A Garden to the Eastward

by Harold Lamb

  Words had become brittle, and Michal could not stop. "The generals of the staffs could play poker, and the espionage agents could be sent to glean medicinal herbs up the steepest mountains instead of stealing each other's secrets, or shooting each other in dark alleys as the fashion used to be. The nice young R.A.F. fliers could practice chasing vultures, or—— Don't listen to me, Jacob. I don't know why I'm saying stupid things."

  "Michal——"

  "There's Mr. Svetlov," she said.

  The solitary Russian was climbing up from the plaza. Slowly he moved, as if in pain or cautious of his step. When he coughed, his breath whistled between his chapped lips. At Michal's smart jacket he blinked inflamed eyes that lifted involuntarily to her face. "Lady," he said in English, "tell me."

  "What?"

  Svetlov uttered each word without expression. "This sentence." From an overcoat pocket filled with scraps of paper he drew a soiled copy of a book, and she saw the title, Shakespeare's Comedy of the Tempest. His gloved finger pointed to words on the end of a page:

  . . .sometime am I

  All wound with adders who with cloven tongues

  Do hiss me into madness.

  "Adders are what?"

  "Why, they are snakes."

  Although he scanned the printed words and he nodded, the Russian stood before Michal, eying the light chain of imitation pearls around her slim throat. She thought he was closed in upon himself like one who had been long in prison, or ill. He had not followed them to ask the meaning of a word of Shakespeare's. Why should he care for Shakespeare? In her own distress, Michal thought that Svetlov, too, might be suffering in mind.

  Svetlov's dark arm swept out at the altar height. "These be fine things." And he added cautiously, "Pretty?"

  "It's lovely." Michal smiled, wondering how many sayings of Caliban he could conjure up.

  "Michal——" Jacob was losing patience.

  "Fine, like this—park." Svetlov produced a photograph from his inner pocket and displayed it—a view of a giant statue of Lenin with an arm thrust skyward. Evidently he was thinking of the summit of Araman as an immense monument—to what? She tried to smile persuasively.

  "Mr. Svetlov, can you take my husband down with you to the camps?"

  "Take?"

  Before Jacob could say anything, Michal explained. "He needs a permit, a pass, doesn't he? If he goes with you, it will be the same as a pass."

  Perceptibly gratified, the Russian assented, and Michal turned to Jacob. "You must go quickly—before there's ice on the way." Avoiding his eyes, she said hurriedly, "I know you have to go, Jacob, to the meeting."

  "Then we'll both try it."

  Michal shook her head mischievously. "My appearance unveiled at a council would appall your tribesmen. Daoud made that only too clear."

  She gave him no chance to argue. Walking down to the plaza with Svetlov between them, she chattered about Caliban, as if Jacob were leaving for only a few hours. At the sundial she stopped, rubbing at the bronze face with one of her gloves. "Come back as soon as you can, my lover," she said softly.

  "Tomorrow."

  "If you can."

  The Russian glanced curiously at the delicate woman who seemed too frail to be wandering in the winter snow. She walked away quickly, gracefully, toward the village, turning to wave her glove at them. After a moment the lame American stirred and began to walk along the path to the gate.

  There two men with rifles who had relieved the guards of the noon hour barely glanced at them, being occupied with starting a fire out of broken branches against the rocks. Svetlov touched Jacob's arm. "You want?" he questioned, pointing down.

  "Yes."

  Cautiously the Russian began to descend the wet rock. Discovering that the American could not keep up with him, he went on alone. It gave him a feeling of achievement to do so. Those fragile luxury-lapped Americans were not suited to this hard frontier.

  In Tiflis he had been informed that this was the outer frontier zone now, and himself one of the pathfinder yeikas, or cells, pushing outward to free the giant tortured Soviet Union from its Barricades. About those Barricades Svetlov had read much. They had been erected around the land-locked mass of mid-Eurasia, the heart of the mightiest continent, by monarchists and fascists, and the warlike powers that sought to pen the blind, bound Soviet giant behind barriers. Now the Barricades must be broken down, so that the united people of the Soviet could gain access to the outer lands, the ports, and the seas that had been the monopoly of the outer jailer powers until now. Near at hand, within Turkey and Iran, other pathfinders were breaking through the Barricades, winning bloodless battles planned by the directing authority of the Kremlin to push the frontiers down into the sea. . . .Svetlov had been imprisoned in his youth; he could feel the urgency of smashing the Barricades. To him the Soviet, wounded by its efforts to defend itself during two wars, was a tormented, poisoned, and inarticulate Caliban.

  When he reached the valley floor and turned into the barbed-wire enclosure that housed the Russians, he went directly to the one-and-a-half-ton truck. Within it sounded the faint humming of a radio in circuit. The operator sat holding to one earphone while lighting a cigarette with the other hand. He wore no uniform or insignia and he glanced only casually at Svetlov.

  "Anything today?" asked the latter.

  The operator shook his head.

  "Anything at all?" Svetlov hesitated as he asked this. The man in the ragged coat, scratching at a lighter with a broken thumbnail, was in touch with those unseen beings who issued orders. In his hand lay the key of operations.

  "Only storms and the devil's own amount of static," observed the operator sleepily. "This machine was never made for mountains," he added in disapproval.

  With her gloves off and her jacket open, Michal sat before Imanya's small silk loom, her fingers shooting the sharp pointed spindles through the white strands as the woman of Araman worked the crosspiece over her head. When the thread tangled they both bent over it. Michal could not keep her thoughts on the flying spindles. White hands cling to the bridle rein, but Sir Clement and Jan Matejko were dead. You are a long time dead. . . .Imanya poured hot tea from the caldron and offered it to her with a dish of dried peaches soaked in wine.

  After that Michal roused herself and took some embers from the hearth in a burner, going up to her own dark house. For the first time the plaza was dark at night. The flare of the altar fire whipped by a heavy wind sent shadows dancing across the hard snow.

  After starting the fire in her room Michal lit all the lamps and curled up on the bed between her household gods, Pegasus and Nikolka, to wait.

  Jacob had made his way through drifting smoke, past tethered horses and the loom of black tents, aware that the thousands of men gathered around him were divided into three sections—the Russian enclosure, the camp of the Azerbaijan Kurds from across the frontier, and the camp of Mullah Ismail. Torches danced through the murk, sheep pressed frantically ahead of boys who drove them, and wailing calls rose over the tumult of the clustering humans. In this maelstrom of life Jacob had found no one to speak with.

  When he moved toward the Soviet barbed wire, to find Dr. Anna, a throng of tribesmen hurried by. Joining them, he was swept into the door of a large log building, filled with men sitting shoulder to shoulder in near darkness. Above them shone a white screen on which human beings moved fantastically as shadows. To these motionless spectators, the life on the screen displayed itself as a miracle.

  To Jacob, it was a motion picture badly lighted. The only sound pulsed out of a phonograph in the strident beat of jazz. The man operating the phonograph shouted some explanation of the film at intervals, in Kurdish. Jacob caught the word Amricai—American—and then realized with a shock of surprise that the commentator referred to the picture, not to him.

  The scene was within a skyscraper hotel in New York—he recognized a glimpse of the skyline—in which an actress, occupying what seemed to be a luxury suite, was trying on dresses. Since n
o voices issued from the screen, the people moved and gestured in pantomime. They picked up telephone receivers, pushed silent buttons, gestured over radios, and laughed at jests that were secret to themselves.

  "Malikeh!" muttered a tribesman pressed against Jacob's knees. A queen. To the primitive minds of the watchers, the actress appeared to be regal in her splendor and authority. Within her closet hung an array of court dresses, and behind them the camera disclosed a young man in white tie and tails hidden away. The story, then, was a comedy; but the audience did not know that.

  The scene cut to the street outside where a fireman was opening a hydrant. From it burst a flood of water. Into this danced a dozen half-naked urchins. The watching tribesmen murmured, wondering. This glimpse of water issuing from a metal post seemed to them incredible as if a rock, tapped in the desert, had given forth a living stream.

  The children vanished and the bedroom reappeared, with the actress developing a stormy temper. Another woman, almost as splendid, now engaged her in silent persiflage. A youth in uniform with a small round hat cocked over his eye led in a miniature fluffy dog. Over this lapdog the two queens stormed, and, as Jacob winced, they snatched at each other's hair, and tore at the resplendent garments covering the shapely bodies. The bellboy made motions as if seconding a favored fighter in the ring, and from between the filmy negligees in the closet the hidden man smiled in cynical amusement.

  Turning impulsively, Jacob forced his way through the men wedged around the door and out into the cold night air. For a second he thought of the Soviet film that Daoud had seen—of men handling guns and tanks in battle. Between that and this there stretched the width of the world.

  Then, as he moved listlessly away from the cinema hut, through the groups in sheepskins and wool waiting to see the new marvel displayed by the Russians, he was aware that another man followed in his steps.

  Jacob kept on without pause until he was past the guards at the wire entrance. Then he turned sharply back, and almost collided with his shadow. It was Badr.

  The big Havaband Kurd bent his head, smiling, and touched Jacob's hand with both his own. Then he beckoned the American and hurried on to where torches gleamed.

  After a few paces he stopped, looking pleased. From beneath the wavering torch came a thin voice. "Mr. Ide, sah, good evening. How is health Miss Michal?"

  Beside the servant who held the torch Mr. Parabat of Parabat Limited shivered with the back of his greatcoat turned to the wind. "Congratulations, Mr. Ide, on most impressive New York buildings and exquisite American costumes!"

  So the Zoroastrian merchant had been among the spectators!

  "That picture? That's not the real America, Mr. Parabat."

  "Not? Then what is America?"

  Before Jacob could answer, the merchant touched him in warning. A group of Kurds strode into the light, the leader bareheaded, his coat open to the wind. A rifle on his arm, his dark eyes vigilant, he swung by with only a glance at them. Jacob had seen hunters walk like that, observant of every movement before them, patient and purposeful.

  "The Ghazi," whispered Mr. Parabat. "The Atabeg of the Azerbaijan Kurds. A patriot, but not a fool."

  These shifting groups of humanity seemed to Jacob to be so many fragments of a kaleidoscope, each separate from the others yet falling together when the glass was moved. When he started to question Mr. Parabat, the Zoroastrian cautioned him and bade him come to his quarters.

  "I will elucidate for you, Mr. Ide, if you will correspondingly inform me of Miss Michal's health."

  It occurred to Jacob that his companion was frightened. Yet the small tent they entered was lighted and warmed by a kerosene stove, and the servant, who proved to be Jemail, served them a supper of curry, patties, and sour milk. "This climate is like aurora boreal," his host informed him, "but my factory is closed by artillery, and I have anxiety to view present situation." And he added thoughtfully, "The situation is deteriorating rapidly."

  In his quaint words, the little man outlined the crisis at Araman quite clearly. The army of Mullah Ismail, driven from Riyat and the foothill villages, had ascended to this valley at the frontier to take refuge with the Russians. They, in turn, had promised Ismail a gift of heavy machine guns and anti-tank guns suitable for the mountains, with a plentiful supply of ammunition. Mullah Ismail expected these weapons the next day, and with them he could hold the higher ridges against the British-sponsored columns from Iraq.

  At the same time the Ghazi had led his personal following westward from the Sanjbulak region where there had been fighting. The Ghazi had the silent support of the Democratic party of Kurdistan, which, in turn, had been fathered in Tiflis, or in Baku, the Soviet oil center.

  "The Ghazi was to be puppet of Kurdistan puppet state. But he has own ideas upon subject, and wishes to be creator of fait accompli state realistically. He has that fixed idea. And has likewise moved out of Russian frontier-extension zone. In pursuance of aims, he makes friendly pourparlers with British. In like measure Mullah Ismail has pride, and more religion. Both have fixed idea of independent Kurdistan, but know free Kurdistan idea being used by both great powers to further own aims. It is a pity."

  It was a pity, because being a tribal Kurd and hot-headed for that reason, the Ghazi would never allow the Mullah Ismail to receive the overbalancing aid of the modern artillery even as a gift from the Russians, nor would the Mullah permit the Iranian leader to treat with British agents.

  "So if those guns appear on scene like deus ex machina, there will be civil strife, and if bloody, the old tribal feud will not be healed. And if so, the Russian military may appear on scene to maintain order and banish illiteracy and landowners." Mr. Parabat sighed. "Trouble the waters to fish in them. Both the British and Russians have troubled waters here. Can they fish in same pool ? I think not."

  "Suppose the Ghazi and the Mullah happen to agree together?" Jacob asked.

  "That will not be allowed to happen."

  After a moment Jacob asked abruptly, "What if the United States should guarantee—that is, support—an independent Kurdistan? A real one, I mean."

  The Zoroastrian smiled. "That would never happen."

  "But if it did?"

  Hesitating, the little man looked at his guest. "Do you wish truthful answer or polite response?"

  "In this case—the truth."

  "An American promise would be broken reed. Why broken? During war Americans sent all aid to Soviet Russia. Now the Soviet spokesmen say, you lend money to Britain and form bloc against the Soviet. What is your purpose? Your President Wilson made pledge of absolutely unmolested opportunity for these new small nations like Iraq to form autonomous government. Your martyred President Roosevelt signed Atlantic Charter during war promising self-government to small nations. I regret that those reeds were broken."

  Jacob nodded. He had expected that, and had no answer for it. This elderly Zoroastrian, a man of peace, had come up here to observe the crisis because hundreds of thousands of Zoroastrians in the regions near by might have their fate decided by it. And Mr. Parabat was very much afraid. "What do you hope for, then?" he asked bluntly.

  Closing his overcoat carefully about him, Mr. Parabat went to the tent entrance and stepped outside. When Jacob followed, he said, "Wait a minute."

  After their eyes had become accustomed to the murk, he pointed up. Far overhead, on the summit of the mount, the faint glow of the altar fire was visible.

  "That," he said.

  It seemed to cheer him to hear that Michal was still on the summit.

  "Do you know a man named Paul Kaimars?" Jacob asked.

  Mr. Parabat did not answer at once. Instead he glanced up at the tall American. "Why do you mention him?"

  "Because I want to talk with the Mullah Ismail, and Paul is the best man I know to interpret."

  "It is possible," said Mr. Parabat, "that you will see him tomorrow."

  When the lamp was put out, although the stove still burned, Jacob saw the Zoroastrian kneeling o
n his sleeping quilt to pray.

  By early morning the wind had risen, and flurries of dry snow lashed the tents. The tethered horses edged themselves together, their backs to the wind blasts. Pulling his quilt close around his throat, Jacob listened and knew that there would be no climbing the face of Araman for many hours. He heard Mr. Parabat groan and mutter something.

  "What?" he called.

  "Tellurian wrath is loose." And the man from India huddled deeper into his quilts.

  Then Jacob heard the pealing of the bell. Close at hand, its clangor came over the rush of the wind, and for a moment he thought it had worked loose from its fastenings in the tower and was swinging with the gusts. Yet its peal came hard and regular, as if beating out a message. Certainly somebody's hand was working it. Long ago he had caught that pealing in their house, but it had not seemed to be a message.

  Other sounds intruded. Steel clanked, as men walked past the tent. The murmur of their voices drifted back. Mr. Parabat was stirring, pulling his clothing over his pajamas. The camp had roused, at the bell, before dawn.

  In the Russian wire, Svetlov made his way over to the truck where the operator warmed his hands against a lantern, cursing. There was nothing coming through the storm area except static.

  "Then we are muffled out?" Svetlov asked, to make certain. He did not relish the long silence of the air. And it would be dangerous to make even a slight mistake at a time like this.

  "This is muffled out, my boy. But if Nakhicheven Division wants to get word through, they will do it, if a plane has to bring it."

  "In this weather?"

  The operator's thin lips drew down. This sickly Svetlov, this man of Smolensk with the weak lungs, was soft and vacillating. Of nights he read himself to sleep with an English play about fairies and a monster. These White Russians had old superstitions sticking to them like cancer germs. They listened for voices in the wind. "Who sounded off that antique bell?" he demanded.