Capricorn and Cancer

by Geoffrey Household

  Well, I cleaned my rifle and made a good breakfast. I was thoughtful. As an old sergeant-major, I am naturally a bit of a politician and I began to see what was on the way to me. There are times, M. le Consul, when one apprehends with absolute certainty the fate that is approaching, yet one chooses to think it has no more reality than a bad dream.

  All four of us went to work on my terraces. It is not a bad life, that, when the family works together without paying or receiving wages. Each one knows that the others—even the smallest—are doing their best. And at the end of the day there is the little town in which the father of a family can relax with his companions.

  My harvest was not yet in, for on the mountain we were six weeks behind the plain. As I swung my scythe—I could not bring myself to use a sickle like my neighbours—I wondered if I should ever eat the bread that Helena would make from our wheat. There is no bread in the world like our flat loaves. It even makes you forget the crusty rolls of France. But you will have eaten with the Christians high on Lebanon, M. le Consul, and you know.

  Well, at eleven there was a civic procession to my land—John and Boulos Douaihy, the grocer and the saddler (whose wife, no doubt, had now decided that she really had not missed much). I led them to the house. Helena brought us meat and wine, and retired. The Arab woman does not intrude on the society of men; she is perfectly capable of upsetting afterwards whatever they have decided.

  We congratulated ourselves upon the courage with which we had so brilliantly dispersed the raid. We talked for an hour, showing nothing but fine Arabic and goodwill. But at last there was a shade of embarrassment. Not one of them knew for certain what had happened.

  I explained, deprecatingly, that I had perhaps fired one or two shots and that, seeing it was the will of God, the bullets had not been wasted. They were so puzzled that they took me literally and asked who fired the others. No way out! I admitted that all were mine.

  ‘But how many have you killed?’ John asked.

  He was so appalled that he forgot his manners. A direct question like that is not asked—unless, of course, one is encouraging a good story-teller to exaggerate his exploits.

  ‘Perhaps a dozen. Perhaps two.’

  I had not counted. There were six in the square, all dead. There were eight where I had fired into the crowd (the wounded they had carried off). Then there were those in the orchards, who may have amounted to two dead and four able to crawl away. And, by the way they fell, I might count two as a result of my little lesson to them upon how far a good rifle in the hands of a French sergeant-major will carry. At least eighteen in all. I swear to you that I was shocked. It was a little too close to assassination.

  John stared at me with his tarboosh jammed on his bushy grey eyebrows. He much resembled a well-fed owl. His beak was powerful, and he was of even thickness down to the point where his shanks appeared from his wide Turkish breeches. His brother, Boulos, I used to call the little owl. He had perhaps more sense, but lacked dignity. Both of them were bound in decency to exclaim their amazement and felicitations; but I knew what they were thinking. In the eye of the mind they saw the blood money we should have to pay. One cannot massacre true believers in a Moslem country. It is not enough to say, as children do, that the other began it.

  We decided to keep our mouths shut. The Christian Arab is accustomed to be discreet. He has the experience of twelve hundred years behind him. There was no reason at all to tell the truth to the other inhabitants of Ferjeyn, who only knew that I had been the first to venture out into the square and that I was armed. But that much was to be expected of a man who had been a soldier.

  Helena had been listening from the next room. That is the custom, and very useful—for a silent audience always gets more sense out of a debate than the participants, who for half the time are not listening but thinking of what they will say next.

  When the party had gone she asked me why I had fought. To my fellow-townsmen that was no problem; they all liked to imagine themselves doing what I had done. But Helena was puzzled. Of course she was. During those weeks before the raid I had tried hard to make her understand that it was ridiculous for a man such as I to shout and wave a gun and run away with honour satisfied. And at last she had agreed that, if I would not do that, it was reasonable to keep out of local quarrels.

  I could not attempt to explain to her that it was the stone which changed my mind. She would not have understood. Her home was sacred to her, but not the commune where she lived. Helena would have been quite content, provided she had her children and her husband, to inhabit a desert island.

  I told her, therefore, that I had lost my temper. That was something wholly alien, but to which she was accustomed. I hasten to say, M. le Consul, that with my family I rarely lost my temper. But at inanimate objects—like, for example, an obstinate tree-root in the field or the rusted split-pin of an axle—it was my custom to curse like a madman. Such impatience is wholly European, so my outbreaks were a complete mystery to Helena. She took all as explained when I said that the stupidity of a Moslem fanatic affected me like an inanimate object. And it is possible that I was telling more truth than I knew.

  In the evening a whole troop of gendarmerie rode clinking and stumbling up the track to Ferjeyn. They had come, they said, to protect us from the vengeance of the Moslems. That was mere courtesy. They knew as well as we did that those poor beggars down in the plain had had a bellyful that would last them for years. What they wanted was the truth, and they were going to stay with us until they got it.

  They were good material. I could have used some of them myself in old days. And they behaved decently. That was understandable, since we fed men and horses as if they had been our invited guests. The captain was an old grey fox in his fifties, with thirty years’ experience of Syrian lies. We couldn’t fool him and we did not try. Every man and woman said honestly where they had been during the raid, and of course their stories tallied. There was only one liar in Ferjeyn, and that was I. I told him the truth, too, up to a point—that I was not afraid of the Moslems since I had many friends among them, and that I had stayed at home and taken no part in the defence. My papers were in order, and he had no reason to doubt that I was indeed Nadim Nassar, who had spent twenty years in Morocco and France before returning home. My fellow townsmen did not talk of my origin; they were not asked. In any case I think they had all forgotten my real name. As for the Moslems of the plain, they only remembered that I had once been in the French Army—which was nothing extraordinary.

  For a week the gendarmerie gave us no peace. We were always being visited by the sergeants, or summoned to the captain. They interrogated us separately and together, and confronted us with each other. As policemen, they were not bad at all. They had been trained by us, and some of them, during the war, worked with the British too. But their task was hopeless. No one had seen the shots fired. Everyone could say where he was, and had witnesses.

  Then the whole investigation was bedevilled by a message from the magistrate who had been taking depositions among the Moslems. They insisted that they had been fired on by a machine-gun. It is probable that they believed it. In any case they could never admit that they had run in panic from a single rifle.

  The captain started on the machine-gun. It is not difficult for an experienced man to tell whether Arabs are lying or not. I do not say he will get the truth in the end; but he will know whether or not it is being told. The gendarmerie searched for that machine-gun, and did more damage to our houses than the raiders. And all the time the captain watched our faces. At the end he could have no doubt there was no machine-gun.

  Then the old fool of a priest, who was not in the secret, suggested that perhaps a band of fellow Christians had heard of our danger and ridden three hundred miles from Anti-Lebanon to help us. I have more respect for the Church than my father had, but one must admit that they can never let well alone.

  It was a most improbable suggestion. Such a thing was unheard of. And how could a band of Chris
tians have crossed the plain and hidden themselves on our mountain without being seen? But the captain was so puzzled that he did not rule out this preposterous miracle. He searched the whole mountain, looking for the tracks of horses and the empties from the machine-gun.

  At last the gendarmerie left us. Horses and equipment in good order, they rode off down the hill. Considering that they had been five years without a French officer, they were well-disciplined and a credit to their training. Nor did they lose interest in us. They chose their agents cleverly; during the next month there were several strangers who visited Ferjeyn to buy or sell—all of them Christians, one a distant relative of the priest. But not another fact did they learn. I repeat: the whole village, except myself, had only to tell the truth.

  Meanwhile the Moslems of the plain were overwhelmed by the consequences of their little outing. Not only had their losses been staggering for such a raid, but the government, having now sufficient excuse to arrest anyone it liked, made a clean sweep of all political opponents. The plain swarmed with police and troops. The Moslem headmen were not allowed to bargain with us or to threaten feud. It was evident that the affair was not going to be settled by our immemorial methods, but by administrative action as in Europe.

  On the face of it this suited Ferjeyn. We should not have to kill half our sheep for a week’s feasting while peace was made, nor pay the ruinous blood money expected. But we were not altogether content. Red tape and good order were as unfamiliar to us as to the Moslems. And we did not like the silence of the authorities.

  John and Boulos Douaihy went to see the provincial governor. They were very well received. He apologised to them for the lack of police protection, and assured them that the history of raids between Christian and Moslem was now closed for ever. That was welcome, so far as it went. But John and his brother had the impression that they were being treated as the chiefs of a wild tribe. The governor was polite, but supercilious. And, what was worse, he appeared to believe the rumour that Ferjeyn had somehow received aid from a secret society of fellow-Christians.

  A month later the shock arrived. No fines, no punishment. A civilised solution. The inhabitants of Ferjeyn were to be moved right across Syria to the south of Damascus, and to take over a village of Moslems which was entirely surrounded by Christians. There would be an exchange of population as just as could be arranged, hectare for hectare and house for house. It was an act typical of the modern state. Any brutality is permissible if it simplifies the work of government servants—exception made, of course, of diplomats, M. le Consul, who maintain always the highest traditions.

  Even then there was no question of handing me over. They were very loyal, my two owls. But I could not hesitate. Another man, less sceptical than I, might have spent a week of sleepless nights under the illusion that he had a decision to make. To me it was perfectly clear that what I feared had arrived, and that I could only obey my destiny.

  I summoned the four notables of Ferjeyn who knew the truth, and told them that I would confess. They were astounded. I swear it had not yet occurred to them as a solution. My father-in-law and his friends were proud men, and it was not in accordance with their traditions to hand over a citizen of the commune to justice, even if he were a French deserter.

  Well, but it was the obvious way out. And at last they agreed that I should tell the truth—on condition that a sure way of escape for me could be found. They promised to cherish Helena and the children, and to send me some of the proceeds of my land if it could possibly be done.

  I noticed that John, though he exclaimed with the rest, was not altogether sincere. I thought that perhaps he doubted whether my confession would put off the fate of Ferjeyn. I assured him that it would. I know the Syrian officials. Even when they are determined to be Western, they do not want more work than they can help. If they were certain that the slaughter at Ferjeyn was the work of one man and that the Christians, there and elsewhere, were just as tame as they had always been, all this exchange of population would be too much bother.

  Yes, John agreed to all that. It was not the question which was troubling him. He took refuge in his owlishness, and said that we had discussed enough for the day, and he would tell us what he thought another time. The fact was that he did wish to spoil an evening in which everyone had expressed such admirable and generous sentiments. In a French town he would have been a born chairman of committees.

  We all insisted that he should speak out. He was the oldest of us and, when it came to local customs, by far the wisest.

  ‘My son, Nadim Nassar, has killed forty men,’ he said—the total had become a little exaggerated. ‘We shall watch day and night. We shall turn ourselves into soldiers, and Ferjeyn into a camp. But even so we cannot be sure of protecting his children from revenge. The Moslems know how to wait. One year. Two years. And at last we shall find my grandchildren dead and mutilated.’

  It was true. I might escape or the government might imprison me. But in the end my boys would fall to the bullet and knife.

  ‘If only it were possible for us to swear by God that he was mad, and be believed!’

  It was the saddler who thus regretted my sanity. But he was on to a good idea. There is no blood feud against the children of a madman.

  To pretend to be a lunatic! M. le Consul, the more I thought of it, the more I liked it. And in that case the Moslems would no longer feel disgraced. They would be predisposed to accept the explanation. To run from a madman with a rifle—well, who wouldn’t?

  It was clear to me that one only needed a little cunning. I have no faith in plans, which are always worthless, but when it comes to putting on a comedy I am in my element. Any experienced sergeant-major has acquired a sense of stage management.

  I told the four to keep silent about my intentions, and that in a day or two I would have something to propose. At work and in the silence of the night I rehearsed the scene in my imagination, and when I had convinced myself that it would succeed, I talked to Helena. She was appalled when I told her that to save our little town I had determined to confess. Since Ferjeyn had not demanded the sacrifice, she saw no necessity for it at all. She was quite ready to exchange her house for some filthy Moslem hovel. When she had cleaned it for a month, she insisted, we should not know the difference.

  And then she relieved herself with tears. She could not sleep, she told me—myself I am always drowned in sleep—for terror of what might happen to the boys if ever it became known to the Moslems that I alone had been responsible for so many deaths. I think it was she who put the idea into the head of her father.

  She claimed the right of wife and children to go with me, if I must confess and escape. But that was impossible. She had no conception of the life of an outlaw. To cross, all of us, into Turkey or Iraq was easy. And what then? A man accompanied by his family must have open dealings with strangers and foreign police. I was a French deserter. I could not account for myself—unless I gave my identity as Nadim Nassar of Ferjeyn. And if I did that, we should never have an hour when we could feel safe.

  No. Alone I could vanish and perhaps remake a life. Meanwhile she would be living in comfort on her own land with her father to protect her.

  Then I explained to her how I meant to save the children from blood feud. She was wise in the ways of her country, and she agreed that my scheme was possible. But not in one single detail must it fail. Raving and clowning, she said, would not be enough. To convince my public I must commit some horror that no Arab—if he were only pretending to be mad—would ever dream of. And that was to shoot her.

  We were a model couple. The wives of Ferjeyn would hold me up to their husbands as a paragon. That was easier for them than to try to imitate Helena. If I could have brought myself to do so, I would have beaten her once or twice just to make the lives of my friends more peaceful. Even the Moslems spoke of Nadim Nassar and his wife. And so, if I were seen to aim at her and shoot, there would be no doubt that I was mad.

  She insisted. She had no fear. Sh
e thought that a soldier such as I could pick his target, and even in a moment of emotion separate one toe from the rest. But she knew her people. There does not exist an Arab—unless trained by Europeans—who could aim at his wife and be sure of not hitting her. For them it would be an act of homicidal lunacy impossible to feign.

  It was only the four notables of Ferjeyn whom I let into the secret. The rest of my fellow-townsmen continued to be left in ignorance. John Douaihy was certain that they too would be convinced I was mad. He had no fear for his daughter. It is extraordinary how the Arabs, who are always letting off firearms, never trouble to find out what is practical and what is not.

  We sent messengers to the headmen of the villages in the plain. Nothing was said of peace-making and compensation. We hinted—in a courteous tone of regret for old times—that the government would not allow us to take the initiative. All we wanted was an informal meeting to settle up our business affairs with old Moslem friends. We said, too—to tempt their avarice—that we might be selling some land and stock before the exchange of population.

  The notables of the plain sent us back an answer which was reasonably cordial, for none of them wanted us to be removed from our mountain. An interest would be gone from their empty lives. Besides, they preferred people they knew to people they did not, whatever their religion.

  The day fixed for the meeting was very hot. That’s understood, of course. But it was an afternoon when even the rock lizards sought the shade. The plain was indistinguishable from a desert, and on the mountain the dust rose in eddies from our terraces and reddened the leaves of the orchards. Eight of the notables came, with their principal relations and retainers. After talks (which had no content but politeness) the cushions and carpets were spread under the pillars of the square, and some thirty of us, who were the most important, sat down to eat. The women served us. Helena had put on her native costume. She was like the girls of the Crusaders, flowing in robes and embroidery. There was certainly plenty to hit without touching flesh.