The Scorpion’s Bite

by Aileen G. Baron

  “What does it mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a piece of foolishness.” He took a sip of coffee. “It means nothing. It means ‘tomorrow the apricots.’”

  Sitting on the ground, even on cushions, felt uncomfortable, straining her legs. A physical anthropologist once told her that westerners who sit in chairs don’t have squatting facets—modifications of the anklebone, like some Asians and Africans have, so they are unable to squat without strain for more than thirty seconds. Now she understood.

  The coffee was hot and sweet, spiced with a lingering taste of cardamom. She sipped it, savored it, and sipped again. She put down the cup and shifted her legs to kneel on the pillow with her feet behind her.

  “The tanib is not with you?” Adan asked.

  “He stayed behind in Rum.”

  Adan poured a second cup of coffee, and Lily drank it slowly and carefully, adjusting her legs again.

  “Someone is waiting for you here.” Adan poured a third cup, this time without sugar, and Lily realized that that was a signal to leave.

  “Abu Huniak. Glubb Pasha. He is waiting for you.”

  “Where?”

  He doused the fire with what was left of the coffee and went outside. Lily followed.

  They strolled down toward the Urn tomb. Two stories of arches made it look like a giant columbarium.

  A man wearing a seersucker suit with a white linen vest stood in the middle of the street watching Lily. Straw-colored hair was plastered on his forehead, except for the tufts that stood straight up in a cowlick on the back of his head. It made him look like a fractious child. As Lily passed, he didn’t move, but his eyes followed her. She felt his intense gaze penetrate her wake and she rubbed the back of her neck.

  Adan pointed to a ledge above the arches of the Urn Tomb. “Up there.”

  A man was seated in a camp chair in the shade by the open flap of an olive green army tent. He wore a British army uniform topped with a red-checkered kafiya instead of a military cap. He had a thin military moustache, a slightly lop-sided jaw, and he was reading a book.

  Lily turned to Adan and said, “Bukrah al mishmish.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the hotel, Lily opened a musty closet, shook her dress out of the duffle, put it on one of the wire hangers, and brought it into the bathroom to steam out the wrinkles while she showered and bathed. She intended to do both.

  Colonel Glubb had driven her to the hotel in Amman in his old Buick to arrange for her to speak to His Majesty, Emir Abdullah, about Gideon being held at Rum.

  The dress, pale green, had cost five dollars—the sort of dress her mother would have called unacceptable and gauche. But it had sleeves that covered her elbows, a high mandarin collar, and reached down to her mid-calf, modest enough for an Arab city like Amman. The belt was a sort of sash that wound around her waist twice and tied in a loop.

  Tomorrow, she would go to a palace and talk to a king. She should have gone to the souk and bought something else. Too late for that.

  The bathroom was a step up from the bedroom, to accommodate plumbing under the floor, she supposed. The soap had a drawing of olives on the wrapper and smelled of jasmine. In the shower, she worked up a lather with the flimsy washcloth, savoring the perfume, rubbing the cloth against her skin, worrying about Gideon, wondering what she could say to the Emir to have him released.

  Iridescent bubbles formed and burst and washed in a stream to a drain in the middle of the floor. She watched the water swirl counter clockwise down the drain, remembering Rafi. He would stand at the kitchen sink finishing the dishes, swishing the water counterclockwise, trying to make it turn against nature. Numb with grief, she still expected to find him everywhere: across a fruit stand at a souk, sitting in a chair in the next room, his hands resting on the wooden arms. But he was gone, vanished in the furious hellhole of el Alamein, never to return.

  She dried with the thin hotel towel and crept into bed. Three box-like sections of ticking filled with straw crackled when she moved, and the tired springs creaked and groaned with each shift of her body. She slept fitfully, waiting for morning, dreaming of Rafi again, dreaming that he was still alive, that el Alamein had never happened, that there was no war, that they were still in Jerusalem.

  In the morning, she clambered into the ball-and-claw tub, holding on to the high rim with both hands. The water was lukewarm and rusty and when she got out, she slipped on the tile floor, reached out and caught herself on the edge of the sink. Was this how the day would go? Stumbling, righting yourself just in time?

  She put on the pale green dress, dumped the dirty clothes from the duffel on the bed to be laundered, and went downstairs. Breakfast in the garden there included strong coffee, pickled fish, and cheese, with fresh butter on a crisp, circular roll covered with sesame seeds.

  Colonel Glubb came for her at ten in a gleaming black Packard town car, with tiny Trans-Jordan flags fluttering atop the front fenders.

  At the palace, a guard from the Desert Patrol saluted, opened the door ceremoniously and motioned them through. Glubb led her down a long corridor, moving briskly past wall hangings of silk rugs woven into garden scenes or portraits of the royal family, past arched windows that framed a bright rose garden. Breathless, Lily scurried to keep up.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Glubb turned and gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s a gentleman all through. When he first came to Trans-Jordan, he held court Bedouin style on the outskirts of Amman.”

  Glubb slowed. Lily caught up with him and they walked in step. She realized that they were marching.

  “Trans-Jordan has changed since Abdullah took over. Things are orderly now. He’s a good ruler. When he came here, there were four rivals factions. He achieved a measure of unity. Different from the infighting of other Arab countries.”

  They had reached the end of the corridor where a guard stood before an ornate pair of carved wooden doors.

  “Wait here,” Glubb said. The guard stood aside. “I’ll see if His Majesty is ready.”

  Glubb disappeared into the room beyond, and the guard resumed his position before the doors and in front of Lily. His legs apart, his rifle cradled at a slant, he stood motionless, staring at Lily. A bee buzzed along the corridor and danced between them. From the garden, Lily thought.

  The guard’s eyes followed the bee and he smiled at Lily. When it landed on his shoulder, he flicked it off with snap of his finger and winked at Lily. She stepped back.

  The guard opened the double doors. With a sweep of his arm, he invited Lily to enter the room beyond—a long room with a travertine floor. Tables with mother of pearl inlay, armchairs with tasseled cushions, and elaborate folding chairs were scattered on a pair of fine, palace-size Nain silk rugs. Along one long wall, windows with graceful pointed arches bordered with mosaics opened onto a dappled garden with a pool and fountains. A large inlaid ebony desk surrounded by tiles set into the wall stood against another.

  At the far end of the room, the Emir was seated on a dais in a cushioned chair with mother-of-pearl inlays. A handsome child with dark, liquid eyes—his grandson, Prince Hussein—clung to the leg of his chair and rested his head on the Emir’s knee. The Emir’s son, Crown Prince Talal, sat cross-legged on a cushion on his right, and Glubb Pasha moved to stand behind him on his left.

  Lily was offered a seat below the dais to the right of the Emir.

  The Emir leaned forward. “And how is my friend Gideon Weil?” His smile encouraged Lily.

  “He’s been arrested.”

  The Emir frowned. “How? Where? What happened?”

  “Our guide was killed and a man from the Arab Legion arrested Gideon. They’re holding him at the fortress at Rum.”

  “Your guide was a Howeitat. They are the traditional enemies of the Beni Sakhr,” the Emir said, as if that explained everything. “I shall send word to the guard at Rum, tell him to release my friend.”

  He stroked the tu
mble of curls on his grandson’s head and leaned back. A soft smile played on his lips when Hussein looked up at him. “Once we were more powerful than the British,” he said to the child in a soft voice. “We have a long and proud history.”

  He sighed, stood up, strolled to the window and gazed at the play of water in the fountain. “We have everyone here. Moslems, Christians, Armenian artisans, Druze from the mountains, Circassian warriors, gentlemanly Bahai, fellahin in the towns and villages, merchants in the cities.” He spoke to Lily now. “And Bedouin. We are all Bedouin. The others come and go, Romans, Crusaders, Mamelukes, Turks, Palestinians, British.” He turned around to face her. “But we will be here forever.”

  He returned to the dais. “And we own the land.” He seated himself again in the ebony chair. “The land belongs to the Bedouin.”

  He leaned back against the cushion and said to Lily, “I will assign a guide to you from the Beni Sakhr who is fit for the task ahead of you.”

  “And what is the task ahead?” Lily asked.

  “Someone who knows Rum, who knows the routes, who knows the eastern desert.”

  So we’re going to the eastern desert, that much she could gather. Secrets, secrets, she was surrounded by secrets. Well, there’s a war on. What did that poster say? A slip of the lip can sink a ship? There were no slips, no ships here in Amman. A cat can look at a king, but it can’t make him purr, she thought. Abdullah knows more about the survey for the OSS than I do.

  With a wave of his hand, a smile, and a slight bow of his head, the Emir dismissed her. “Mashallah,” he said. “May Allah preserve you. Ma’a es salaam. Go in safety.”

  Colonel Glubb accompanied her on her way out along the long corridor.

  “The Hashemites are a Bedouin tribe?” Lily asked him.

  “The most prestigious of them all. Far more important than the Saudis. The Saudis stole Mecca from the Hashemites. Mecca is the birthright of the Hashemites. Abdullah’s father was ruler of Mecca, King of Hejaz.” He stopped walking and turned to Lily. “The Prophet himself was a Hashemite, did you know that?”

  She noticed that the colonel referred to Mohammed as the Prophet and thought he’s been living among Moslems for a long time.

  “You don’t think much of the Saudis, do you?” she asked.

  “They’re satiated with plunder. Drunk on greed and religion.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “They base their power on Wahhabism. Recent sect, eighteenth century. Ultra conservative, militaristic. As far as I can see, it’s a distortion of Islam, will set them back a thousand years.”

  “But the British support the Saudis.”

  “For the oil. It seems we’re running short of coals in Newcastle.”

  They continued down the corridor and Glubb turned to her again.

  “When you get to the eastern desert,” he said, “watch out for Gerta Kuntze. She’s a troublemaker. She lives among the Rashidi, the Bedu on the Iraqi border, moving from tent to tent, stirring up problems. We don’t need her. We have enough worries.”

  So, we are going to the eastern desert.

  Glubb looked out the window for a moment, where petals from overblown roses caught in the breeze and wafted to the ground. “Kuntze thinks of herself as the modern-day Gertrude Bell. Calls herself the Empress of Mesopotamia. But she’s no Gertrude Bell. For one thing, Kuntze is German, not British.”

  “Gertrude Bell, the woman who was called the Queen of Iraq? Lawrence’s friend?”

  “The very same. I met Gertrude Bell once in Cairo. She was a silly egomaniacal windbag, a virago, and the world’s greatest expert.”

  “Expert on what?”

  “Everything. Ask her anything, she knew more about it than God.”

  Behind them, a door closed and they heard the tap of small scampering feet.

  A child’s voice called out, “Wait for me, wait for me,” and they turned to see Prince Hussein running toward them.

  Hussein clasped Glubb’s hand. “Grandfather says that Abu Hun…Glubb Pasha is a great hero,” he said to Lily. “Grandfather says that he saved my cousin Faisal’s life and rescued Iraq from the Germans. My cousin is the king of Iraq.”

  He was talking about the eight-year-old king, the grandson of Lawrence’s Faisal.

  “You were going to call Colonel Glubb ‘Abu Huniak,’ weren’t you?” Lily asked the young prince.

  “It’s not polite to call someone a name. Someday, I will be king, like my cousin Faisal, and kings are always polite.”

  “Your grandfather told you that?” Lily asked.

  “Grandfather is wise and kind. He is always polite.”

  “Who taught you English?” Lily said. “You speak it very well.”

  “When the war is over, grandfather says, when it is safe in England, I will go to school there, to Harrow with my cousin Faisal. And then I shall go to Sandhurst, like Glubb Pasha, and become a great warrior.”

  A door along the corridor opened, and a uniformed guard approached. “Your Highness, His Majesty is looking for you.”

  Hussein released Glubb’s hand. He went with the guard, turned back, and waved at them. “Ma’a es salaam,” he called as Lily and Glubb watched him continue down the corridor.

  Glubb waited until he was out of sight before he said, “Back to Gerta Kuntze. She stirs up the Bedu to plot against the Allies for her friend Rashid Ali al-Gaylani.”

  “The former prime minister of Iraq?”

  “The very same, the engineer of last year’s insurrection, a plot to kill young Faisal. We intervened, rescued Faisal, and sent Rashid Ali into exile.”

  “Rashid Ali is a Nazi sympathizer?”

  “More than that. Sold Iraqi oil to the Kraut, sent Iraqi artillery against our base in Habbaniya. We took care of him last year,” he said again, and laughed. “They call it the Anglo-Iraqi War. Imagine that.”

  She had heard about the war. Glubb led the invasion.

  He stood against the window. The bright sun behind him outlined his silhouette and made it difficult for her to see the expression on his face. “Rashid Ali fled to Berlin. Now he and his friend, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Haj Amin al Husseini, have tea and cakes with Hitler.”

  Behind Glubb in the garden blowsy Damask roses nodded in a slight breeze that blew the spray from a fountain in the center toward the ring of dark pink flowers.

  “While they talk about their plans to rule the Arab world and eliminate the Jews?”

  “Just so.” He took a deep breath, shook his head. “None of it is easy. Lawrence had it right. We’ve been led into a trap in Mesopotamia that we can’t escape with dignity and honor. And all the while, Gerta Kuntze travels from tent to tent, lives like a Bedu, lice and all, calling herself the Empress of Mesopotamia.”

  “She’s an archaeologist?”

  “Vocational.” Glubb sighed. “Rashid Ali may be in Berlin, but he still pulls the strings in Iraq.”

  Lily remembered a picture she had seen of little Hussein and the young king, Faisal, standing together, arms over each other’s shoulders. They looked like twins, but Hussein’s eyes were laughing while Faisal’s were sad and full of foreboding.

  “The Arabs believe in fate. If Faisal is fated to be killed by Rashid Ali, then he will be.”

  “Even if it takes forty years?”

  “Or less,” Glubb said.

  ***

  Lily rode back to the hotel in the Packard. She sat straight in the plush beige back seat, feeling grand and a little royal, wondering if she should give a queenly bow and wave to the fellahin who gazed after them when the town car passed.

  Before she went upstairs, Lily sat outside at the café across from the hotel, watching the traffic along the dusty street: old carts and new cars; men wearing three piece suites and carrying briefcases bustling along; Bedouin on sleek Arabian horses; women in Paris dresses; women wearing head scarves and embroidered abayas. And everyone walked down the cente
r of the road, casually blocking traffic.

  Amman was still a town that was building. Some streets were paved, some not yet finished; everywhere, half-built stone houses, some Turkish style, some modern Bauhaus with curved balconies and glass brick partitions.

  She had ordered a crème caramel and a bottle of Jordan Valley water. While she waited, the man with the straw-colored hair who had been watching her at Petra snaked through the tables toward her.

  He sat across from her and asked in faintly accented English, “Do you mind if I join you?”

  There were plenty of other tables. The café was less than half filled, mostly with men, some by themselves engrossed in the newspaper; some with friends, leaning forward, speaking with eager faces and elaborate gestures.

  “I’d like to talk with you,” the man said.

  A shepherd moved his flock slowly down the center of the thoroughfare, ignoring angry drivers blasting horns of automobiles.

  The waiter brought the bottled water and crème caramel and set them in front of Lily. She fingered the cool bottle where small drops of water ran down the outside.

  “About what?”

  “We have much to discuss,” the man with the straw-colored hair said. He leaned forward, and grabbed her hand.

  She snatched it away and rubbed it on the side of her dress.

  “I know who you are,” he said. “You are not his sister.”

  He’s talking about Gideon. Who was this man? What did he want?

  The man looked around at the other tables, lowered his voice. “It could be to your advantage,” he said. “And not too much trouble.”

  She felt a vague uneasiness, felt the menace underneath his soft voice.

  He wants to pay me to do something underhanded? Lily didn’t answer. She threw a handful of piastres on the table, grabbed the bottle of water, and stood up.

  “Don’t go yet,” he said, reaching for her arm again.

  She pulled away, ran across the street back to the hotel, her heart pumping, and left the crème caramel on the table, untouched.

  ***

  When she returned to her hotel room, the laundry sat on the freshly made bed, starched and ironed, and all colored a vivid electric yellow, with the orange scarf, the one that she had used to cover her face in the whirlwind, neatly folded on top. The laundress had boiled everything together.