Up on the heights the two towers, the Madeloque and the Massane, watched over the plains of Catalonia as they had done when the armies of the Cardinal were besieging Perpignan. They were only phantoms now, ghosts of the past, still obstinately standing up to the buffets of the tramontana, towering above the high-lying moors with their carpet of sweet-smelling plants. At the narrow quay, an old steamer was unloading locust-beans. A few yards away was the empty terrace of the Café de Commerce, with its two scrubby orange trees in battered tubs and its round metal-bound marble tables. Carts with huge parti-coloured wheels bumped over the cobbles, and over everything was that stale smell of dust, characteristic of ports where it never rains.
I went on board the rusty steamer, over a narrow plank as elastic as a spring-board. A fat man in shirtsleeves was sitting aft in the shade of a tar-stainéd awning. He was eating a salad of cod and raw onions, and in front of him was an enormous, pink-fleshed water-lemon. He was the captain. He washed down his salad with great gulps of black wine out of a skin, and when he saw me coming he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glowered sullenly, stuck his pipe insolently in his mouth, and sent forth a jet of saliva which nearly fell on my feet, just to show me how welcome I was. After several attempts on my part at conversation in various languages, this master after God deigned to send me to hell in a jargon which bore some faint resemblance to Italian. It would have been madness to attempt to extract the smallest piece of information about the delicate questions which interested me from this coarse brute.
As I went back over the springy plank I saw a man, dressed just as shabbily as the rest of the people on this elegant vessel but wearing a celluloid collar, yellow and clouded as a clay pipe, but still a collar. This individual waited politely until I had crossed the slender gangway, keeping my balance by movements worthy of a tight-rope dancer. When I reached the shore end of the plank I mechanically uttered some vague words of greeting. He replied in French. I was saved; this was the man I was looking for. He was the chief engineer, for the old tub boasted a chief engineer.
It was useless to start any conversation where we were, with avalanches of locust-beans showering down on us from the badly fastened sacks which were being swung ashore by the crane. Though I must say that this dirty little man received them on his beribboned straw hat with an indifference born of long habit. I led him off to the deserted Café de Commerce, where I woke the echoes with my shouts. Finally a white apron loomed up out of the shadows and a bald and pallid waiter brought us the traditional can of beer.
My new acquaintance was a little man with an oily face, protuberant eyes, and a flat nose; he reminded me irresistibly of a friendly bull-dog. Without beating about the bush, I asked him what I wanted to know. I spoke as naturally as if I were asking the price of locust-beans, and he did not seem the least bit surprised, but spoke about hashish as if it were the most everyday merchandise.
‘My name is Spiro Smimeo; my family lives in the Piraeus. I shall give you a letter for my wife, and she will introduce you to my cousin Papamanoli, who is a priest. He will take you to relatives in Tripolis who grow and deal in hashish on a very large scale.
‘You can trust him, he is an honourable man, as pure as gold,’ and he made an expressive gesture as if he were holding an imaginary scale for weighing precious metals between two fingers.
There was no use hanging back; I decided to trust this fellow, follow his indications blindly, and walk straight into the unknown.
EIGHT
The Voyage to the Piraeus
Next day I embarked at Marseilles on the Messageries’ packet Le Calédonien, which was leaving for the Near East. I went steerage, my finances not permitting anything better for the moment.
These lines are very different from those of China or Madagascar. The fourth class was invaded by repatriated Russians, Bulgars and other dagoes, each one dirtier than the rest. The men were shaggy and bearded, dressed in clothes of indefinite colour, all shining with grease. They looked more or less like the beggars one sees under the porches of provincial churches. You can just imagine the state of their linen, for whenever they shook themselves or simply moved, vermin fell from the folds of their garments.
I couldn’t see myself sleeping between decks among this evil-smelling throng, so I went to see the head steward of the third class. I found him in a great state of agitation, not knowing which way to turn. At the last moment, twenty-two Russian women and an incalculable number of children of all ages had been thrust upon him. These were the families of the men in the fourth class. They were Russian peasant women with sunburnt faces and kerchiefs tied over their heads, as uncouth and primitive as the Somali Bedouins, and completely bewildered by the stir on board.
I offered my services as extra steward, and was thankfully taken on. I laid the tables, sorted the silver, and acted as waiter. In return for this I ate with the chief steward the same food as the first-class passengers, slept on a table in the dining-room, and had a share in all the little extras the staff consider their due. By the third day, I had completely mastered my duties; it really looked as if I had missed my vocation.
Fabre was an old head steward who had been tossed about on all the seas of the East, both Near and Far. He was a very decent fellow, and had acquired a mellow philosophy through contact with all the passengers he had rubbed up against. During their voyages, men thrown together by chance indulge in a sort of moral nudism, and lay bare many strange things which they carefully hide in their ordinary lives. Fabre was very amusing on his favourite topic, the frightful trouble caused by that cumbersome, unpacked, dirty and exacting merchandise – passengers.
We called at Malta, a curious town where there is nothing but churches, and the only sound of life is the ringing of church bells. The whole place reminded me of the strange towns one often sees in the nightmares of delirium.
As soon as the ship anchored, a regular battle began between the boatmen for possession of the passengers. These unhappy creatures were hustled hither and thither, and finally one, waving his arms like a marionette unhinged, lost his balance and fell back into a boat. It immediately bore him off with a cry of triumph, and the defeated boatman revenged himself by carrying off his luggage in a different direction. All this took place amid a hail of oaths in Maltese, with many suggestive Arab words intermingled.
The young priests in the second class, freshly hatched out of the seminary, turned vividly pink, and the good nuns covered their faces with their veils and fled under the mocking gaze of an old bearded missionary, who wasn’t to be upset by such trifles.
I did not go ashore, for getting back to the ship was too much of a problem. Some passengers had to pay a veritable ransom before they could return. Two French sailors, who had got mixed up with churches when looking for a building of quite another character, solved the matter very simply by throwing their grasping boatmen into the sea. A few strokes with the oars, and they were alongside, and as a tug was just leaving they tied the little boat to it, to the accompaniment of indignant shrieks from the owner as he floundered in the water.
This morning we entered the gulf of Athens. It is an intensely blue lake, surrounded by faintly blue mountains, dotted with rose and green patches, with here and there a white blob like a daisy in a meadow. These were houses and villages, and very picturesque they looked in the rays of the rising sun.
At last we reached the Piraeus, standing against a background of red-gold mountains. In the clear morning light the red roofs stood out vividly against the blue of the sky, and the soft, warm air smelt of lavender and pine-woods.
The fact that this was Greece, land of heroes and demi-gods, lent a glamour born of antique memories to the landscape. I went as far forward as possible, so as not to see the odious modernity of the ship, and smell the coal smoke that trailed in our wake. All I saw was the stem cutting through this blue silk carpet, throwing up curls of white foam, as the triremes of ancient days must have done through this same clear water.
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sp; NINE
Papamanoli
As soon as I landed I was besieged by an army of small shoe-blacks; I really believe the children here must be born with a shoe-shining outfit. The only way to get peace is to wear canvas shoes.
The carriages for hire were most peculiar, rather like the moth-eaten equipages one sometimes sees even today in the Faubourg St Germain, taking for an airing some very old marquise who disdains such modern inventions as motor-cars. These landaus and victorias at the Piraeus were in the last stages of dilapidation, like the evening clothes hanging in second-hand clothes shops. The coachmen were dressed according to their fancy; most of them were in shirt-sleeves, and wore an immense red woollen sash which they used as a general store-cupboard. Into it they stowed their lunch, when the exigencies of business obliged them to interrupt the eating of it. I should have preferred to see a pair of immense pistols or a wicked-looking cutlass in them, for these men had the faces of brigands of grand opera. They were badly shaved, like peasants on Sundays, and many of them wore old opera hats or toppers with curling brims.
At last I found one who could read and make out the address which the obliging engineer of Port Vendres had given me. He took me to the house of Madame Spiro Smimeo, which was in an outlying suburb.
It was a very trim-looking dwelling, with a door-bell which one pulled. I was received with noisy exclamations of surprise and joy, as if I were an old friend not seen for ages.
Madame Smimeo was a good-looking woman of thirty, as tall and plump and fresh as her husband was little and shrivelled and oily as a black olive. She pushed me into a green rep arm-chair, and for half an hour I stayed stunned, while she shouted remarks at me in Greek, with a vivacity and amiability rather lost on me, since I didn’t understand a single word she was saying.
At last Papamanoli, who had been hastily summoned, arrived all out of breath. He was a ‘pope’, a big, fine-looking fellow with a wonderful beard, and his towering head-dress and flowing robes added to his impressive appearance. He mopped his streaming forehead with a coquettish pink silk handkerchief, and sleeked back his hair, which he wore in a neat ‘bun’. He had a splendid head, like that of an Assyrian monarch on an ancient coin, and his magnificent grey eyes shaded by long lashes were so eloquent that he hardly needed to speak. But I was still confronted with the same difficulty: I spoke no Greek and he spoke nothing else. We had to wait for an interpreter.
Madame Spiro fluttered around, very proud of her distinguished cousin. She suddenly bethought herself of her duties as hostess and trotted off at the double, returning with a tray covered with dishes of rose-petal jam. This frightfully sweet stuff is eaten by the spoonful accompanied by numerous glasses of water to stave off the inevitable sickness as long as possible.
The arrival of the interpreter put an end to our polite becking and bowing. He looked like a smart young man from the Home and Colonial and he spoke Italian. I plunged into exact explanations of what I had come to do.
The hashish was grown in Tripolis in Morea; nothing could be simpler, they assured me, than to go and buy from the growers whatever quantity was desired. It was a railway journey of about eight hours, and we arranged to leave next morning at 5 a.m. I spent the rest of the afternoon settling about the transport of my goods, so as to save time when they should arrive.
When I spoke about a cargo of hashish as casually as I might about a cargo of potatoes, the agent of the Messageries Maritimes was completely taken aback, but once he had got over the first shock he consulted his books of reference, and telephoned to the customs. Then he informed me that I could only ship this merchandise if I had a permit from the Greek customs, which would be given me on deposit of a guarantee of ten francs per kilogram. Theoretically, this deposit would be refunded when I presented my customs bill at my port of consignment, but even if I had such a certificate. I should have to get my money refunded by the Greek Government. That, I had been told, was a tough job. In any case, if I had to pay such a guarantee, I was completely in the soup, for I hadn’t the money.
At sight of my downcast face, Papamanoli smiled indulgently. He had known from the beginning that all my attempts to conduct the business would end in failure. He now took in hand himself to arrange matters.
We went down to the harbour, and there on the quay was a certain café, the headquarters of those who specialized in arranging for the transport of difficult cargoes. I was amused to note that the majestic, flowing robes of my guide did not seem to cause the slightest stir among the dockers and riff-raff of the port; most of them, indeed, saluted with respect. I wondered if this would be the case in the Vieux Port if I were accompanied by an abbé.
We entered the bar in question. It was full of sailors who had or had not ships, and of all kinds of seafarers, including many captains of the little coasting steamers which ploughed the waters of the archipelago in all directions. They were sitting about in little groups, drinking coffee and plotting their little schemes, for all the smuggling and dodges to cheat the maritime authorities were thought out in this place, and for love of smuggling, the Greeks are the first nation in the world, bar none. If I had come in alone, I should have been looked on with the greatest suspicion, but as I was with Papamanoli everything was all right. He shook hands all round with the familiarity of one who is in a daily haunt, and even the landlord came and greeted him with marked deference.
From his towering height he gazed round over everybody’s head. Finally he seemed to find the person he was looking for and, waving his vast sleeves in greeting, he started to wedge himself through the crowd towards a distant table in a dark corner, at which three men were seated.
I found myself before a lean and swarthy individual with a hooked nose from which seemed to sprout an incredibly black moustache. Never in my life had I seen so scraggy a human being; he was a veritable mummy, seeming to have no flesh at all, but only parchment-like skin stretched directly over his prominent bones. This was the man we were looking for, this was the kirios Caravan, whose very name seemed to predestine him for the career he had chosen. He agreed to take charge of my goods as soon as they arrived at the Piraeus, and transport them on a Greek steamer which was then in the roads, ready to start for Marseilles. Naturally, the captain was a friend of his, which would greatly simplify the formalities, and the transport of the hashish from the station to the boat could easily be undertaken at the modest rate of a drachma per kilo. Caravan spoke Italian, so I could make arrangements without an interpreter. I tried to assume an easy air as if I were a hardened smuggler who found himself quite at home in this strange company. If they could only have guessed that I had never even set eyes on hashish!
I covertly observed the two men who had been with Caravan when we came in. They had the sunburnt appearance of sailors or mountaineers, and were dressed in the same nondescript way as all the workers on the quays. A man dressed in this way did not attract the eye – there were too many others exactly like him; but it was to my interest to act the detective, and not let a single detail escape me. The two men for their part had run a rapid and experienced eye over me, like men accustomed to judge swiftly and not forget. As soon as Papamanoli began to speak, they ignored me entirely, and carelessly got up and strolled towards the quay, where a customs officer was walking up and down.
Was I a pigeon about to be plucked? I wondered. Was this Papamanoli a rascal? No, I didn’t think so. I had staked my all on this venture, and the least hesitation would be fatal. I decided to go through to the bitter end. After all, in such an enterprise there would always be risks, so I might as well get used to it.
Papamanoli now led me through the rich quarters of the town towards the cathedral, which was his church. I could see that he was very well known, and the numerous deferent greetings addressed to him reassured me, confirming the good impression he had made on me from the first. Under the vast porch of the cathedral many ladies, no doubt belonging to his flock, came and devoutly kissed his hands, gazing at him adoringly the while. But he seem
ed to take very little interest in either his church or his congregation for the moment; he appeared to be waiting for someone. Presently, a lady advanced to greet him with such smiling enthusiasm that I thought she was going to embrace him. But as soon as he caught sight of her, his amiable smile faded, and a cold and dignified hauteur stopped her effusions like a stone wall. She blushed and seemed a little confused. This was Madame Catherine Dritza, the wife of the First President of the Tribunal. She spoke French fluently, and Papamanoli begged her to be our interpreter. She was a pretty woman of about thirty, dressed with the quiet elegance of a woman of good social standing.
We had only a few yards to go to her house. It was a vast mansion with fretted balconies, and the great bronze knocker on the courtyard gate woke echoes under the vaults. The door was opened by a dainty soubrette, and we entered a hall decorated with hunting trophies. Through it we passed into a provincial-looking drawing-room cluttered with inferior oil-paintings, clocks under glass globes, rubbishy knick-knacks and paper flowers. Papamanoli seemed quite at home and went first through all the doorways, but Madame Dritza seemed to find this quite natural.
Once more flower jams were produced, made from lilies, roses, violets, etc.
I immediately took advantage of the presence of this amiable interpreter to attack the rather delicate question of commission, which I had not dared to mention to the dignified priest. I broached the matter very tentatively, but without the slightest embarrassment Papamanoli put things on a business footing, as calmly as if his sacred office included a commercial department. I was much relieved, and as the lady too found it all quite natural, everything was settled in a very few minutes, and the conversation drifted to the town gossip.
How that woman talked! I thought she would never stop, and I imagined that her husband must be a taciturn old magistrate, who never got a word in edgewise with his voluble young wife. I had only twenty minutes of it, but I was absolutely dazed, and rendered incapable of coherent thought. I did manage, however, to throw one phrase into the gushing stream of her eloquence, knowing that after that she would do the rest.
Hashish Page 4