Come, Tell Me How You Live

by Agatha Christie Mallowan

  He shakes his head. The French party explain all. They have arrived here by ’plane yesterday, and will leave the same way tomorrow. This taxi they have hired for the afternoon at the Hotel, and now it has broken down. What will poor Madame do? ‘Impossible de marcher, n’est ce pas, avec un soulier seulement.’

  We pour out condolences, and Max gallantly offers our taxi. He will return to the Hotel and bring it out here. It can make two journeys and take us all back.

  The suggestion is received with acclamations and profuse thanks, and Max sets off.

  I fraternize with the French ladies, and Mac retires behind an impenetrable wall of reserve. He produces a stark ‘Oui’ or ‘Non’ to any conversational openings, and is soon mercifully left in peace. The French ladies profess a charming interest in our journeyings.

  ‘Ah, Madame, vous faites le camping?’

  I am fascinated by the phrase. Le camping! It classes our adventure definitely as a sport!

  How agreeable it will be, says another lady, to do le camping.

  Yes, I say, it will be very agreeable.

  The time passes; we chat and laugh. Suddenly, to my great surprise, Queen Mary comes lurching along. Max, with an angry face, is at the wheel.

  I demand why he hasn’t brought the taxi?

  ‘Because,’ says Max furiously, ‘the taxi is here’ And he points a dramatic finger at the obdurate car, into which the lank Syrian is still optimistically peering.

  There is a chorus of surprised exclamations, and I realize why the car has looked so familiar! ‘But,’ cries the French lady, ‘this is the car we hired at the Hotel.’ Nevertheless, Max explains, it is our taxi.

  Explanations with Aristide have been painful. Neither side has appreciated the other’s point of view.

  ‘Have I not hired the taxi and you for three months?’ demands Max. ‘And must you let it out to others behind my back in this shameful way?’

  ‘But,’ says Aristide, all injured innocence, ‘did you not tell me that you yourself would not use it this afternoon? Naturally, then, I have the chance to make a little extra money. I arrange with a friend, and he drives this party round Palmyra. How can it injure you, since you do not want to sit in the car yourself?’

  ‘It injures me,’ replies Max, ‘since in the first place it was not our arrangement; and in the second place the car is now in need of repair, and in all probability will not be able to proceed tomorrow!’

  ‘As to that,’ says Aristide, ‘do not disquiet yourself. My friend and I will, if necessary, sit up all night!’

  Max replies briefly that they’d better.

  Sure enough, the next morning the faithful taxi awaits us in front of the door, with Aristide smiling, and still quite unconvinced of sin, at the wheel.

  Today we arrive at Der-ez-Zor, on the Euphrates. It is very hot. The town smells and is not attractive. The Services Spéciaux kindly puts some rooms at our disposal, since there is no European hotel. There is an attractive view over the wide brown flow of the river. The French officer inquires tenderly after my health and hopes I have not found motoring in the heat too much for me. ‘Madame Jacquot, the wife of our General, was complètement knock out when she arrived.’

  The term takes my fancy. I hope that I, in my turn, shall not be complètement knock out by the end of our survey!

  We buy vegetables and large quantities of eggs, and with Queen Mary full to the point of breaking her springs, we set off, this time to start on the survey proper.

  Busaira! Here there is a police post. It is a spot of which Max has had high hopes, since it is at the junction of the Euphrates with the Habur. Roman Circesium is on the opposite bank.

  Busaira proves, however, disappointing. There are no signs of any antique settlement other than Roman, which is treated with the proper disgust. ‘Min Ziman er Rum,’ says Hamoudi, shaking his head distastefully, and I echo him dutifully.

  For to our point of view the Romans are hopelessly modern – children of yesterday. Our interest begins at the second millennium B.C., with the varying fortunes of the Hittites, and in particular we want to find out more about the military dynasty of Mitanni, foreign adventurers about whom little is known, but who flourished in this part of the world, and whose capital city of Washshukkanni has yet to be identified. A ruling caste of warriors, who imposed their rule on the country, and who intermarried with the Royal House of Egypt, and who were, it seems, good horsemen, since a treatise upon the care and training of horses is ascribed to a certain Kikkouli, a man of Mitanni.

  And from that period backwards, of course, into the dim ages of pre-history – an age without written records, when only pots and house plans, and amulets, ornaments, and beads, remain to give their dumb witness to the life the people lived.

  Busaira having been disappointing, we go on to Meyadin, farther south, though Max has not much hope of it. After that we will strike northward up the left bank of the Habur river.

  It is at Busaira that I get my first sight of the Habur, which has so far been only a name to me – though a name that has been repeatedly on Max’s lips.

  ‘The Habur – that’s the place. Hundreds of Tells!’

  He goes on: ‘And if we don’t find what we want on the Habur, we will on the Jaghjagha!’

  ‘What,’ I ask, the first time I hear the name, ‘is the Jaghjagha?’

  The name seems to me quite fantastic!

  Max says kindly that he supposes I have never heard of the Jaghjagha? A good many people haven’t, he concedes.

  I admit the charge and add that until he mentioned it, I had not even heard of the Habur. That does surprise him.

  ‘Didn’t you know,’ says Max, marvelling at my shocking ignorance, ‘that Tell Halaf is on the Habur?’

  His voice is lowered in reverence as he speaks of that famous site of prehistoric pottery.

  I shake my head and forbear to point out that if I had not happened to marry him I should probably never have heard of Tell Halaf!

  I may say that explaining the places where we dig to people is always fraught with a good deal of difficulty.

  My first answer is usually one word – ‘Syria.’

  ‘Oh!’ says the average inquirer, already slightly taken aback. A frown forms on his or her forehead. ‘Yes, of course – Syria….’ Biblical memories stir. ‘Let me see, that’s Palestine, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s next to Palestine,’ I say encouragingly. ‘You know – farther up the coast.’

  This doesn’t really help, because Palestine, being usually connected with Bible history and the lessons on Sunday rather than a geographical situation, has associations that are purely literary and religious.

  ‘I can’t quite place it.’ The frown deepens. ‘Whereabouts do you dig – I mean near what town?’

  ‘Not near any town. Near the Turkish and Iraq border.’

  A hopeless expression then comes across the friend’s face.

  ‘But surely you must be near some town!’

  ‘Alep,’ I say, ‘is about two hundred miles away.’

  They sigh and give it up. Then, brightening, they ask what we eat. ‘Just dates, I suppose?’

  When I say that we have mutton, chickens, eggs, rice, French beans, aubergines, cucumbers, oranges in season and bananas, they look at me reproachfully. ‘I don’t call that roughing it,’ they say.

  At Meyadin le camping begins.

  A chair is set up for me, and I sit in it grandly in the midst of a large courtyard, or khan, whilst Max, Mac, Aristide, Hamoudi and Abdullah struggle to set up our tents.

  There is no doubt that I have the best of it. It is a richly entertaining spectacle. There is a strong desert wind blowing, which does not help, and everybody is raw to the job. Appeals to the compassion and mercy of God rise from Abdullah, demands to be assisted by the saints from Armenian Aristide, wild yells of encouragement and laughter are offered by Hamoudi, furious imprecations come from Max. Only Mac toils in silence, though even he occasionally mutters a quiet
word under his breath.

  At last all is ready. The tents look a little drunken, a little out of the true, but they have arisen. We all unite in cursing the cook, who, instead of starting to prepare a meal, has been enjoying the spectacle. However, we have some useful tins, which are opened, tea is made, and now, as the sun sinks and the wind drops and a sudden chill arises, we go to bed. It is my first experience of struggling into a sleeping-bag. It takes the united efforts of Max and myself, but, once inside, I am enchantingly comfortable. I always take abroad with me one really good soft down pillow – to me it makes all the difference between comfort and misery.

  I say happily to Max: ‘I think I like sleeping in a tent!’

  Then a sudden thought occurs to me.

  ‘You don’t think, do you, that rats or mice or something will run across me in the night?’

  ‘Sure to,’ says Max cheerfully and sleepily.

  I am digesting this thought when sleep overtakes me, and I wake to find it is five a.m. – sunrise, and time to get up and start a new day.

  The mounds in the immediate neighbourhood of Meyadin prove unattractive.

  ‘Roman!’ murmurs Max disgustedly. It is his last word of contempt. Stifling any lingering feeling I may have that the Romans were an interesting people, I echo his tone, and say ‘Roman’, and cast down a fragment of the despised pottery. ‘Min Ziman…er Rum’, says Hamoudi.

  In the afternoon we go to visit the American dig at Doura. It is a pleasant visit, and they are charming to us. Yet I find my interest in the finds flagging, and an increasing difficulty in listening or in taking part in the conversation.

  Their account of their original difficulties in getting workmen is amusing.

  Working for wages in this out-of-the-way part of the world is an idea that is entirely new. The expedition found itself faced with blank refusal or non-comprehension. In despair they appealed to the French military authorities. The response was prompt and efficient. The French arrested two hundred, or whatever the number needed was, and delivered them at work. The prisoners were amiable, in the highest good humour, and seemed to enjoy the work. They were told to return on the following day, but did not turn up. Again the French were asked to help, and once again they arrested the workmen. Again the men worked with evident satisfaction. But yet again they failed to turn up, and once again military arrest was resorted to.

  Finally the matter was elucidated.

  ‘Do you not like working for us?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, why not? We have nothing to do at home.’

  ‘Then why do you not come every day?’

  ‘We wish to come, but naturally we have to wait for the ’asker (soldiers) to fetch us. I can tell you, we were very indignant when they did not come to fetch us! It is their duty!’

  ‘But we want you to work for us without the ’asker fetching you!’

  ‘That is a very curious idea!’

  At the end of a week they were paid, and that finally set the seal on their bewilderment.

  Truly, they said, they could not understand the ways of foreigners!

  ‘The French ’asker are in command here. Naturally, it is their right to fetch us, and put us in prison or send us to dig up the ground for you. But why do you give us money? What is the money for? It does not make sense!’

  However, in the end the strange customs of the West were accepted, howbeit with head shakings and mutterings. Once a week money was paid them. But a vague grudge against the ’asker remained. The ’asker’s job was to fetch them every day!

  Whether true or not, this makes a good story! I only wish I could feel more intelligent. What is the matter with me? When I get back to camp my head is swimming. I take my temperature, and find that it is a hundred and two! Also, I have a pain in my middle, and feel extremely sick. I am very glad to crawl into my flea-bag, and go to sleep, spurning the thought of dinner.

  Max looks worried this morning and asks me how I feel. I groan and say: ‘Like death!’ He looks more worried. He asks me if I think I am really ill.

  I reassure him on that point. I have what is called in Egypt a Gippy tummy and in Baghdad a Baghdad tummy. It is not a very amusing complaint to have when you are right out in the desert. Max cannot leave me behind alone, and in any case the inside of the tent in the day-time registers about a hundred and thirty! The survey must go on. I sit huddled up in the car, swaying about in a feverish dream. When we reach a mound, I get out and lie down in what shade the height of Queen Mary affords, whilst Max and Mac tramp over the mound, examining it.

  Frankly, the next four days are sheer unmitigated hell! One of Hamoudi’s stories seems particularly apposite – that of a Sultan’s lovely wife, whom he carried off, and who bewailed to Allah night and day that she had no companions and was alone in the desert. ‘And at last Allah, weary of her moanings, sent her companions. He sent her the flies!’

  I feel particularly venomous towards the lovely lady for incurring the wrath of Allah! All day long flies settling in clouds make it impossible to rest.

  I regret bitterly that I have ever come on this expedition, but just manage not to say so.

  After four days, with nothing but weak tea without milk, I suddenly revive. Life is good again. I eat a colossal meal of rice and stew of vegetables swimming in grease. It seems the most delicious thing I have ever tasted!

  After it, we climb up the mound at which we have pitched our camp – Tell Suwar, on the left bank of the Habur. Here there is nothing – no village, no habitation of any kind, not even any Beduin tents.

  There is a moon above, and below us the Habur winds in a great S-shaped curve. The night air smells sweet after the heat of the day.

  I say: ‘What a lovely mound! Can’t we dig here?’

  Max shakes his head sadly and pronounces the word of doom.

  ‘Roman.’

  ‘What a pity. It’s such a lovely spot.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Max, ‘that the Habur was the place! Tells all along it on either side.’

  I have taken no interest in Tells for several days, but I am glad to find I have not missed much.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t any of the stuff you want here?’ I ask wistfully. I have taken a fancy to Tell Suwar.

  ‘Yes, of course there is, but it’s underneath. We’d have to dig right down through the Roman stuff. We can do better than that.’

  I sigh and murmur: ‘It’s so still here and so peaceful – not a soul in sight.’

  At that moment a very old man appears from nowhere at all.

  Where has he come from? He walks up the side of the mound slowly, without haste. He has a long white beard and ineffable dignity.

  He salutes Max politely. ‘How is your comfort?’ ‘Well. And yours?’ ‘Well.’ ‘Praise God!’ ‘Praise God!’

  He sits down beside us. There is a long silence – that courteous silence of good manners that is so restful after Western haste.

  Finally the old man inquires Max’s name. Max tells it him. He considers it.

  ‘Milwan,’ he repeats. ‘Milwan…. How light! How bright! How beautiful!’

  He sits with us a little longer. Then, as quietly as he has come, he leaves us. We never see him again.

  Restored to health, I now really begin to enjoy myself. We start every morning at early dawn, examining each mound as we come to it, walking round and round it, picking up any sherds of pottery. Then we compare results on the top, and Max keeps such specimens as are useful, putting them in a little linen bag and labelling them.

  There is a great competition between us as to who gets the prize find of the day.

  I begin to understand why archaeologists have a habit of walking with eyes downcast to the ground. Soon, I feel, I myself shall forget to look around me, or out to the horizon. I shall walk looking down at my feet as though there only any interest lies.

  I am struck as often before by the fundamental difference of race. Nothing could differ more widely than the attitude of our two chauffeurs to mone
y. Abdullah lets hardly a day pass without clamouring for an advance of salary. If he had had his way he would have had the entire amount in advance, and it would, I rather imagine, have been dissipated before a week was out. With Arab prodigality Abdullah would have splashed it about in the coffee-house. He would have cut a figure! He would have ‘made a reputation for himself’.

  Aristide, the Armenian, has displayed the greatest reluctance to have a penny of his salary paid him. ‘You will keep it for me, Khwaja, until the journey is finished. If I want money for some little expense I will come to you.’ So far he has demanded only fourpence of his salary – to purchase a pair of socks!

  His chin is now adorned by a sprouting beard, which makes him look quite a Biblical figure. It is cheaper, he explains, not to shave. One saves the money one might have to spend on a razor blade. And it does not matter here in the desert.

  At the end of the trip Abdullah will be penniless once more, and will doubtless be again adorning the water-front of Beyrout, waiting with Arab fatalism for the goodness of God to provide him with another job. Aristide will have the money he has earned untouched.

  ‘And what will you do with it?’ Max asks him.

  ‘It will go towards buying a better taxi,’ replies Aristide.

  ‘And when you have a better taxi?’

  ‘Then I shall earn more and have two taxis.’

  I can quite easily foresee returning to Syria in twenty years’ time, and finding Aristide the immensely rich owner of a large garage, and probably living in a big house in Beyrout. And even then, I dare say, he will avoid shaving in the desert because it saves the price of a razor blade.

  And yet, Aristide has not been brought up by his own people. One day, as we pass some Beduin, he is hailed by them, and cries back to them, waving and shouting affectionately.