I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  “She is my wife. She speaks French well. I was told to bring someone.”

  It was all India could do to keep her composure, her pose. His wife?

  The door opened enough for them to pass inside into a cramped hallway. The smell was old, of centuries—stifling, musty, with layers of oils, tobacco, hashish, incense that had become part of the stone walls.

  The small room was lit by a single weak bulb. There were five men seated on wooden boxes, around a large, staved barrel that served as a table. In the shadows were stacked more of the boxes. A gray haze of harsh tobacco smoke hung in the room, making the scene seem out of focus.

  Three of the men were clearly Arabs, another could have been European, all were dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The other man, dressed almost foppishly must be the Frenchman, India thought as she noted the pink silk shirt and white linen trousers. He spoke in a clumsy Arabic, then switched to French.

  “Thank you for coming. I have need of your…wisdom? I fear unrest is coming. What will the West do if Syria rebels against Assad?” He continued in French.

  Jack looked to India.

  India translated. “He explains that there are many Europeans, especially the French, with business ties to Syria. If there is rebellion, will the West and America stand outside or will they send help to the rebels?”

  “Tell him that is not for me to know,” Jack said. “There would be discussion, surely. How it would end is only for the future to decide.”

  She looked to the Frenchman. “Ce n’est pas ὰ moi de savoir. Il y aurait une discussion. Le future le deciderait.”

  The Frenchman spoke again.

  India translated for Jack. “He wants to know if the Western press would be sympathetic to the rebel cause.”

  “Tell him I would be and I would write such. But government circumstances are not my purview. There would be much good feeling for rebellion in the West, but there would be the opposite as well. Assad is a criminal, but the country is calm. A disruption of the oil exports from the Karatchok oil fields would be looked upon as a negative.”

  There was more talk, mostly by the Frenchman to Jack. The other men remained quiet, except for occasional murmurs between themselves. Then Jack turned to India. “Ask him if the boxes we see around the walls are cachéd arms?”

  India translated and watched a flurry of consternation ripple around the room. Then she said, “They are aware that you have seen these boxes, but should only know that there are contingency plans being made. That it would be unwise to not anticipate what might come.”

  Jack nodded. “Tell him I understand.” He repeated the words in Arabic to the others.

  The Frenchman stood. The interview was apparently over. India and Jack were escorted to the door.

  They hurried away and as soon as they had reached the crowded part of the souk, India said, “Can I get out of this damned furnace now? I’ve got to breathe or I may pass out.”

  “Wait until we get to the car. It wouldn’t look right for you to start whipping your dress off in public. You were bang-on back there. One would have thought you had been subservient to men all your life. You have untapped modesty, my girl. You should adopt the burqa. Makes you quite pleasant to be with for a change.”

  India seethed. “I…can’t…think…how…I’m…going…to… kill…you. But it will be long and painful.”

  He took her shoulder and pulled her into a closed doorway. He yanked up the burqa and whipped it over her head. He gripped her chin hard, but his kiss was slow and soft. The burqa dropped to the ground. India swayed against him, dizzy from the heat of the shroud and the surprise kiss. He turned her around and walked her out into the crowd as if nothing had happened.

  The burqa lay in a heap in the doorway where passersby eyed it curiously.

  ***

  NEITHER SPOKE UNTIL Jack drove into the entrance to the airport.

  Puzzled, India turned to him. “Why are we at the airport?” she asked.

  “Unless you want to stay on your own to look around, I thought you might want to go back to Beirut. There’s a flight in an hour. I’m going on to Damascus.”

  A flash of anger nearly clogged her throat. What had she expected? Did she even know? She ground her teeth. “Drop me at the Departure gate.”

  Spear pulled over to the gate. India tamped down her fury. Swallowed hard. Don’t be a bitchy female. Don’t. He’d love that. Just a colleague he’s dropping at the airport. She opened the door. “Thanks for today. Interesting.” She put her hand on the door handle, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “No, really. You needn’t get out. If you would just release the back I can get my things.”

  She jerked out her suitcase and headed to the entrance when she heard, “Unless you’d rather go to Damascus.”

  She slowed. People walked around her. She turned.

  He leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The highway, en route to Damascus

  THE ALEPPO TO Damascus M-3 is a four lane motorway angled along the parched border with Lebanon, stretching from Syria farther on toward Baghdad, Iraq. Truck traffic was heavy but fast-moving. Neither Spear nor India spoke for the first hour.

  After Spear had maneuvered around the city of Homs, India turned. “Nadia Rohbani seems to like you, so I assume there are redeeming qualities in you somewhere.”

  He grinned. “Ah. I am like a brother to Nadia.”

  “She said you had something going with her for a while.”

  “Yes. But now I am, as I say, like a brother.”

  “Never having had a brother, I must assume one is fond of them?”

  “Fond. Yes. That’s a good word. I am sure Nadia is fond of me.”

  “And she is like a sister to you?”

  “Oh, very much so.”

  “I never had a sister either. I wasn’t unhappy about that. I understand it can sometimes be…a difficult relationship?”

  “Nadia is an angel.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “I have sibling sisters. They are also angels.”

  “Why, you are just surrounded by heavenly creatures. And you are the adored brother?”

  “Oh, quite so. Much adored. ”

  “That must be extremely pleasant. Your life.”

  “Certainly.” He made a long face. “You are an only child? That is very sad.”

  She rolled her eyes at his synthetic sympathy, then looked away. Her voice took on an edge. “My mother was not into a large brood.”

  Spear glanced over at the change in her tone, but said nothing. They rode in silence for another fifteen minutes.

  “Why did you kiss me back there? In Aleppo?”

  “It seemed a good idea at the time.” He shrugged. “Now, I don’t know.”

  She waited. “That was not a sisterly kiss.”

  “Blokes don’t think sisterly thoughts when they look at you.”

  “Oh? And what do they think?”

  There was a long pause, then a half-smile. “Well, fucking comes to mind.”

  India wanted to make some biting comeback, but bit her tongue instead. She turned her head and looked out the window at the beige countryside streaming by. Somewhere in her stomach laughter was bubbling around and she had two minds about that last crack. Was he being funny? Was he outrageous? But it was no use. The whole conversation was both funny and outrageous. Jack Spear was going to be a handful and their relationship wasn’t all going to be up to her.

  As they turned south, away from the coastal plane, the scene began to change. The Anti-Lebanon Mountains rose on their left and the landscape became more arid. Farmland disappeared and flocks of sheep dotted the countryside.

  India rubbed her arms. Her silk shirt wasn’t warm enough for the dropping temperature. “I’m cold. I’ve got to get a jacket out of my suitcase.”

  “Sure.” He pulled off the road. They both got out of the car and stretched.

  He leaned against the Land Rover while she went th
rough her suitcase and commented, “We’re in the rain shadow of the mountain range. Not an ocean climate here. They get very little rainfall on this side but the grass is good for grazing. Gets chilly in the winter and spring. Probably frost overnight.”

  She shrugged into a denim jacket. “What are those funny-looking…uh…buildings?”

  “Beehive houses. They’re adobe structures, efficient for the climate. Keep you cool in the summer and warm in the winter. They have few windows and doors and those smooth sides let the rain run down quickly—when there is any rain here, it’s pretty fierce. The pointed beehive shape is typically Syrian…don’t find them much anywhere else. Been around for centuries.”

  The landscape was flat and uninteresting, except for the beehive houses and some sheep. As they neared Damascus a jumbo billboard rose up near the road. It pictured in the center a smiling Bashar Assad, surrounded on all sides with a misty Syrian paradise of tall buildings, fertile fields, laughing school children.

  India studied the billboard as they passed. “He doesn’t have a charismatic face. That pursy little mouth. I wonder that he inspires confidence in the people. Their allegiance.”

  Jack snorted. “Assad has the army. He has oil. He doesn’t need anything else.”

  “Why do you have to go to Damascus? Why am I here for that matter? Just a tourist?”

  “I have a sit-down with Assad. He wants some good press, I imagine.”

  “Well, well. Good for you. Will you give it to him?” India paused. “Things are a little shaky for his dictator confrères in the region.”

  “Let’s just say I’ll be fair.”

  She laughed. “And that can cover multitudes.”

  He grinned.

  “How did you happen to land a ‘sit-down’ with Assad? You called him a thug earlier.”

  “He got to know my father in England. My father is a doctor. So’s Assad. He’s an ophthalmologist. He spent a couple of years in London at the Western Eye Hospital before he was called home to be the heir-apparent.”

  “I remember his older brother was the dauphin. Wrapped himself and a Maserati around a tree. Drunk probably.”

  “Yeah. Nearly killed the old man. My father ran into Assad on several medical and social occasions. Assad took a shine to him for some reason. In any case, it’s given me an entrée.”

  “How fortunate. Sort of like me, with my Daddy, as you find every occasion to remind me.”

  He coughed. “Touché.”

  “What’s the palace like?”

  “Oh, we’re not going to the palace. Assad doesn’t live there. Big white marble mausoleum of a place. Long corridors and stark, nearly empty rooms. His old man had it built, but he didn’t live there either. Not homey. It’s used for a ceremonial ‘do’ when they need it. There’s a great long drive leading up to the palace. Acres of fancy landscaping. You think you’ll never get there. Then there’s this glaringly white marble contemporary monster, a big courtyard, huge fountain. You walk up an endless set of marble steps. Intimidating place.”

  “I thought that would be the point.”

  “Yeah. As I said, when they need it. The old man lived in kind of a dump. Assad lives rather modestly. The house isn’t large by dictator standards. I expect it’s one of the reasons he doesn’t piss people off.”

  “You’ve been there before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  The outskirts of Damascus gave way to commercial enterprises, then small houses gave way to a middle class residential neighborhood. Spear pulled up to a stucco-walled house with two uniformed guards at the front gate, the red, white and black Syrian flag with green stars flying over a courtyard fountain.

  “I’d think he’d have more than two guards.”

  “Assad puts up this man-of-the-people façade. I think they know what would happen if they got out of line.”

  “Am I allowed to go in with you?” India asked.

  “Oh, sure. You can tell me if I’m missing something.”

  “I wondered why I was here. You know, I don’t exist just to be at your beck and call.”

  He turned off the ignition and winked at her. “Pity.”

  A uniformed guard escorted them through the house, white-washed stuccoed walls, doorways with pointed arches and floors of tiled marble with intricate black and white patterns. Sounds of children playing echoed through the house. A fluffy, blue-eyed white Persian cat regarded them haughtily and then melted away. A small red tricycle sat overturned in the hallway.

  They were shown into a room by the guard, with more of the same black and white mosaic floor. Red, yellow, blue, white and green Lego blocks were scattered in a corner, along with a half-built structure of some kind. Several couches in a richly patterned maroon silk were placed around the room next to low tables. The windows were treated with flowing sheers and draperies and swags of burgundy moiré. It was a comfortable, typically middle class Syrian room, with obvious hints of family life.

  Assad, dressed in blue jeans and a gray sweater, rose to greet them. He was very tall, his head long, flat at the back. It crossed India’s mind his profile was rather like Nessie’s, the Loch Ness monster of the famous photograph. He spoke to them in perfect English, his small mouth and moustache stretched in a welcoming smile.

  So much for Jack Spear needing me to translate anything. Of course the man would speak English. He lived in England. His very stylish wife Asma studied and worked in England. But I’m here. Make the most of it, India. You’d never get in here on your own. Thank you, Jack Spear.

  When Spear introduced her as the Beirut journalist for World Broadcast News TV, Assad included her in all his ramblings about the “stunning” progress Syria was making. Since it was a quasi-social call neither India nor Spear took notes, but India was mentally organizing what she would let New York know about this lucky meeting with the dictator. Looking at Spear’s intense expression, she guessed he was doing the same.

  Assad’s answers were boilerplate bragging of progress and prosperity—bland, virtually meaningless. Literacy, schools, hospitals, new refineries, blah, blah, blah. There were constant references to his dear people and their enthusiastic allegiance to his benevolent rule.

  Over strong coffee and a delicious lemon pudding studded with pistachio nuts the conversation became general. The World Soccer Cup championship was coming up in the summer. Queen Elizabeth the Second’s Diamond Jubilee in England was in a couple of years, to which Assad and his wife had been invited.

  In a lull, India smiled and asked, “The Middle East unrest has begun to worry Christians in less sectarian countries than Syria. Are they justified? Will Syria remain safe for them?”

  She could almost hear Spear frowning at her.

  Assad fairly twinkled with good humor. “I can speak for all my Christian friends. Our country will remain a stable and safe country for Christian families. The many beautiful Christian churches are under our protection. We are very broad-minded here.”

  “There are protests in Yemen, Sudan, Egypt, Bahrain, and Libya. Their leaders are…retiring, not always willingly. Does this unrest worry you, as Syria’s leader? Will your people remain unaffected?”

  Assad’s eyes frosted over but his little smile and moustache stayed friendly. “My country is an island of calm. The Syrian people are prosperous and content.”

  She leaned forward. “The population of Syria is over fifty percent citizens under thirty-five, a huge demographic of users world-wide of Facebook and YouTube. You have blocked these networks. Is this a wise move in light of their popularity?”

  The wisp of a smile flickered. “I’m sure you have been misinformed, Miss Fox. Now I’m afraid my children are calling me.” A chill had descended on the room. “Please send my regards to your excellent father, Jack.” He stood. The dismissal was pointed. A uniformed soldier appeared and led them through the house to the outside and the gate was closed.

  Spear was quiet as he unlocked the Land Rover door for India. In silence they drove ont
o the next street. Spear pulled over and braked abruptly, his eyes were dark coals when he turned to her.

  “What in God’s name did you think you were doing back there?” he blazed. “We were guests in the man’s house. I was an invited guest, you were not, but you were included. Do you not have any sense as to what that means here in this part of the world?”

  India flared at him. “What are you talking about? My questions were not hostile. And his answers were bullshit. I thought it would be interesting to hear what he had to say. I’m a journalist, if you remember. I wasn’t supposed to be here as a guest. You dragged me along on false pretenses…needing me to ‘interpret’ what that thug had to say. Hah!”

  “Oh, bugger. I’ll never trust to take you anywhere again.”

  “What did you say? Take me anywhere? Why you arrogant, insufferable bastard.” She threw open the car door. “You’re quite right. You don’t ever have to take me anywhere.” She slid off the seat and slammed the door. She strode down the narrow street, the sound of Land Rover screeching away from the curb behind her. When the Land Rover reached the corner she ducked into an alley and ran. She was damned if she’d let him find her. She was perfectly capable of getting back to Beirut from Aleppo. She had money, phone, credit cards. She’d get her travel bag back eventually.

  India trotted through small streets and alleys until she was sure Spear had lost her. By now she was on a semi busy street. She found a coffee shop and sat down to catch her breath. She’d planned what she would do as she ran. She’d get a taxi. Have it take her to get a rental car and she’d drive to Beirut. It wasn’t that far. Through the mountains it would be only about five hours. That bastard Spear thought she’d be all lost and confused, worried. Good. She didn’t need anybody. And she probably pissed off Bashar Assad. What a coup.

  As she ordered an iced coffee she asked the proprietor to call her a taxi. There were many taxis, he assured her. It would not take long. She looked at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. She had been in Syria for nearly twelve hours, minus the hour it took to get to this coffee shop. Maybe she’d go to a hotel instead. Look around a bit. She could drive over to Beirut in the morning. Yes. It was a beautiful city and there was so much to see here. And nothing pressing back in Lebanon.