The Man Who Knew Everything

by Tom Stacey

‘Yes, I know very well what you have come for. You will wait here, please.’

  The young man turned abruptly and left the room, locking the door. It was cool: the palace air conditioning had not faltered. Although curtained along one wall, the room had no windows. A coloured photograph of the Emir had been taken down from its hook on the wall and was leaning in its frame across a corner. The photograph was fifteen years old, Jones knew, but the shrewd eyes and buzzard’s nose were characteristics that had lasted the course with the Emir into old age. The closely trimmed beard betrayed – it was said deliberately, as the mark of a charmed life – the ancient scar along the left side of the jawline: twenty-eight years ago a bullet had grazed him when a half-brother challenged his right to the succession.

  It was unreasonable to suppose the old man was not already dead. He hadn’t far to go himself, but he was sad that his old friend was probably gone ahead of him.

  The photograph began to swim before Jones’s eyes – it was omitting to eat, he could tell, that made him so light-headed.

  He wasn’t at all afraid. The very first time he had entered this palace that Stuart-Smith had built he was immortal, as he remembered, and something of that immortality invariably returned whenever he re-entered it. He had come for his first interview with the Emir, which had been arranged for him by Romy’s father, and which Romy herself had tried to stop. She had telephoned him at the old Darwish early the previous evening. He had hurried down from his room in his sarong to take the call on the telephone on the high desk of the Greek manager in the dark entrance hall, because it was the only telephone there was – old-fashioned even for those days: one of the pedestal telephones with a daffodil mouthpiece.

  A very cold voice. ‘I hear my father has arranged for you to interview the Emir.’ And she proceeds to threaten at once. ‘But since you have already seen Al Bakr . . .’ Suddenly she stops, as if she has forgotten her lines.

  Jones is quite taken aback. He wasn’t to know how cold her voice could be.

  ‘I haven’t seen the person you mention,’ he says. ‘As a matter of fact.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I have not actually seen the individual you refer to.’

  Now Romy, with menace: ‘Since you intend to see him, I intend to tell my father who I have no doubt will advise the Emir to cancel your interview with him.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Providentially or not,’ Jones pursues, composure reasserting, ‘I have not been able to locate this gentleman you referred to. So you may take it that I shall not be seeing him.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, but tugging against her own believing him.

  Then he turns it round on her. ‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ A different sort of voice. A perceptible softening.

  ‘I think not on the telephone.’

  There is a pause. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘There’s not much opportunity. I’m on the afternoon flight to Beirut. You’ll be at your dig.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, then?’ Her voice has been shifting up, up from the cold dark, like a diver ascending.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I’m about to take Richard to the airport.’ He remembers Richard Fenton from the dinner the previous night, the weedy diplomat, a stale suitor he supposed, of many years’ lingering.

  ‘Is Richard going somewhere?’

  ‘Your mind is working like lightning.’

  ‘After dinner then,’ he proposes, casually urgent. ‘A cup of coffee.’

  ‘I suppose I could try. Something to do with seeing the Emir tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘It’s something special?’ Yet another colour of voice. Vulnerable, in the diffused sun of the rising swimmer.

  Something special? Something stupendous, unprecedented, something never before conceived of.

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  He still remembered how slowly he lowered the earpiece on to its cradle. Some passages of a man’s life are etched ineradicably. He had heard it said that in the end only the wounds are remembered. Yet there are wounds and wounds.

  He was sleepy now in the sealed room. He dropped off. But he did not dream of Romy.

  He was woken by a key in the lock. He did not know at first where he was. He had dreamed that he was flying his own light aircraft from an extreme northern island base on which only he was stationed, and he had made a discovery of a new land of exquisitely green ice cliffs and pinnacles, a land whose incomparable beauty awaited him if only he could let go whatever it was that isolated him in his ‘singularity’.

  ‘My dear Mr Jonas.’

  This was a new young officer, roly-poly, full of lather.

  ‘His Highness, the President-Regent, sends his most sincere apologies for keeping you waiting. He expresses very sincerely these apologies, and is now awaiting most impatiently to see you. Please.’

  Jones was reluctant to move. He had been peculiarly at peace in his dream and he remembered the train of recollection that had preceded it, how in the course of two or three minutes the graph of Romy’s voice had swept from a depth of cold disgust to the very surface of admitted love. Somehow that brilliance of love incorporated this palace itself, in that within a matter of hours the Emir, right here, by perceiving that he could trust this English journalist, had by this simple implication of his heart given to them his pontifical blessing. Therefore it was the Emir alone he desired to see, alive or even dead, not any plausible murderous son.

  Nevertheless he found himself ushered out of the room from behind, directed along the passage, and up some stairs and through a door that gave suddenly on to the main great marble atrium. From here his effusive guide (an aide-de-camp, it was growing clear) led him, with a bit of a swagger, into a high-ceilinged stateroom whose shutters were closed and candelabras blazing. Only at this point did they pause, and here, from another room beyond, a tall, youthful Arab figure, in a black gold-hemmed gown of gossamer wool over a crisp white dishdasha, strode in.

  Hatim held his hand out and with it, young hand clutching ancient hand, drew Jones like a valued emissary, long awaited, in a progress reeking of falsity, towards a pair of armchairs backed across a corner of the damasked walls.

  He must go through with it now, whatever else.

  The visitor conceded that, yes, it must be three years. (He remembered Hatim callow; in the three years he had acquired slime.)

  ‘And now you come to call upon my poor father. That I am aware of, Mr Jones. But since we are fortunate enough to have you here, perhaps we may take this opportunity to give you a little briefing, a little background. Off the record!’

  There was some flaw, Jones perceived, in the manner in which Arab fathers raised their sons, that induced a tendency to patricide. As children they made them cosseted manikins, but thereafter wouldn’t let them grow to be themselves. This Hatim was much like his father when younger, lean and beaky, with a close-trimmed beard. Yet somehow was grown crooked, the urbanity a cover, and the mouth too soft and cold.

  ‘You have of course heard of the constitutional developments?’

  Jones was looking about for signs of a fracas. For the first time in his life it occurred to him why chairs in Arab palaces were invariably backed against the wall.

  ‘Something of the kind.’

  ‘You saw the signed proclamation, Mr Jones?’

  ‘I saw a photostat of something.’

  ‘You must see the original, my dear fellow. You must see the original. Mohammed Abdu, can you please fetch -’ and Hatim broke off into a moment’s Arabic. ‘Forgive me’ - turning back to Jones with concern on his brow - ‘in a minute, you will see, perhaps two.

  ‘Now,’ he resumed, to indicate the start of serious business. ‘It is important that the Post receives the full facts, for what the Post presents as news the world knows as facts. Facts are sacred – yes! There is so much untruthfu
l reporting, isn’t it so? In London I always read the Post. That is my custom. It is something I have most specially missed since – since I returned to my homeland. Of course my father and I have not always seen eye and eye on the policy. But it was only to please the old men, the ulema you know, that he placed me for a while in restriction. It was not for me to object.’ He opened his hands magnanimously. ‘It has been so difficult for the old men and the religious elders to come to terms with the situation of today. Of course you believe in God, Mr Jones . . .’

  Hatim waited. He saw an old man’s dog eyes looking at him, telling him nothing.

  ‘Mr Jones?’

  It was a sort of question, Jones perceived, of sudden and unwarranted intimacy, which in this young man’s mouth had become indecent.

  ‘When I listen to music I do,’ he said.

  Hatim frowned. ‘Of course you believe in God, and so do I. But alas, it is not God, much as we would both wish it, who controls the forces of international politics and the world economy. When the power was with the few, the monarchs and so on, it might have been possible to believe that the final authority lay with God. Believe me, I have studied the theory of the divine right of kings, studied it very fully. But today the power is with the masses, and today it is not reasonable to suppose that God is Prime Minister.’

  At such spontaneous wit the speaker could not refrain from chuckling. He checked himself.

  ‘Mind you,’ he resumed, ‘the power of the people is a moral power, and that power possesses the approval of God. Correct? In time, the ulema and their friends will come to realise it yet, mark my words.’

  A low distaste had spread across Jones’s face. His mottled hands lay folded and heavy in his lap. Hatim’s words oozed and eddied around him like a backwater that accumulates detritus.

  ‘My father has had a difficult furrow to plough, especially of late. His advisers were all old men, bearing the attitudes of the ancestors. My father himself knew that things must change. From time to time he would comment so to me, in the past. He was not blind. Far from it. But he had no opportunity to act.’

  He shook his head, dissolving his regret in the magnificent rug across the marble floor.

  ‘Inevitably it fell to us to act, as the people’s will took shape. There was so much unrest: as an experienced reporter with your ear to the ground you will know better than I. At the docks, among the petroleum industry workers. Even the schools! When my father felt obliged to accept the advice to close the Asnan School, built to educate the next generation of the leaders of our people . . .’ The affront of it halted him. ‘It became our duty to act. To save the nation. Of course you see that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jones echoed dully. His rheumy eyes, slate-blue with age, regarded the puppy face. What could the boy have done with the old man?

  ‘Money is one thing,’ Hatim had resumed. ‘We have enough money. But you can bankrupt a people’s soul. We had no choice. No choice at all. For my father’s sake too. Naturally, the action taken was not instantly comprehended by everyone. Certain members of his entourage were unwise enough to open fire at the party which accompanied me here this morning to explain to my father the action which was necessary. My men were obliged to defend themselves, and in so doing my poor father was slightly injured in the shoulder by a stray bullet. The injury is slight – his doctor is of course with him – but nonetheless it has been a shock to him. That is why, when you see him, I want you not to tire him, to remain with him, I propose, three minutes only.’ The brow furrowed and the narrow mouth smiled.

  Jones gave a little nod. He felt stiff and sick. Where had they cornered him? At prayer? In the bathroom? In bed?

  ‘It will reassure him to see you, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Reassure him of what?’

  ‘You will want to ask him, I expect, to confirm in person the contents of his proclamation – ah, you have the original, Mohammed Abdu.’

  The aide was at hand to pass across a sheet of thick white palace writing-paper which trembled in Jones’s fingers. It was indeed a single, undoctored document, bearing the Emir’s authentic signature in ink.

  ‘Fortunately my father’s injury is in the left shoulder.’ The Prince patted his own shoulder. ‘You will wish to confirm the proclamation,’ he pursued with his clammy smile. ‘You will wish to confirm that apart from this injury he is alive and well. I have requested that his doctor shall be present when you visit so that he can explain to you the injury. You will, I expect, wish to ask my father if he has any message for our people at this turning-point in our history. And, of course, for the outside world. We are an important country now.’ He sighed lightly. ‘It is our destiny. You English have known what it is to be an important country.’

  He inclined towards Jones, still not quite sure of his full attention.

  ‘I don’t expect you will want to ask my father anything more.

  ‘Your visit will tire him. If you have any questions, you may wish to ask me now.’ And now he leaned back, cupping his hands as at prayer, ready for the probing interrogation of the international press.

  Jones wondered what he should ask him. Where was the purpose in putting questions? His own left shoulder ached. All he wanted was to see the Emir, one old man and another. He hadn’t come here for this. What possible use could it be? He had had enough of interviews.

  The young man turned to him humouringly, as if to say, Must I supply you questions as well as answers? Has it come to this?

  ‘What role is your brother to play?’ Jones enquired wearily.

  ‘My brother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have sent our emissary to Texas to explain the situation to him.’

  ‘But what role will he play?’

  ‘We hope he will perhaps represent our country abroad. He will want to serve his country.’

  ‘You mean, he is not to return here.’

  ‘It is for him to decide himself, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Where is Fuad Al-Bakr?’

  ‘My Prime Minister? He is this afternoon addressing a meeting of petroleum workers at the oil town. Tonight we shall finalise the formation of his cabinet.’

  ‘Who will be in the cabinet?’ The questions were coming now of their own accord; a comic slipping into an old routine.

  ‘The cabinet? I could not possibly say. It is too early.’

  ‘I noticed that a foreign officer was in command at the gate here. The foreign soldiers are much in evidence in the town.’

  ‘Are they? But they are our people’s friends. Their officers and the sergeants and so forth were invited here by my own father on a mission to train our men. It is natural they should assume their share of responsibility at a time of – of potential challenge to the constitution.’

  ‘Who is challenging the constitution?’

  ‘I said “potential”, Mr Jones. There is no challenge. The people’s will is clear.’

  ‘No arrests?’

  ‘No arrests as such. A few old men are in custody for their own protection.’

  ‘The Diwan, for instance . . .’

  ‘One cannot be specific at this stage. You will understand this. It is still what we call “early days”.’

  ‘And your oil policy: do we expect any change?’

  ‘My country, Mr Jones, as you know well, has been generously endowed by nature, you might say by God. You have lived here almost as long as I. But wealth thus granted must not be squandered. We have perhaps been helping to oversupply the world with petroleum. It may be that the new government will need to adjust the policy.’ He paused and waited. ‘You are ready now?’

  Hatim rose with the merest rustle.

  ‘Have you a pen?’ He frowned pityingly at his visitor: a reporter without a pen! He snapped his fingers and his aide produced a gold ball-point pen. ‘With my compliments,’ Hatim said. ‘Please. And paper.’ He reached to a low table of garish verdite for a memorandum pad. ‘Now!’

  He led the way from the corniced chamber. The aide f
ollowed.

  They took the right-hand sweep of the broad marble staircase and at the top passed through a doorway where a soldier was posted, in crumbling shoes, a machine-gun at his hip. The broad corridor turned sharply left. They passed a room from which Jones heard the buzz of a telex machine.

  Two young officers with revolvers stood outside a door on the left. Opposite, in the passage, a table bore an array of medical equipment and bottles, mostly, Jones supposed, for the sake of medical swank. One of the officers stepped forward and stood before Jones, who interpreted the movement and stood there like a penguin for the man to pat his way down his body from armpits to ankles, then up his legs to the crutch.

  ‘A formality,’ Prince Hatim lied. What broken symbol did these usurpers suppose they were protecting?

  Taking a key from his pocket Hatim unlocked the heavy door and led Jones into a shuttered, lamplit bedchamber.

  The figure lying there yellow and shrunk and swathed, on a low bed, propped by pillows, was not immediately recognisable. There was a smell of sterilised decay. Of course, it could be none other than the Emir, but Jones had never seen him like this before, never before without his head-cloth, his airy gown, his courtly bearing. His first thought was of a famous old movie star he had interviewed years and years ago, with his wig off, and little watery eyes peering at him out of holes in the crêpy skin.

  The Emir’s eyes were on him now, then moved to his son, then back to Jones, whom he now accorded a slow silent inclination of the head. The eyes betrayed nothing, not even recognition; they were sunk into the dark yellow corpse-face like sucked black pastilles.

  The natural white of his beard, customarily dyed, was visible beneath the earlier blackened growth. A brocaded skull-cap topped his head and he wore a cotton nightshirt of which one side was slit to accommodate bulky bandaging of the shoulder and upper arm. A brown blob stained the bandaging and the arm was strapped to his side.

  Beside the bed a middle-aged Punjabi occupied an armchair.

  ‘Highness,’ Jones said.

  ‘Ah, Jonas,’ the Emir responded feebly. ‘How good of you to come.’

  ‘I am glad to see your Highness alive.’