Du Gardier introduced his brother. He was a painter, an official artist. Every year he came to visit his brother and paint a series of harmless little pictures of a size convenient for packing. He was the living image of his brother, except that he did not wear spectacles. They had a great affection for each other, and lived there very happily, treated as irresponsible children by their old nurse. The painter had just come in from his morning period of work from ten to twelve, after which he lunched and went out again. He was severely scolded because his shoes were wet, and his brother packed him off at once to change.
Like the consul, he had several orders, and like him was very ‘Civil Servant’. He sent pictures to the Illustration and had won medals at the Artistes Français. He did allow himself to wear a flowing tie, as a sign of his profession, but his bohemianism stopped there. This eccentricity was quite sufficient, so everybody at the consulate thought, to show how up-to-date and enterprising are the Government services. He called himself a modern painter, because he put a little purple into the shadows on his seascapes, but his wild audacity as an Impressionist went no further.
The consul was astounded to know that pearls were to be found quite close at hand in the Gulf, and Spiro opened eyes like saucers to show that his surprise was as great. I had to promise to take them out pearl fishing one Sunday, so that they could see the operations for themselves. Du Gardier declared that he would invite all the ‘best people’ in Suez to come on this expedition, and he seemed very proud to have found a compatriot engaged in such romantic pursuits.
TWENTY-SIX
Stavro
Alexandros was still sitting drowsing at the Greek café, but I could not persuade him to take me to see the person to whom he had that morning referred until darkness had fallen. We walked towards the Arab quarters; a vague odour, mixed with the smell of incense, stagnant water and fried oil, pervaded the narrow streets, which were almost deserted; it was the odour of the attractive blue smoke. But here it seemed a natural part of the atmosphere, it was the smell of the native town. Alexandros smelt nothing – he was probably too used to it, like the rest of the inhabitants; it needed a foreign nose to perceive it.
We came out at a fairly wide street, with four-storied houses on each side. They had long balconies on each floor, joined together by vertical beams, which made the houses look like cages. There lived the Arab, Greek and Maltese clerks – in a word, all this cosmospolitan crowd which constitutes the population of the seaport towns of Egypt. We kept close to the walls on Alexandros’ advice, for an open drain ran down the middle of the street and rubbish of various kinds was constantly thrown into it from the windows on each side, so that one ran most unpleasant risks of intercepting the bundles.
The street sloped downwards and I could see the calm waters of the lagoon lapping against the last cobbles. The end house stood out black against the sky. The tide was high, for the walls of this house were only a few yards from the water, which surged silently up and down, influenced by the sea tides. It was as if the sea were stretching out stealthy tentacles to play with the reflection of the last gas-lamp in the street. Here lived the man we were looking for.
Privately, I approved his choice. This house was so near the water that on this calm evening the sea looked as if it were lying before the door like a dog curled up at his master’s feet. The dead calm of these waters, which had nevertheless come from contact with the mighty deep-sea waves, reminded one of the well-trained silence of poachers’ dogs, or of horses loaded with contraband. The black profile of this house looked mysterious against the star-studded sky, before this mirror of silent, deep and secret water. A very narrow dark street separated the house from its neighbour, and behind it were waste lands which were doubtless flooded at the equinox.
Although it was still very early, the end of this little transversal street was absolutely deserted, and there was no sign of life in the house into which we were about to enter. Alexandros knocked at a little door in the side street. Several minutes went by. If I had been alone, I should have knocked again, but Alexandras explained that it was by the fact that we knocked only once that we would be recognized as friends, and we waited. Sure enough, in about five minutes we heard steps coming along a passage, then without the slightest sound of key being turned or bolt shot back, the door opened a few inches. Alexandros was recognized and we were allowed to enter.
I saw a fat woman of about forty, wearing a black handkerchief on her head like the peasant women I had seen in Greece. She welcomed me with a smile, and by the light of the smoky lamp she held in her hand I saw a kind, fat face, peaceful and waxen as the face of a nun. She was dressed entirely in black. We followed her into a big room with bare rafters, lit only by a tiny lamp burning before a gilded icon. There was a vague smell of tar in the air, as if we had been on a ship. She lit a big, hanging petrol-lamp which dispersed the shadows.
In the middle of the room stood a round table, and straw-bottomed chairs were set against the walls. There were two windows with beautifully laundered white curtains, and between them stood an old-fashioned commode with bulging drawers. On it was set the little altar of the icon with its ever-burning lamp. Above it hung an ancient gun with a very long barrel. I wondered if it was an ex vote or a relic. Above that hung a portrait in crayons of a gloomy-eyed old man, wearing the bonnet of the mountaineers of Crete. This was the ancestor, the father of the master of the house, an old mountain chief, leader of the Christians in rebellion. For thirty years he had defied the Turks, then was betrayed and captured, and shot at the age of seventy. The gun which gleamed against the wall in the peaceful light of an altar lamp had killed more than six hundred Turks, and the family venerated it as a relic. Alexandros told me this story in a low voice, while my eyes wandered round the room. At the other end was a dark mass covered with a cloth; it was a row-boat. Perhaps this was what the silent water was waiting for on the threshold of this mysterious house.
A glass-panelled door opened and a sort of giant came in. He had to stoop to enter and come in sideways. On his head was an immense black hat with a very wide brim, which cast a shadow over the upper part of his face like a black mask
‘Welcome!’ he cried to me, ‘I am glad to see you. I congratulate you on your successful voyage. Last night I dreamed of a big cupboard full of bread, and this morning I saw a dead black cat. Both of these are signs of luck; we shall overcome our enemies.’
He sat down. He was wearing a flannel shirt without a waistcoat, and a wide black woollen sash. He took off his hat when he saw that we were bare-headed. His skull was small and his forehead receding, almost entirely covered with a stubble of coarse hair. His deep-set eyes gleamed from under bushy eyebrows. He had grey-blue eyes, which looked at you very straight and frankly. At this moment he was in high good humour; you could feel that he had laid aside all distrust. His heavy moustache fell over a jutting and obstinate chin, and his aquiline nose cast a dancing shadow on the wall. He was immensely big and strong, built like a wrestler, and I was really afraid that the poor little chair would be crushed like an egg-shell beneath his weight.
This was Stavro, the son of Dimitri, the old man who had died for liberty, after killing six hundred Turks with his gun. He saw that I was looking at his father’s portrait, and said warmly:
‘Ah, there were men in those days. They lived to fight and die nobly. Today we kill ourselves in the struggle to live too well. I was only eight when my father was put to death. There were twelve of us; I was the youngest. I saw him fall under the Turkish bullets when he came to the help of the base slave who had betrayed him into an ambush. These are things which form the character of a child… My eldest brother brought me here, and I was educated in a French school. That was in the time when everyone in Egypt was proud to speak your language. Now one must speak English, kiss the feet of the English Government officials and spy for the English soldiers. I tell you, in this country if you want to get on, you must be either a pimp or a police spy.’
‘But what about the natives, the Arabs?’ I asked. ‘Are they too what you say?’
‘You bet they are. It’s all they’re fit for. White-livered, cowardly, lazy, vicious dogs. But I exaggerate; if they even had vices they might have some personality, but they haven’t even that. They will lend themselves to any vice for a few pence, they only work under the threat of the lash, they are beasts of burden, and the English are right to treat them as such.’
‘But how do you manage your affairs if you have to do with such people?’
‘Ah, that’s the trouble. There are two ways of smuggling. The first, which is the usual way, is to make an arrangement with the police and the customs. All their employees live off bribes. They make money and build palaces, but their associates, the smugglers, come inevitably to ruin, for as soon as they are known to be rich, they are betrayed. I knew a man who worked with a supervisor of customs who was sent to another post one fine day. The officer who took his place showed up the whole concern. Everything the man possessed, lands, property, etc., was sold, and the State made over three millions. It was all a plot; the head of the customs was in league with the two inspectors. The customs protect and fatten a smuggler in order to eat him up when he is worth while. The second way, which is my way, is to work alone, and never to have a share in any deal which includes an employee of customs, for if they are false to the duties for which they are paid they are traitors, and a traitor would kill his own father, or else they have agreed with their chiefs to pretend to betray, and that is just about as despicable.
‘I have here men from Arabia, staunch mountaineers, or sailors from the Hedjaz. Some of them are fishermen, others work all over the country in mines or quarries. Never on any account do I employ an Egyptian. The fishing-boat which so alarmed you yesterday morning belongs to me, and I knew this morning that you were at Suez.’
‘So you were expecting me?’ I asked, smiling.
‘Yes, of course, and you can thank your lucky stars you came direct to me. If you had made the slightest attempt to deal with anyone else, I shouldn’t have given much for the result. But although you didn’t know it, I was watching over you, first because you are French and I like the French, and secondly because of the extraordinary thing you have done in contriving to get your merchandise as far as this without knowing anything of the hashish business. You are a marked man, born under a lucky star, and the cunningest will come off second best when they try to down you.’
‘So you believe in predestination?’
‘I can’t imagine not believing in it. Those who smile at such convictions have never reflected on the determining factors of their actions or tried to understand the marvellous way they spring out of each other. That is because they live too artificial a life, run into the social mould, like one brick out of thousands for building a wall. As soon as a man resumes his individuality, as soon as he faces life as a free man, when he uses his will-power to stimulate his fighting instincts, he develops like a plant in fertile soil, and it is then that he feels the hand of Destiny upon him guiding him through his struggles. If he really studies himself, he will hear the echoes of an ancient instinct which guides him to act as is best for his own safety.
‘I believe in dreams, too; the mind conceives them outside all the rules of reason and logic, which are fundamental bases for life on earth, but which are no earthly use for trying to penetrate into the beyond.’
I sat listening to this giant with the narrow forehead putting forth ideas I had often had myself since I had been tackling life single-handed. A girl, his niece, brought in refreshments. There was no mistaking that she was the daughter of the fat woman with the ivory-pale face. Like her mother and her uncle, she was enormous. Two others, her younger sisters, came and shook hands with me. All three were dressed in black like their mother. This was the family of Stavro’s eldest brother. When he died, leaving a wife and four children, these three girls and a boy, Stavro was only eighteen. He nevertheless assumed the responsibility of his entire family, as well as the charge of an older invalid sister. Although his education had been fairly complete (he had attended the lycée at Cairo until he was sixteen), he had had to give up all ambition, and start work immediately as a common sailor in order to earn their daily bread. He had never married, in order to be able to keep the promise he had made to his brother on his death-bed. Since then he had lived like an old bachelor, devoted to his nieces, his ailing sister and his sister-in-law, who in return managed his house. These women dressed in mourning, with the black handkerchiefs of widows on their heads, glided about silently through the shadowy, white-washed rooms and gave this smuggler’s house an atmosphere of serenity and peace, like the smell of cold incense.
Alexandros sat silent in his comer, evoking in my mind the shady cafés where he seemed so entirely in his element. I thought how different this smuggler and his house were from anything I had expected. I thought of Stavro, of Petros in his farm at Steno, and then of good old Papamanoli, and I felt that they were of a very different kidney from Alexandros and his like.
Now we began to talk business: we discussed prices, and Stavro changed completely, becoming the keen, grasping, shrewd fellow he had to show himself in order to succeed in his dangerous profession. I knew very well that I was at his mercy, and was only too pleased to accept the price he offered. I made a deal for the small quantity I had left in the old iron barrel.
‘You must deliver the goods to me in town, for I can’t undertake to send someone out to sea to fetch them. In two days the whole native town would know what you had come for, and the police would keep an eye on you. Your great advantage is that nobody dreams that you have any connection with hashish, and you must contrive to avoid losing this trump card. You have seen the French consul, who will introduce people, acquaintance with whom will help to keep you free from suspicion, for the French element of society here is considered incapable of any fraud. They are looked upon as imbeciles who are too idiotic to extract profit from anything, and you must do everything possible to make yourself appear the stupidest of the lot. As for Spiro, he is a gem of a fellow; I see him sometimes at the barber’s, and we speak Greek together. We are very good friends, and he may be useful to us, for one can discuss anything with him.’
‘What! He would accept a present?’
‘Oh, heavens, no! Never on this earth! Don’t go and suggest any such thing to him, or he will die of terror at the idea of compromising himself. I only meant that by nature he loves to be of service. He has a timid admiration for me; he knows very well I am a smuggler, though he never says a word about it. This idea gives him little thrills of terror which he finds rather agreeable since the danger is imaginary; in that he is like all fearful and effeminate creatures. So he is quite fond of me, and without seeming to, he often gives me precious hints. Besides, I only see him at the barber’s; in the street we don’t know each other. I occasionally send him a basket of choice fruits, just as a friendly attention, that’s all.’
At this moment, the door opened and a young Arab came in. He was dressed in a blue guellabia which had faded from repeated washings and which was much patched, but very clean. He was barefooted, and wore a tight, white turban. He had a very attractive little face, deeply bronzed by the sea air, with the features hard and sharp as if they were carved out of teak. He was not an Egyptian, but a mountaineer from the Hedjaz. When he came up to shake hands with me, I noticed that he had only one eye.
‘This is Djebeli,’ said Stavro; ‘if everybody had what they deserved he would be a king, for not one man in ten thousand has a heart like his. I once saved his life; he knows it, and would think it the most natural thing in the world to lay it down for me, if need be. I’ll tell you his story one day. I asked him to come tonight so that tomorrow you would be able to recognize him. You will hand over the goods to him.
‘Alexandros will go away. If you were to be seen with him in the cafés he frequents, all would be lost. Tomorrow morning you will see Djebeli basking in the sun n
ear the station. He will see you without your having made the slightest signal to him. You will follow him at a distance, and he will lead you to the spot at which you must land with the merchandise. It is at the sea-wall which is being built; he will sit down for a moment at the place. Observe him from a distance; don’t go near the wall yourself. Only make good note of the spot, for after dark it isn’t easy to find. In a street near by is a little eating-house for coolies, kept by a Greek. There you can safely speak to Djebeli and make your arrangements. The landlord is in my pay, so you have nothing to fear.’
As I looked at this serious and reserved little Arab I thought of my Abdi; there was a sort of kinship between those two whole-heartedly devoted beings, who attached themselves by instinct. I said good night to all the family and took my leave, for Alexandros had already been gone for some time. As he was about to open the door, Stavro stopped to give me the final instructions.
‘Be very careful of the sentinel who may be on the sea-wall. He must not see you coming, for on the water you will be clearly visible, while he will be in the shadow of the rocks. Besides, these brutes are very quick to fire a shot, since their heads have been stuffed with tales of submarines.’
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