The Mule on the Minaret

by Alec Waugh

  * * *

  Eve’s heart was beating fast as Diana drove over the beach road, south of Tripoli. In two hours she would be in Beirut. It would be four o’clock; she would ring Aziz up at five. In three hours she would hear his voice. She had not warned him that she was coming. She wanted to take him off his guard, to hear the tone of his voice when he heard hers. There had been no correspondence. They had both kept to their promise. How much had he been thinking about her? Had he been thinking about her at all? Had she exaggerated the importance of the episode? Had it meant anything to him at all? Had it only meant so much to her because of this long restraint, because of the barriers that she had built round herself? For the very reason that she was not like Kitty, she might be seeing the whole episode out of all proportion.

  So she argued with herself, preparing herself for disappointment, but she could not believe that for him she had been just an episode. She kept looking at her wrist-watch. ‘In one hundred and fifty minutes I shall know; in a hundred and thirty minutes; in ninety-seven minutes. But don’t fool yourself,’ she said. ‘In ninety minutes this girlish dream of yours will have exploded. You’ll be back where you started; an inexperienced girl who holds men off because she’s been cherishing a girl’s dream of the ideal; a girl who’s going to shrivel into an old maid if she isn’t careful.’ So she communed to herself as the car swung down the winding road and she made conversation with Diana and the Prof.

  ‘In seventy minutes you’ll know; in sixty-three minutes you’ll know.’ But she could not still the beating of her heart. She could not believe that she was not on the brink of the most decisive hours of her life. A sense of acute premonition struck her.

  Diana unlocked the door of her flat; Eve looked about her. It had a large central room on the Turkish style, with rooms opening off it. It was conventionally furnished with rugs, and a drawing-room suite; on the walls were posters supplied by the British Council. There was nothing personal about it. Eve drew a long, slow breath into her lungs. ‘My dreams are going to live in this room for a long time,’ she thought.

  ‘I share this room with a girl who works with the Spears Ambulance Unit,’ Diana was saying. ‘She keeps odd hours. I never know when to expect her. But she’ll be away for the next three days; that I do know.’

  Eve’s room was even more impersonal than the flat itself. It was a room in which a succession of visitors had stayed for a night, two nights, for a week. They had left nothing behind them except a scrubbed and polished air, as though each young woman had been resolved to leave it a little more tidy than she had found it. Eve was glad that she had brought some photographs and one or two knick-knacks: a small ivory elephant, two silver Hindu gods, a Dresden shepherdess. She would soon feel at home here.

  ‘I expect that you’ll be glad of an opportunity to unpack and bath and rest,’ Diana was saying. ‘I have to go to my office, but I’ll be back at eight. The Prof, is taking us out to dinner at the French Officers’ Club. You’ll see the world and his wife there.’

  Eve drew into her lungs, a long, slow breath of relief, as Diana closed the door. At last, at last. There was the telephone. In seven minutes now.

  She was resolved not to call him up till five. That was the time she had decided during the long drive south. Five o’clock, she had told herself. She made a rendezvous with destiny at five o’clock. She must keep her pact. She looked up the Amin Marun number. She pencilled it on the pad. She sat beside the telephone, her eyes upon her wrist-watch; first on the minute hand, then on the second hand. Who could have thought a minute could take so long; thirty, forty, fifty, fifty-five, at last, the sixty. She lifted the receiver, dialled.

  There was hardly a second’s interval between the evenly-spaced buzzing, the click of a raised receiver and a voice answering in French. The answer came so quickly that she was not ready with her reply. Often though she had rehearsed the tone in which she would say in English, ‘Good afternoon, Aziz, guess who this is,’ the words stuck in her throat. Once again the voice came in French. ‘I am listening. Who speaks?’ She opened her mouth. But she could not fill the role, casual, light-hearted, detached, affectionate, for which she had cast herself.

  ‘Aziz,’ she cried. ‘It’s Eve,’ with her voice risen sharply.

  ‘Eve.’ His voice had dropped, and there was warmth in it, an excited warmth she had not heard before. ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Here, Beirut.’

  ‘Where in Beirut?’

  She gave him the address. ‘When did you arrive?

  ‘Twenty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, Eve, Eve.’

  He stopped; there was a silence that was over-charged with happiness. Then they both started, simultaneously; and both stopped simultaneously. There was another pause.

  ‘You first,’ she said.

  ‘But I can’t think what to say.’

  ‘I’ll wait till you make up your mind,’ and she was laughing now.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come on leave.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Are you going to be very busy?’

  ‘That depends on you.’

  Once again she was in the saddle, controlled, teasing him, sure of herself. ‘I want to see Beirut,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to be shown it by my compatriots. I want to go to the amusing little places, where the English are shy of going and eat the kind of food that they distrust. And I want to swim, and I want to go to Balbaak; and I want to hear your new records. So I’ll be very busy if you’ve got time to spare for me. Are you working very hard?’

  ‘Not very hard.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be?’

  ‘I’ll work after you go back.’

  ‘But haven’t you got to go to lectures?’

  ‘It isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Then we’ll be able to bathe tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And lunch after we’ve bathed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And then come back here and listen to some music?’

  ‘Where’s here?’

  ‘A flat that I’ve been lent; with two other English girls who work here. They’re out all day. They won’t be in our way. Will you call for me here, tomorrow?’

  And that was that, she thought. She had a sense of complete relief. The trouble that had fretted her for so long was now resolved. How right she had been to wait. ‘And fill the cup that is so soon to break with richer wine than they.’

  Eve had asked Diana where to swim. ‘Is your beau rich?’ Diana asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Then I’d go to the Bain Militaire.’

  ‘Can my Turkish friend go there?’

  ‘You can as a British official. Take him as your guest.’

  The Bain Militaire lay two-thirds of a mile along the coast in a small bay that had been appropriated by the military. Two long arms of rock contained a narrow stretch of waveless water that washed languidly against a stretch of sand. There were bathing cabins and beach umbrellas and a floating raft, and just before the bay opened into the sea there were steps fixed into the rocks and a high diving board. Half-way up the cliff there was an open air restaurant where they served omelettes and filet mignon. On the crest of the cliff there was a succession of small fish restaurants. There was a bar by the bathing strip and many of the officers brought sandwiches. On the rise of the hill behind, there was an old-world lighthouse painted blue and white, which had long since ceased to serve a useful purpose, though the red light flickered still. It seemed a piece of decoration like the barrage balloon that floated above the port.

  Eve and Aziz swam out to the rocks where the bay ended. He was a stronger swimmer than she had expected; nor was he as thin as she had expected, he was lean and wiry. There was a medicine ball on the beach; she watched Aziz and a young Lebanese throw it back and forth. She noted how the muscles of his stomach tightened. They lay
side by side together on the sand, feeling the sun beat against their shoulders. They did not talk together a great deal. There was no need. They were sure of one another. They were treading a one-way street.

  She foresaw precisely what would happen. They would lunch later in the café restaurant on the cliffs; not a heavy lunch, a filet mignon, a salad and some cheese. They would divide a bottle of red wine. They would exchange casual gossip. They would feel drowsy. They would go back to the beach, stretch themselves and doze in the shade of an umbrella for half an hour, the sun would lower over the sea; a breeze would waken them. By the time they got back to the flat Diana would have left for her office. For three hours they would be alone. She would put a record on the gramophone. They would sit on the floor on cushions in the manner of the Orient; the music would weave its spell about them; they would turn to one another.

  It would be the first time for both of them. She ought to be feeling frightened. But she wasn’t, because he was so young. If it had been an Englishman of her own age she would have been, yes; on both sides there would have been much awkwardness because both would have been worried by, would have brooded over, the fact of their inexperience. She had read so often, heard so often, that a young girl should be initiated by a mature, experienced man: that was what she had pictured for herself, that would have been her destiny had there been no blackout; but there had been and that was that, and because she had been foiled then, because she had learnt during those following months to set a store by what Victorians had called ‘the giving of herself’, she had been unable to accept the casual suggestions of the average predatory male. She had also a feeling, not exactly of shame but of embarrassment at the incredulous, almost contemptuous, tone that would have come into a man’s voice, his ‘What, don’t tell me you’re a virgin; you, at twenty-three.’ Her vanity had shied at that. ‘I’ll wait,’ she had thought, ‘till the right thing comes.’

  She had often laughed at herself, often had her moments of self doubt; particularly since she had shared a flat with Kitty. She had seen herself shrivelled, with those awkward movements of old maids who had allowed their body’s suppleness to stiffen. But it had been worth it. She knew that now.

  Aziz was lying on the sand, his face turned away from her. What a clean, smooth line that was, running broad from his shoulders, slimming to the waist, curving out over his hips, stretching out into the long, thin legs. She wanted to pass her hand slowly over it. ‘I will,’ she thought. ‘I will.’

  Yesterday as the car had bumped over the uneven mountain road, she had thought, ‘In ninety minutes’ time . . . in seventy-three . . . in sixty.’ Now in a different context she repeated, ‘In an hour and a quarter’s time, in three-quarters, in half an hour.’ She was going into this with her eyes open. She had no illusions about the nature of the experience that awaited her. She had received confidences, she had read those little books. She would get no pleasure from it; at least to start with. On the contrary she would be hurt, perhaps a lot. That did not matter. That was something to be borne. She would not wince. She would not make it difficult for him; her pain would be a cause of pride. It would give her a sense of power. He was younger than she was. He was feeling timid, but she was not. She was the initiator. She shook his shoulder. ‘Time we were going back,’ she said.

  His long, shuddering gasps relaxed into a deep and steady breathing, but his heart was still thudding over hers. His head was buried in her shoulder. She opened her eyes. She loosened her hold about his neck. On his shoulder was a fleck of blood where her nails had cut him. She smiled. That had been as the supreme pain tore her. She had exulted then, matching his pain with hers. ‘You too,’ she had thought. ‘You too.’

  She had felt no pleasure, but an intense pride had engulfed her. This was what she had waited for. She was relieved of an intolerable burden; and his excitement, his cries, his broken sobs, the bounding and plunging of his body were the reward for those months of waiting. He would never forget this hour, ever. She intensified its delight for him; responsive to him, with her hands moving on his shoulders, her movements in tune with his, her voice breaking into sighs. It was worth the waiting; abundantly worth the waiting. How different it would have been if she had let some casual philanderer take her in his stride, to be remembered afterwards, if at all, as one more scalp upon a bedroom wall.

  Slowly, exquisitely slowly, the moments of relaxation came. He turned over on his side, his head laid back among the cushions, his hands crossed behind his head. His face wore a transfigured look. That was her doing. She had revealed him to himself. He was in a trance. And he does not yet know the half of it, she thought. ‘It will get better, it will go on getting better. I shall see to that.’ He was hers; hers to transform, hers to exalt.

  But for that missed footstep in the blackout, it would have been Raymond’s privilege to initiate her into the ritual of love; she would have responded to his technique. She would have been the violin on which he played the melody. She would have taken the impress of his tastes; that would have been her pride and happiness. At the same time those tastes in him, those predilections, would have been implanted there by her predecessors. She would have inherited their personalities. This was very different. Aziz would take her imprint, and because of her complete inexperience, no limit would be set upon the range of her adventurous curiosity. He was in her power, not she in his; it was heady knowledge.

  She slid off the couch. ‘Don’t move,’ she said. She put another record on the gramophone. She was thirsty. On the sideboard was a bottle of red wine that Diana had opened the night before. She filled a glass and took a long, slow sip. It warmed her blood. ‘You thirsty too?’ she asked. He nodded. She filled the glass. Looking down at him, she had an inspiration. She took a long, deep sip and held the wine in her mouth. She knelt beside the couch, put down the glass, bent over him. As she lowered her head, he guessed her meaning, opening his lips as her mouth met them. Slowly she let the wine glide over his tongue and palate.

  It was a halcyon time. The sun shone out of a pale blue sky; breezes blew from the north; the khamsin was stagnant in the desert. They saw each other nearly all the time. They went on picnics. He borrowed a car and they drove out to the Cedars. It seemed unbelievable that there should be snow there still; that they should be ski-ing in mid-June; within half an hour of the tepid Mediterranean. But then so much seemed unbelievable in the Lebanon, ‘the land of milk and honey’ that had beckoned the prisoners out of Egypt.

  Most evenings they would take coffee or an aperitif on the terrace of the St. Georges. It was hard to believe that such a cosmopolitan playground could be flourishing in wartime. In one way the war seemed far further off here than it had in Turkey. Yet the Lebanon was actually the back area of a battle zone. The Legation was heavily guarded with barbed wire against an enemy commando raid. You could hear the boom of guns in the Mediterranean. The streets were filled with men in uniform.

  There were other reminders of war. One morning Aziz said, ‘I’ve got another list of questions that I’d be grateful if you’d answer for me.’

  ‘You’ll have to come up to Istanbul to get the answers.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How soon will you come?’

  ‘My term ends in June.’

  ‘It is very hot in Istanbul in July.’

  ‘I know that well.’

  ‘But you won’t wait till the cool weather comes?’

  ‘I shall not wait.’

  She asked him to introduce to her some of his Lebanese friends.

  ‘I have some good friends who are Armenians. I will take you there.’

  It was to a tea party that he took her. Almost all the guests were in civilian clothes. Eve did not recognize any of them. A young, very self-confident man made a dead set at her. He was the kind of man she most disliked. He was good looking, urbane, witty. But she resented the air of complacence that he exuded. He had no doubts about himself, he assumed that any woman would be flattered by his attention.r />
  ‘I haven’t seen you in Beirut before,’ he said.

  ‘It is the first time that I have been here.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘I know that. You could cut your accent with a knife. What are you doing in the Middle East?’

  ‘I’m in Istanbul, attached to the British Council.’

  ‘Then how do you come to be here?’

  ‘Aziz brought me here.’

  ‘Aziz? And who might he be?’

  ‘That young man, a Turk, talking to our hostess.’

  ‘Our hostess happens to be my cousin. Aziz, yes, I do know him now I come to think of it. Madame Amin’s nephew. How long are you staying here?’

  ‘Another ten days.’

  ‘Too little, and I suppose you are very busy here. Belle of the ball, no less. But I’ll be coming up to Istanbul quite soon. I’ll call you at the Council. You probably won’t be so busy there. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Eve Parish.’

  ‘Miss or Mrs.?’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Fine. That’s encouraging. Mine is Alexis Belorian. I’m not married either. You’ll be hearing from me.’

  Having made his point, he moved away. Alexis Belorian, so that was who he was.

  A little later in the afternoon she saw him talking to Aziz. Their talk appeared to be animated. She moved across to them. Alexis was talking with an arrogance which was almost insultingly detached. ‘I see your point; you are a Turk. You belong to a real race, as I do. But you have a country of your own, a diminished country, but still a country. I, on the other hand, have not. That is the difference between us. I am a child of no-man’s-land. I don’t care who wins the war or loses it as long as it doesn’t involve another Armenian massacre. And I would say, by and large, that I would sooner the Germans won; they’re too busy massacring the Jews to bother about us. The English basically have always been on the Turkish side. The last war was a mistake, as far as both of them were concerned. The Turks and the English understand each other.’