The Mule on the Minaret

by Alec Waugh

  ‘But Annabelle, marriage is for life. Do you not run a great risk marrying a stranger?’

  ‘Every man is a stranger until he becomes a husband. You play for safety. We are more romantic. And I suspect that our romantic marriages are more successful than your prudent ones.’

  Her eyes were sparkling, in her left cheek there was a dimple; and Farrar had an air of gallantry.

  ‘But isn’t it tragic,’ Farrar was continuing. ‘when you choose unwisely, when the stranger reveals himself to be an ogre?’

  ‘There are remedies.’

  ‘Divorce is disagreeable medicine.’

  ‘There are medicines besides divorce.’ There was a look of mischief in her smile.

  ‘If I were a Lebanese young man, and I fell in love with a Lebanese young lady, do you know what I should do?’

  ‘What would you do, Monsieur Nigel?’

  ‘I should wait until she had married, and then I should offer her that medicine.’

  ‘How very ungenerous of you, my cautious captain; to wish an unhappy marriage for her. Besides, how unromantic. Surely if you were genuinely attracted to a Lebanese young lady you would want, above all things, you would rate it as your highest privilege, to initiate her into the pleasures and mysteries of love, pleasures that I am assured can be considerable. No, no, I am afraid that you confirm my worst suspicions of the English. You belong to a most unromantic race.’

  ‘If you would only give me an opportunity of proving that I can be a highly romantic suitor—’

  ‘Ah, there you go again. You are not only an unromantic race; you are an exceedingly immoral one. It is a great pity, I sometimes think, that your father did not settle down after the First War in Lebanon and marry here.’

  ‘Or that your mother, during that First War, did not fall in love with an English officer and go back with him to London.’

  ‘That might have been a solution, too.’

  Listening to them, Reid thought, ‘I was wrong. They are not where they were six months ago. They have advanced a long way along a road.’ There was a new depth, a new fondness in their badinage. It had been a flirtation then. Now it was a courtship. A kind of courtship that was new to him, but whose attractions he could appreciate. To have to conduct a courtship in public, under the eyes and ears of friends and relatives, required address and wit and fantasy.

  He looked round for the guest of honour. Aziz seemed on the immediate surface no different from the young man whom he had met in December on the terrace of the St. Georges. Yet Reid was conscious of a change. He was more self-confident. He was readier to enter a conversation. He did not sit and wait to have questions addressed to him. He asked them himself. Something must have happened while that girl from the Turkish office had been in Beirut. Diana had shrugged when he had asked her. ‘She said nothing to me. But then she isn’t the kind of girl who would.’

  ‘And you’re not the kind of girl who asks that kind of question.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How did they seem when they were together?’ he had asked.

  ‘I only saw them together twice. They seemed quite natural.’

  It might very easily have been a friendship and nothing more. They had seen a lot of one another, but then Eve had a business reason for seeing plenty of him. ‘I’ve always found,’ Diana said, ‘that when you are sure something is happening, it isn’t. And where you are convinced nothing is happening, wedding bells are just about to ring.’

  For all he knew, nothing at all was afoot between Aziz and Eve. It was every bit as likely that Aziz was involved with a student at the A.U.B.

  He went across to him. ‘I’ve seen nothing of you for weeks. I’ve been in Syria on the Wheat Commission.’

  ‘So I had been told.’

  ‘How did things go this term?’

  ‘Well; quite well, thank you.’

  ‘Not having to worry about that exam must have made a difference.’

  ‘It made all the difference.’

  ‘You won’t have to worry about another one for quite a while.’

  ‘Not for a year.’

  ‘Does that allow you to mix more in the life of the University?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘If you are not worrying about exams, you have more time to join clubs and groups.’

  ‘I’m not interested in clubs and groups. I’m only interested in those who share my tastes.’

  ‘And that means music.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Haven’t you made any special friends?’

  ‘I’m more interested in the music that I hear than in the people with whom I hear it.’

  Reid laughed. ‘Haven’t you guessed yet what was the point of all these questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was wondering whether you had met the young woman who would have the same effect on you that music does.’

  ‘I have met no one in the University who could have that effect.’

  That wasn’t the answer to his question, but Reid did not press the point. Sooner or later he would learn. ‘How long will you be away?’ he asked.

  ‘The new term starts on October the first.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch with you soon after that.’

  ‘I shall be very grateful.’

  October the first. Two months away. Two months in Beirut without Diana.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eve had learnt through the files that Aziz was coming up to Istanbul as soon as the term ended. Her anxiety had mounted as the last day of term approached. He had promised to come up as soon as his classes ended. But it was easy to make that kind of promise during a long siesta. He might feel very different seven weeks later. It would be stiflingly hot here now in Istanbul. It would be humid in Beirut; but there was the cool of Aley, there were the golden beaches. He might well decide to linger on. The list of passengers on the Taurus was always sent to the office. But it arrived two or three days late, except on occasions of special urgency, and this was not such a case. If Aziz had been a relative, or an English friend, she would not have hesitated to say to Sedgwick, ‘Could I be told as soon as he arrives?’ But she could not display that interest where Aziz was concerned. She had no idea if Sedgwick suspected anything. She did not see how he could, unless Beirut had sent up a report. If Beirut had, it would have been sent up secretly. There were, no doubt, channels that she did not know for such communications. Sedgwick was highly secretive. ‘At any rate,’ she consoled herself, ‘if he does come up and doesn’t telephone me I shall know he’s here; even if I know it three days late. I shan’t be in the dark.’

  But she need have had no such qualms. On the same day that she had read a list of Taurus passengers that did not include his name, she found a message at the Perapalas. Would she telephone Aziz that afternoon at five?

  She telephoned him from the office, on a line that she was confident would not be monitored. She listened, with her eyes closed, to the ringing tone. Fifteen seconds, twenty-five seconds, half a minute. Was he out? But then it came. And the shock along her nerves was so great that she could scarcely speak. ‘Welcome back,’ she said. It was like a croak. There was a pause. Then his voice again.

  ‘When do we meet?’

  ‘Tonight at nine. The same flat.’

  ‘Good.’ And he rang off.

  Again she closed her eyes. She was grateful to him for not making conversation.

  She returned to the flat to find Kitty standing before her looking-glass, turning first one way then another, patting at her hair, fluffing it, pulling it. ‘There’s no doubt. I’m getting fat. There isn’t any doubt about it. I am getting fat.’

  Eve made no comment. She could not contradict her. There was the evidence of the bathroom scales. But, even so, Kitty was beyond any question a highly appetizing object.

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry over yet,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for the “yet”. The evil day is not far distant. I shall have to diet. How I
shall hate it. How I enjoy good food. And tonight at Abdullah’s won’t do me any good. What are you doing?’

  ‘Writing letters. I’ll make myself a sandwich.’

  ‘What a hectic life you lead.’

  Eve had told Kitty that she had acquired a friend in Beirut, but she had supplied no details. She was tempted now to say, ‘As a matter of fact, I do. My Beirut boy-friend is coming here at nine.’ Sooner or later she would have to take Kitty into her confidence. But tonight—Suppose he had only come here as Fadhil’s representative, to bring her a list of the information that he needed, to arrange a meeting when he could receive her answers. Until she was absolutely certain that Aziz was coming to see her, she could not expose herself to Kitty. If she had to be humiliated, let it be in the private hell of her own heart.

  ‘I must play it quietly,’ she thought. ‘Seven weeks is a long time. I must humour him. He will probably be on edge. It is up to me. Everything is up to me. As it always has been. As it always will be.’ So she argued with herself; rehearsing her part, studying her lines. ‘Thus and thus, it should be, and then . . .’

  A bell rang in the hallway. She hurried to the door; she opened it. He stood in shadow; she could not see his features. ‘Aziz,’ she started. But that was the last thing that she was to try to say for quite a while. She was in his arms; or at least she was at the mercy of his arms, his hands, his lips, his fingers. She had been half flung, half carried across the room. He had flung off his coat, his jacket. He could not wait. She was on the couch, and he was on his knees beside her. He was ruthless yet he was tender, improvident yet prudent, avid and yet restrained, and suddenly, unbelievably, she was drowned, drenched, in the ecstasy that she had read about; she was groaning, sobbing, writhing, sighing; and every bone in her body seemed to have been turned to water.

  It was the same, but it was completely other.

  Rested upon her elbow, she looked down at him, adrowse among the pillows; just as she had in Beirut seven weeks before. ‘He’s mine, altogether mine,’ she had thought then. She still thought that; but now she thought it in a different way. Whereas before she had thought of him as someone to be spoiled, to be denied nothing, to be overwhelmed, so that nowhere, never, from any other woman, would he approximate to the raptures that he had reached through her. Now though she still thought of him as ‘mine’, he had become the instrument of her own delight. His body was the violin out of which she struck chord after piercing chord. To him the change of temper may not have been apparent, but to her it was a complete reversal of roles. She was still dominant, still the initiator, the provoker; but whereas before she had schemed how she could create for him the maximum of pleasure, now she devised fantasy after fantasy for her own enjoyment, experimenting to discover what pleased her most, elaborating every ritual of approach. They never talked while they were making love, they never discussed afterwards the details of their love-making. They just made love, following her mood and whim. Did he realize, she wondered, that she no longer had to feign the frenzies that in Beirut had so enchanted him? She even wondered whether those frenzies were as convincing now that they were spontaneous. She had once read that an actress’s words rang true no longer when she was expressing an emotion that she was feeling at the actual moment; an actress had to be outside her part. Could that be true in love? She could not think it was.

  Back in the office, she would relive the hours that she had spent with Aziz. ‘He’s mine, mine, completely mine.’ And there in the files was the proof of how much more completely he was hers than ever he suspected, than ever he could suspect. He had brought over from Fadhil a short list of questions, all of them concerned with Turkish exports to and imports from the Axis countries. He appeared to attach considerable importance to these questions. He did not convey in any way the suspicion that the records he received from Fadhil were relatively trivial in terms of the larger rewards that he was receiving from the Germans. He was astute all right.

  She reported their meeting to Sedgwick. ‘How does he seem?’ Sedgwick asked. ‘Is he disturbed about his assignment with the Germans?’

  ‘He does not seem to be.’

  ‘I should if I were in his position. Perhaps he doesn’t realize what a dangerous game he’s playing. When do you see him next?’

  ‘I promised that I would have the answer before he leaves.’

  ‘That’s early in October.’

  ‘The last week in September.’

  ‘That gives you plenty of time. And until then . . .’

  He paused; there was a quizzical expression on his face. ‘How much does he guess?’ she wondered. It was a questioning pause. Better lay her cards upon the table.

  ‘I saw quite a lot of him in Beirut,’ she said.

  ‘You told me that you had.’

  ‘We became quite friends. He has asked me to go to a concert with him. There is no reason why I shouldn’t, is there?’

  ‘On the contrary; it would look strange if you didn’t go. It’s useful to us, too. You may be able to give us some clues as to what’s going on. I’m curious to see how he reacts to the treatment he’s going to get here from the Germans.’

  According to Chessman, the Germans were very far from satisfied with the information that Aziz had been supplying. The actual information that he had sent had been of use, but there had been little of it. The German captain was proposing to get tough.

  The interview took place during Aziz’s third week in Istanbul. Chessman’s report on it was added to Aziz’s file.

  At the start, the German had been cordial and encouraging. ‘I am very pleased with you,’ he said. ‘You have sent up the right kind of information. You have not wasted our time with trivialities. As far as we can check, what you have told us is correct.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that.’

  ‘But, and there is a but, a large but—you have sent us up very little.’

  ‘I have sent up all I had.’

  ‘But you should have found more.’

  ‘Where should I have found more?’

  ‘In the ordinary course of your social life. You have these friends in the Spears Mission; through them you could meet other members of the Mission. Do you know the Military Attaché?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Then you should get to know him.’

  ‘We do not move in the same social circles.’

  ‘Then introduce yourself into the circles in which he moves.’

  ‘That is impossible.’

  At that point the German began to lose his temper, or to appear to lose his temper. He raised his voice. He shouted and blustered. He stood up. He pounded the table. ‘Do not use the word impossible to me. This is wartime. I am a captain on the General Staff of the German Army. You are a student, a civilian, a boy. I issue orders. I expect them to be carried out. Impossible! Who are you to say impossible to me?’

  Aziz remained calm. ‘I have very little spare time. I have my classes. I have my family. I have my friends. I can only give a limited amount of time to you.’

  ‘Then what use do you think you are to us?’

  ‘It was your idea, not mine, that I could be of service to you.’

  Once again the German lost his temper. ‘Let me remind you,’ he thundered, ‘that you are in a very dangerous position. We hold a document that, if handed over to the Turkish authorities, would send you to prison for the duration of the war. Your education would be stopped: your career would be ruined. When victory finally rewards our arms, you would find yourself without a friend and with no prospects. Your parents would disown you. Impossible! Do not dare to use a word like that to me. You are not in a position to use a word like that. You are in my power.’

  Aziz did not interrupt. He listened without showing any signs of being cowed by this Niagara of words. When at last the German paused, he said, ‘Will it do you any good if I am handed over to the authorities? I can do nothing for you in prison. I should have thought that even the meagre information I obtain for you is
of more use to you than that.’

  His quietness left the German without any fuel for his fury. His collar was tight and his neck bulged above it. His eyes glistened. His fists clenched and unclenched. ‘There is another point, too,’ Aziz added. ‘You want me to enlarge my acquaintance. I can only do that by inviting friends to have a meal or drinks with me. I shall need money for that.’ In the end he secured a monthly allowance of a hundred American dollars to be paid into a numbered account in Switzerland.

  ‘That is a very smooth customer indeed,’ was Chessman’s final verdict.

  Eve chuckled as she read the report. It made her feel proud of Aziz. She wondered if he really was in danger. She did not see how he could be. And anyhow, everyone today was in danger in some way or another. The knowledge that he might be in danger pleased her. He was so much hers.

  Aziz’s time was not completely free. His family made demands on him, and except for her weekly day off duty Eve’s mornings and late afternoons had to be spent in her office. But most days they were able to spend an hour or so in a café listening to the music, over a cup of coffee and a plate of sticky cakes, and three or four nights they dined together at Rejans. It would have been pleasanter in the summer heat to have enjoyed the cool of the Bosphorus or the Golden Horn. But neither of them had a car. It was convenient to dine near her flat, and she enjoyed the atmosphere of Rejans—the narrow passage off the Rue de Pera, leading to the short dark stairway. There was nothing romantic about the place. A wide rectangular room with a balcony and no shaded corner, but the menu was in French and the food was French. She loved the fat Russian who played Balalaika music. And the people who went there were sympathetic.