Jerusalem Commands: Between the Wars Vol. 3

by Michael Moorcock

  Signorina von Bek was scrambling to her feet and cocking the mitrailleuse. She at least had not forgotten that the Red Shadow’s men were Riffians.

  As I climbed up over the basket’s rim I raised my Lee-Enfield high into the air, using the universal peace sign of the Sahara. Lowering myself to the sand I knelt and placed my rifle carefully on the ground before me. Then, with my hand over my heart, I stood up.

  The dark-skinned riders reined in a few yards from us, controlling their half-wild stallions with economic flicks of wrists and ankles, arguing loudly amongst themselves. Each man had a scabbarded carbine on his saddle and the scabbard bore some sort of arms stamped in gold. These were no ordinary tribesmen. In careful Arabic I told them we came in peace.

  We had been abducted by Italian soldiers but with Allah’s blessing had managed to escape from the brutal Nazarin. Turning to Rosie von Bek I translated what I had said into Italian. She took my cue. ‘Those foul swine!’ She gestured melodramatically. ‘They took away my clothes!’ She picked up a jerd and wrapped her pyjama’d body in it. A chiffon scarf improved her modesty. Her sun-darkened skin would not attract their attention, now that her face was veiled.

  The dandified riders made no response but continued to grin and talk amongst themselves, frequently pointing at us and either laughing heartily at some speculative joke or making a fierce declaration, probably concerning our origin. If I knew the desert, I guessed that at least half the party was arguing passionately for our supernatural nativity.

  ‘Brothers,’ I began. ‘By the grace of Allah we have fallen among co-religionists! We are safe at last, my wife!’ And I sent a rather theatrical prayer to Heaven.

  But I was ignored. They looked back in the direction from which they had ridden. Another group of horsemen approached, sending pale pink dust into the chalky blue evening. They came over an horizon on which stood a single palm, a ruined kasbah, hooded riders controlling their steeds with that absolute unconscious authority characterising the true desert aristocrat. These were no passing nomads! What if we had strayed into some Berber province forbidden to all strangers? I knew the punishment received by those Europeans who had attempted to invade Timbuktu or Mecca. Our fate remained uncertain. Our lives depended, I decided, on whether or not they accepted us as Bedouin. There was often little love between the two peoples, but we here could expect at least three days’ daifa before they decided to murder us. In that time, no doubt, we should be able to improve our position. With this in mind I drew myself up to display all my Arab dignity.

  As the horsemen cantered nearer I realised that some wore only a light riding ras over what appeared to be European dress. There were five of these followed by outriders in the same costume as our first group. They rode superb Arabs. The foremost, in khaki jodhpurs and jacket, wore a green turban. The big man just behind him wore a similar outfit save for the distinctive French képi; on his left rode a man whose cloak flowed back to reveal bright British scarlet; he was protected from the sun by a white solar topee. Behind them came a taller, very lean European in military khaki whose wide-brimmed hat shaded his face; the remaining heavier figure also hid his face within a hood. By the look of the party we must surely have landed in Spanish or French territory, some military or diplomatic concordance. It was in my interest to discover immediately if I was in relatively friendly territory - perhaps Spanish Morocco.

  The horsemen now slowed to a trot and eventually came to a spectacular stop only a short distance from us. The leader, in the hooded cloak, was a plump, dapper individual whose antecedents clearly included most of the major African races. He had large, intelligent eyes, a poor skin and a scrawny but well-tended beard. His clothing, a mixture of Oriental and Western, was of perfect cut and evident quality. It had been fashioned, I was sure, not far from the Tour Eiffel. The European officer was equally elegant.

  Behind him the two others were obscured in the horses and dust, but doubtless they were as well groomed. ‘Hola muy amigos!’ I had remembered rather too late that my only available passport identified me a Spanish citizen. ‘Habla el Español, señors.’ And prayed profoundly that they did not, after all, have any more Spanish than did I. The native turned and spoke in French to his nearest companion, who replied in cultured Parisian.

  Pretending not to understand what was being said, I bared my head. Happily my hair had grown long enough to give me the general appearance of a Bedouin. For their part they were merely determining what language to use to me. Since Turkish seemed to be the Frenchman’s choice and Spanish the natives’, I decided to be audacious and try English, having always preferred to keep a language or two in reserve. ‘I hope we are not inconveniencing you gentlemen,’ I began. ‘We are somewhat off our course, I fear.’ I was about to introduce myself when the huge Frenchman threw back his hood, removed his képi and, grinning widely, wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. It was Lieutenant Fromental, my acquaintance from Casablanca.

  ‘I know that voice! I thought I recognised you, monsieur. What a wonderful coincidence! We all believed you back in Hollywood, sir!’ He changed from English to French. ‘Your Highness -’ a formal gesture - ‘may I introduce to you the man I have spoken of many times. Mr Max “Ace” Peters, the cinema star. Mr Peters, you are in the presence of His Highness, the Pasha of Marrakech, El Hadj T’hami el Glaoui.’

  An impasse. There was nothing I could do but bow.

  ‘You are very welcome here, monsieur,’ said the Pasha. At that time I took his odd grin for reluctant hospitality. His frown became expectant. For a second I had forgotten my companion. I turned to introduce her. ‘Mademoiselle von Bek . . .’

  Oblivious of the others, she stared at me in horror. ‘Peters?’ Her eyes spoke of betrayal, but her voice was a knife. ‘Peters? You’re not a Bedouin sheikh?’

  ‘Only by choice,’ I murmured. ‘Please keep this confidence. I am Peters of the English Secret Service. I had no option but to deceive you. I also have something of a career in the cinema. What luck to run into friends! Let me do the talking!’

  In an instant my terrors had flown away. I thought surely she must share my delight in this happy turn of events, but instead she interrupted me in a strangled voice and, letting the veil fall away from her frozen face, made her own introduction. ‘Rose von Bek, of the Royal Italian Geographical Expedition.’ She spoke in her formal Arabic. ‘I am so sorry to disturb your peace, Your Highness, and I appreciate your tolerance in permitting me to land in your beautiful realm. Both your courtesy and hospitality are famous throughout the world. I have long wished for the privilege of an audience. I trust you will not consider this unorthodox means of finding you too audacious. I have, of course, letters of introduction from various sponsors including our great Duce, Signor Mussolini, my master.’

  El Glaoui seemed to frown at the name of Mussolini but graciously recovered himself. ‘I am flattered and enchanted,’ murmured the Berber prince in husky, thrilling accents. ‘Mr Beters I feel is an old friend, but you, mademoiselle ... are a legendary jewel. Such beauty!’

  I was admiring of Rose’s quick wit and would have praised her had it not been clear that she was for some reason disgusted by me at that moment. And then, looking into her eyes, I understood. She had believed that she revealed her deepest desires to an inscrutable Oriental but instead she had shared her longings with a knowing European!

  Lieutenant Fromental was delighted. His great broad face was beaming as he strode up to me and flung a comradely arm about me, all but crushing me. ‘My dear friend, this is a most marvellous piece of good fortune.’

  ‘Do you ride, Mr Peters?’ The red-coated Englishman with the old-fashioned grey walrus moustache and flinty eyes, the most evidently military of all the company, was clearly testing me.

  ‘Ride!’ Lieutenant Fromental laughed aloud. ‘Why, Mr Peters is an expert horseman!’ He winked at me, sharing a droll secret. ‘Since we last met, sir, I have had the pleasure of viewing The Lost Buckaroo. Even finer than The Buckaroo’s
Code, if I may say so. Once your films are seen in France your genius will be given its due credit. The French still honour great artists.’ He became a little embarrassed. ‘Well, sir, that was what I first recognised when I saw you. Those eyes! They are unmistakable! And the voice, when I heard it, from Casablanca! I am honoured, sir!’ He opened his tunic and took out a piece of carefully folded newsprint - a publicity photograph of me raising my masked face to be kissed by Daphne LaCosse as she leans from the rails of a loco’s moving caboose. I, of course, am kneeling on my saddle! It was from The Fighting Buckaroo, one of the last films of any substance I made for Lesser. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve also been carrying about with me for weeks a letter I wrote to you. This is the most absurd coincidence! I thought of wiring you at Shepheard’s. Then I decided you would have returned to the United States by now. I was racking my brains to remember the name of your film company when, by magic, you materialised before me!’

  ‘We saw you descending, sir,’ the redcoat told me. ‘We thought the Italians were invading! The Pasha loathes the Eye-ties. You’re lucky those chaps didn’t shoot on sight!’

  Fromental had stumped through the sand to where a restless stallion was offered by one of the Pasha’s guards for my use. The man would ride double, no doubt, with a comrade. Another pony was similarly prepared for Rose but in this case the Pasha took a personal interest in its suitability.

  ‘Anyway, here you are!’ Fromental went on cheerfully. ‘Large as life. And you’ll be delighted by my news, Mr Peters. We have discovered your missing nigger.’

  ‘In Morocco?’ Having had rather a swift succession of surprises and reversals I was a little uncomprehending.

  ‘No, no! Here! In the Tafi’lalet. Today. With us.’ He gestured boisterously towards his companions. At last as the dust settled slowly around us, I gave my attention to the fifth hooded rider whose teeth glittered through the haze like the beam of an approaching loco. ‘Good evening, colonel.’

  It was none other than my faithful Mix!

  I had turned up, he said, just as he thought his last run of luck was about to go dry. He dismounted and, his face filling with honest pleasure, shook me warmly by the hand. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you dropped by, colonel! Don’t let us split up again. At least until we’re back home!’

  I must admit I was touched almost to tears by this demonstration of my dusky Sancho Panza’s devoted loyalty.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE ILLUSION ONE CREATES in the cinema is not always easy to live up to in reality. Fame brings responsibility as well as power. The Pasha and his guests were returning from an antelope hunt. On our ride to the Glaoui kasbah at Tin’rheras, while an honoured visitor from the Hollywood heavens, I regretted that discretion demand I say nothing of stuntmen to the worshipping Lieutenant Fromental. Instead, I explained an uneasy seat as residual symptoms of my old friend, malaria.

  The lieutenant showed brotherly concern at this news. He thought a Czech physician was soon to be a guest of the Pasha (who made the most of his Western acquaintances during his frequent visits to Paris). Perhaps the eminent Doctor N. could be persuaded to do something for me?

  Grateful as I was, I said, for this suggestion, I merely had to ride out the disease. I was sure that in a few days (when I secretly planned to be entrained for Casablanca or Tangier) I would be as right as rain. Clapping me on the back the young Frenchman assured me we would be at the kasbah by the following evening. Meanwhile, if my health improved, I was welcome to join him for a gallop over the tundra while it was still possible. ‘After Tafi’lalet, once we get into the Atlas,’ Fromental indicated the ochre foothills of a substantial mountain range now filling the northern horizon, ‘we’ll have to pick our way along those damned tracks, and rock shelves which pass for tracks, above a succession of abysses. We’ll be lucky to ride at all.’

  Not for the first time since I had left California the prospect of an abyss or two was far preferable to my present predicament. It remains my belief (call it a betrayal of my Cossack blood) that the horse was merely a rough-and-ready stopgap we used while we were inventing the internal combustion engine. By some strange quirk, my native blood called not for the stallion’s forceful gallop, but the camel’s rolling plod.

  The true power-holder in Morocco, thanks to his own consummate sense of strategy, El Glaoui was an animated little man in whom Arab, Negro and Berber, the three major races of this region, had married to produce a thoroughly nondescript pudgy little face which, save for his rather scrubby beard, might have been found on any bank clerk from Bangkok to Threadneedle Street. The vivacity which lit his eyes engaged one’s immediate attention, however, and sometimes his whole face seemed to shine like the sun - not always with joy, but with shame or contempt or fury, perhaps, at some cosmic injustice. His self-esteem endowed him with a kind of beauty. He understood that he was what most men aspire to and what most women desire. He had proven his judgement in politics and in battle. He had conquered the South and accomplished the great pilgrimage to Mecca, thus definitively demonstrating his courage and his piety. Now he displayed his cultural sophistication, his scholarly curiosity in all that the world had to offer.

  El Glaoui was by no means the first Moslem princeling to aspire to the mantle of Haroun al-Raschid or even Saladin, but for a while he alone most nearly achieved the reality. I would say he did this through his quick intelligence, personal charm and ruthless practicality. Savage as he was to his enemies, he could also be generous to those he defeated. He had the gentle but elaborate manners of the Berber nobility, a sense of quiet irony which pleased women, and a clever, self-deprecating manner which immediately made you his admirer. It was as well for Europe that the enchanting T’hami el Glaoui, Thane of this remoter Cawdor, had no greater ambition than to rule, through his French allies, one small part of the Maghrib! He was a Napoleon! An Alexander! And those who now slight him or tell me that he was nothing, that he never existed save as a Frenchman’s shadow, have swallowed the official opinion of the victorious but rather less charismatic Sultan, who now calls himself a king. The truth is only ever what the dominant power declares it to be.

  This is what they did to Makhno and Mosley. (Not that I admired them, as men, for anything but their audacity.) We turn these bold outlaws into goblins, driven by a will to Evil, even when we have previously used them for our own gain. Next we belittle and forget their achievements. It was the Pasha of Marrakech, not the Sultan of Morocco, nor the Bey of Algiers, who was a welcome and familiar guest in all the drawing-rooms and, indeed, the boudoirs, of the West End. Winston Churchill called him a fellow-spirit. Charles Boyer became his friend, Noel Coward wrote his famous submarine film in Marrakech and based one of the characters on El Glaoui, who was far more popular than King Farouk or the Aga Khan. He was considerably more cultured. I am the first to insist that I bear him no grudge. (We would both be victims of the same miserable Iago. But, as usual, I was not given the opportunity to explain my situation. People have no humanity, these days. Even the interrogators lack the patience of the old Tsarist professionals.)

  In his domain, especially in one gorgeous room, the Pasha allowed the pace of life to remain civilised while ensuring that his guests had every modern comfort, including the latest in gramophone records and three-reeler movies, mostly French. He had a magnificent pianola and all the up-to-date rolls. I heard this from Lieutenant Fromental as we rode through a Moorish paradise, through groves of dark-green date palms whose long shadows fell across little lagoons and streams, against a flawless deep blue sky beneath which red dust blew across wind-eroded terracotta hills topped by the crenellated towers of a dozen petty chieftains, all of them vassals to our host, all of them subject to his will on pain of death. There was a wonderful silence to the place. Here was the reason for the Pasha’s self-confidence, this demonstration of his immense security.

  I envied him such feudal power. Yet even then I knew the cost of such power. To possess it one must als
o fight, second by second, to keep it. Amongst desert tribespeople, just as in modern business, there are always young contenders waiting for that one sign of weakness. Their moral behaviour is separated from the battle rituals of the stag only in the extent of the unthinking damage it does to the surrounding world. Yet still El Glaoui was a Renaissance prince. Had it not been for the French betraying him, he would have founded a dynasty as famous and as colourful as the Borgia. He, too, would have given his people prince and pope in one person.

  He had formed the impression that we were American movie people in a borrowed balloon who had accidentally landed in his domain. He took it that we had come from Algeria. It suited neither of us to disillusion him, especially since it explained a movie camera he might, with his suspicion of Italian ambitions, have chosen to see as proof of our spying. Rose had offered some tale which he had accepted. He welcomed us to his court as artists and insisted we become his personal guests while in Marrakech.