. Wolfram helped me to see that, and I am very honoured to be his wife.”

  She gave him a fond look and he patted her hand adoringly.

  “Well, you seem beautifully suited. I wish you both every happiness,” I told her sincerely. I rose and shook hands with both of them. “I doubt our paths will cross again. But I am glad to know you are both well.”

  “We did not ask you to call just to wish us well,” she said hurriedly. She glanced at him and he gave her a nod of encouragement. “We wanted, that is, I wanted, to apologise most awfully. It was my fault for bringing you into the Badiyat ash-Sham. Because of me, you were put into terrible danger. There is no possible way to make amends, but I do hope you will forgive me.”

  She looked stiff and uncomfortable, and I knew the little speech had cost her something.

  “You were responsible? So you did seek me out, then, that day by Saladin’s tomb. It wasn’t a chance meeting.”

  “No. You see, I know Wolfram has explained, but I must own my part in all of this. As he told you, I had suspicions of Mr. Rowan—that is, Mr. Starke. But I could not understand what his plan might be. I am not proud of it, but he is not here to receive my apology, so I will tell you that I searched his things. I knew there was a connection between you, and I thought if I threw you together, it might perhaps shake something loose, make something happen.” Her expression turned rueful. “I suppose I was right about that. But rather more happened than I anticipated. And I certainly never suspected that Daoud could be capable—”

  She broke off, her complexion mottled with anger.

  “Yes, well, I suppose the least said about that, the better,” I told her.

  “Nevertheless. My own actions were inexcusable. I behaved in a low, common manner, and completely unbefitting a professional. I hope you will convey my apologies to your husband. If I knew his whereabouts I would speak to him directly,” she added, her breath coming very quickly. She was truly distraught, and as much as I deplored what she had done, I hadn’t the heart to torture her.

  “Never mind, Miss Green—I apologise, baroness now. I forgive you.”

  She swallowed hard, her high colour ebbing. Herr Doktor stroked her hand gently.

  I managed a light tone. “So, do you mean to stay here in Damascus?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “When I am fit to travel in a few days we will go to Egypt. We will honeymoon on the Nile, on a cruise. It will be very romantic.”

  The newly minted baroness blushed then, a proper bridal blush, and I found myself smiling.

  “Then I will wish you both bon voyage,” I told them. We shook hands again and I left them. Miss Green, now the Baroness Schickfuss, had taken one of the jasmine flowers from the vase and broken it off just below the bloom. She tucked the little stem tenderly into his sling as I closed the door.

  * * *

  The voyage home was as uneventful as we had hoped. Arthur, as it turned out, had a particular fondness for sea air, and he spent most of his time in his painfully gaudy cage, talking up a blue streak to anyone who would listen. The reporters were thronging the dock when we landed, but we fought our way through and straight down to the little cottage in Kent. It was damp and gloomy, and before the week was out, Aunt Dove caught a terrific cold. I had one, as well, and we spent the next fortnight with streaming noses and mustard plasters. But when the first roses bloomed and I was well on the mend, Aunt Dove was still in bed. Her cold turned to pneumonia, and as the weeks passed, her condition grew worse. We had a hospital nurse down from London at horrifying expense, but all the care in the world could not help her, and as the weeks slipped away, so did her vigour. She began to wander in her mind, confusing me sometimes with my mother, and she kept to her memories, living out her girlhood again.

  On the last evening of her life, she lay in her bed, her face to the window, and asked me not to draw the curtains. Her expression was lucid and her voice was calm.

  “I want to see the light as I go, child,” she said.

  I threw open the window, letting in the soft purple light of May Day evening. The scent of wild hyacinth was heavy in the air and she sighed in contentment.

  “Oh, that is lovely.”

  I went to sit beside her on the bed and she took my hand.

  “You mustn’t fret, you know. I’m very tired. I have been for years now. But I wanted one last good adventure. Like the old days. And that’s what it was. Just like the old days. I’m only sorry not to give you a better story. It’s not very exciting to die in one’s bed, child. I ought to have fallen off a c
amel or got myself poisoned by a pit viper or drowned in a waterfall. So lowering to die in bed like an old woman,” she murmured, her voice trailing off.

  I held her hand for hours, stroking the papery white skin with the map of blue veins along the back.

  “It’s a perfect map of the Thames and its tributaries, so long as you don’t look too closely,” she told me, opening her eyes. “Ought to have been a lesson to me, that wherever I went, I took home with me.”

  I smiled through my tears, and opened my mouth to say something, but before I could speak, she gave a soft little sigh and her hand relaxed in mine. I did not weep. We had seen the end coming for weeks, and all that we need say to one another had been said.

  I covered her face and went to the window, breathing in the soft violet air and wondering for the thousandth time where Gabriel Starke was and what he was doing.

  * * *

  The weeks passed with no word from him. Aunt Dove had demanded cremation, but a committee of the London Geographical Society insisted upon holding a small memorial service for her. I was deeply touched at how many members attended, and they presented me with a small plaque in recognition of her accomplishments. I thanked them and went directly from the service to the solicitor’s office in Bloomsbury, where her will was formally read. I daydreamed a little as he doggedly made his way through all the proper papers, but in spite of all the legal gibberish, it was clear that I was the only beneficiary to her estate—even if she only had Arthur and her paste jewels and her travel papers to leave behind. I told the solicitor I meant to donate her papers to the Society and assured him I would take good care of Arthur. I also informed him I would be leaving the cottage at the end of June when the lease was up and that I intended to stay with friends until I decided what to do with myself.

  “I have been invited to stay at Mistledown with Lord Walters,” I informed him. “You can reach me there if there’s anything of importance to discuss, although it all seems quite straightforward.”