The Mandelbaum Gate

by Muriel Spark

  The man was now nearly asleep. Abdul sat in a deliberate, breath-held stillness, looking at his Englishman. He found himself wondering if Hamilton was going to die, tomorrow or next week, or now, his soul wafting away from him, preserved in a faint moth-ball atmosphere. Abdul turned his head silently so that he could read, by squinting obliquely, the nearest of the three unfinished pages on the table, evidently a continuation on the back of the first sheet.

  have just written to a friend at All Souls, a Fellow, to tell him I’ve discovered a rhyme for ‘Capricorn’. My friend, Sam Dexter, probably knows more about rhyme than anyone in the country, although of course, his subject’s Old French. Goodness knows what he’ll think of this rhyme for ‘Capricorn’ — I saw it in an American picture magazine, in an advertisement for a breakfast food called ‘Apricorn’. (I understand Apricorn is, as its name implies, a kind of packed cereal food flavoured, by some process, with apricot essence). Whether Dexter will allow ‘Apricorn’ as a word at all, I very much doubt.

  But you see, dearest Joanna, I must keep my mind occupied with something. To be suddenly confronted with a doctor’s order of two week’s rest is not, in itself, conducive to peace of mind. As you say, I could have gone to Greece. But I am unused to moving about without previous plans. I could think of nothing to do on the spur of the moment but wait here. Besides, there is always a chance that if any news of Miss Vaughan should reach us I may be of some assistance. Until the mystery of her disappearance has been cleared up, one is bound to experience some anxiety, merely from having recently been acquainted with her, however little actual connexion one has had with the person. The newspapers seem to have dropped it in the last few days, I expect by special compliance with the investigating authorities and our Embassy in Amman — I have had no further trouble from the reporters, as I trust you have not. I expect at least some news will emerge before long. One must hope for the best but it is impossible not to fear the worst.

  I have been making every attempt to regain my powers of concentration even to the extent of attempting (in vain, alas!) a verse or two in terza rima to say some pleasant things to you, dearest Joanna, who have been so good since my stupid collapse. To lose one’s entire memory, even for a couple of days, is disconcerting to reflect upon afterwards. One’s confidence is greatly undermined. I still have no recollections of how those two days passed. I am advised against mental effort for the time being but of course, it is impossible to resist attempting to solve the mystery. I must have slept — I must have shaved, and so on. When I got to the hotel I felt tired and hot as usual after my walk from the Mandelbaum Gate on Sunday afternoons. But it was Tuesday, and they had been looking for me, I am convinced that I had an attack of sunstroke and it must have affected my memory. But where did I sleep? Where is Barbara Vaughan? Please, by the way, thank Matt for his note. But I do not think I would wish to consult the psychiatrist although I am sure, as Matt says, he is brilliant. Psychiatry is too abstract for me to take up at my age, I’m afraid. When I go to a doctor I like to come away with a bottle of medicine or some pills, or a prescription to be made up. However, the suggestion has…

  The letter had been left off half-way down the second page. Abdul looked over to Hamilton, who had now fully closed his eyes in sleep. He began to read again, carefully, the first part of the letter only — ‘Apricorn’ … ‘Capricorn’…. He dwelt on the glamour of the name ‘All Souls’ which he knew to be that of an Oxford college. For he was less interested in the rest of the letter and the evident personal crisis that had occurred to Hamilton than he was fascinated by the entire vision of that state of heart in which one wrote to a Fellow of All Souls about a rhyme for Capricorn. It could not result in any large benefit to Hamilton or his friends, nor could this piece of information damage Hamilton’s enemies. It was disinterested and therefore beautiful, even if it was useless to the immediate world. And this was something Abdul could never make his middle-class Arab acquaintance understand — how it was possible to do things for their own sake, not only possible but sometimes necessary for the affirmation of one’s personal identity. The ideal reposed in their religion, but somewhere in the long trail of Islam, the knack of disinterestedness had been lost, and with it a large portion of the joy of life, His father would never accept that Hamilton’s activities were as meaningless as they looked. What is his motive? Is it political? Why does he write those verses to send to the Cartwright house? Are they in code? Why does he spend so much time in Jordan? Have you found out why he is learning Arabic? Have you read any of his private correspondence? Has he agreed to take out a policy yet, will he come to see me and complete the form? Why does he want to know street Arabic? Why does he stay on at a hotel, this Hamilton? This Hamilton, why does he walk everywhere instead of taking a taxi? There must be a reason, everything means something. Is it political? Does he practise a vice? But me, Abdul thought — if my father, cousins, uncles, had any knowledge about me, it would be the same thing. Have you joined the nationalists then? Are you in with the Sufis? Have you turned in with the Jews, after all, like the Sheik of the Negev? What do you do at Acre? What have you done, did you do, are doing, might, will do at Acre with those youths of mixed blood, mixed sexes, those young Jewesses, those Arabs, those Jews, those Arab girls, those Yemenites, Syrians, those Israelites, Samaritans, those boys, girls, boys…. Are you a nationalist?

  ‘Nationalist of what, Father? What territory, what people?’

  ‘I don’t understand you. Don’t forget you’re an Arab. Are you a monarchist?’

  ‘Which monarch do you refer to, Father?’

  Such conversations were few, for Abdul’s meetings with Joe Ramdez, on the other side of the Gate, were arranged with dangerous difficulty. Abdul felt now, as he frequently did, a sense of being mentally closer to Hamilton than to his own father. Even so, that was not saying much, for Abdul’s affinities with his own generation, and within that category, with the secret mixed-blood conclaves at Acre, placed on him and his companions the necessity of a double life; the gulf that separated him both from Hamilton and his father was wide; it was deeper and darker than had usually existed between generations. Perhaps not since the times of the Prophet…

  Hamilton was stirring in his chair.

  ‘Are you asleep, Mr Hamilton?’ Abdul said softly.

  Hamilton settled his head back again and breathed deeply.

  ‘Are you awake, Mr Hamilton?’ Abdul said.

  The brief twilight had fallen and was fading into night. Abdul felt tenderly towards Hamilton. He squinted to see if he could read the other unfinished scrap of a letter that was lying on the table, but it was too far away. He reached out his arm and picked it up.

  … is not, dearest Ma, and cannot possibly be, the person whom you went to hear playing the piano (or the violin — in your next paragraph you refer to ‘this famous German who played the violin’ but first you have mentioned piano) at Auntie Bella’s before the Great War. The Eichmann who is on trial here in Jerusalem is an inferior sort of person with no connexions whatsoever. I believe his antecedents are quite obscure. I do not think he plays the piano or the violin. You must be thinking of some other German. The Germans are a musical nation, of course, and so it is conceivable that this fellow used to play the fiddle, as indeed used Nero, you remember.

  Hamilton stirred, with opening eyes. ‘Poems,’ he mused. ‘Poems.’

  Abdul, the letter still in his hand, said, ‘Speak more of those lines, Mr Hamilton, the rider’s song. “As I ride, as I ride.”‘

  ‘You know, Abdul,’ said Hamilton, who had now fully woken up, ‘it is wrong to read other people’s letters.’ But he did not seem much concerned on this point, and while Abdul returned the sheet of paper to the table, Hamilton recited, keeping time with his right hand:

  Could I loose what Fate has tied,

  Ere I pried, she should hide

  (As I ride, as I ride)

  All that’s meant me — satisfied

  When the Prophet and the Bri
de

  Stops veins I’d have subside

  As I ride, as I ride!

  ‘I don’t know in my head what it means,’ Abdul said, ‘but it means something in the blood-veins.’

  ‘Yes, a little something. You know, Abdul, I think I’ve had a touch of sunstroke. But I must pull myself together. I have been advised to rest. But I begin to think I would be better advised to occupy my mind with something difficult. I want to take Hebrew lessons. Do you know Dr Saul Ephraim of the Hebrew University? He was a friend of poor Miss Vaughan — have I told you that Miss Vaughan has disappeared, over in Jordan? We are very anxious about her. Well, I must get in touch with Ephraim. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know his youngest brother better. I know him well, Mendel Ephraim. The brother Saul has no dealings with him, though. He’s out of the family.’

  ‘Really? What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a smuggler. This is a secret that I am passing on to you for your spy records. He smuggles leather goods, shoes and so on, across the border by night. I trust you with a secret, Mr Hamilton. I am in smuggling with him also.’

  ‘Oh, Abdul, I don’t know where I stand with you. Now, before you go, there is something I very much want to ask you. It’s important and serious, Abdul, and I want a serious answer if you can give it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask before?’ Abdul said.

  ‘Because it’s important, you see, and I don’t want you to treat my question frivolously. I want to impress on you the seriousness —’

  ‘You are asking me what has happened to Miss Vaughan?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know?’

  ‘No, but I’ll find out.’

  At Acre, the stronghold of the Crusaders on the Mediterranean, west of Galilee, the fortifications stand in golden ruins, piled on the foundations of earlier ruins. It seemed to Abdul Ramdez that the laborious construction of ruins had been the principal means by which the forebears of the whole human race, stretching back into history, had passed the time of day. Arabs lived in the shelter of the eighteenth-century ruined fortresses, and even now in the years of the establishment of Israel. burning with its mixture of religion, hygiene and applied sociology, the poor Arabs still hung out their washing on the battlements, so that it fluttered all along the antique sea-front, innocent of the offence it was committing in the eyes of the seekers of beautiful sights and spiritual sensations, who had come all the way from the twentieth century, due west of Acre. Indeed, the washing draped out on the historic walls was a sign of progress, enlightenment, and industry, as it had been from time immemorial; it betokened a settlement and a society with a sense of tomorrow, even if it was only tomorrow’s clean shirt, as against the shifty tent-dwelling communities of the wilderness; and however murky the cave-like homes along the shore, and however indolent the occupants, they were one up on the Bedouin, at least in their own eyes if not in the sight of the tourist cameras which photographed the Bedouin shepherds continually but deplored the hung-out washing at Acre.

  Acre had many years ago become the spiritual home of Abdul Ramdez, although he nominally resided in Jerusalem. His real age was thirty-four. He had found, by experience, that nobody questioned that he was twenty-five when he gave this age as his; he was youthful-looking and had cultivated and kept in good repair the mannerisms of his youth; and Abdul had found, too, that most people took a man, in all respects, for what he said he was.

  It will have been seen that it would be a waste of time to rely on any statement about himself and his life spoken from the lips of Abdul Ramdez. The facts are as follows. He was born in 1927 at the small and ancient town of Madaba in the Transjordan, east of the Dead Sea. He had three sisters, four half-sisters, and one brother. At that time the family consisted of his father, an unmarried uncle, Joe Ramdez’s first wife, who acted as general manager of domestic life, a second wife (Abdul’s mother), who looked after all the younger children regardless of whether she or the other wife had borne them; then, also, Abdul’s elder brother and five of the seven Ramdez girls, who were still children, the other two being married. In addition, there lived in the house a female constitutional victim, heavily garbed in black, of indefinite age and origin, who did the bulk of the housework from early morning till late at night. At Abdul’s birth in 1927 there were fourteen persons in the household.

  It was a middle-class urban family such as the British Mandatory officials liked to deal with, since they understood them better than the more tribal and nomadic Arabs, on the one hand, and the elusive rich ruling families with sons at English schools, on the other.

  In the year of Abdul’s birth, when the Transjordan became an independent state, the entire family, accompanied by, and, as it were, borne on the back of, the veiled servant woman, moved across the Jordan River into Palestine, where the British Mandate remained in force. The reason for this move was that Joe Ramdez, until then a schoolteacher, had found the British army and civil service officials to be both agreeable and profitable. He had taught them Arabic, had taken them to see the sights they ought to see and kept them away from a few things they ought not to see, and obligingly upheld their axiom that the Arabs think in symbols, this being a more workable view for them to hold than that they did not think at all. So he followed the Administration to Jerusalem, where Abdul grew up in the new small suburban house, following the servant woman everywhere every day from the opening to the closing of his eyes, until he was eight years old. She was called Kyra and, unlike the other women of the household, had never brought herself to any point of emancipation. She wore her black veil to the market, with her basket in one hand and Abdul’s hand in the other.

  Joe Ramdez prospered and formed his travel agency, employing a few Arabs from Nazareth as guides to Christian pilgrims throughout Palestine. Abdul remembered a few of the British men, and sometimes their wives, driving up to the door for their Arabic lessons on occasions when his father did not go to them. Quickly, the women and girls of the Ramdez establishment would scuttle out of the way, leaving the main room, where they had been lying full length on settees, to loll somewhere else or to make tea. A continual lolling of lazy women about the house, perpetual sunlight and heat, and red plush upholstery, formed the distorted impressions that Abdul retained from his childhood, although in reality the women of the Ramdez house were moderately active and did all that was necessary to the general comfort, and the winters were cold, and actually only one room had been furnished with red plush upholstery. It was true that the other rooms were full of untidy beds and were hung with female clothing all over the walls and that the women did not have much chance to participate in the visits of the Europeans. Abdul’s younger sister, blue-eyed like himself, was exceptional among the females, in that she felt it keenly when she was hushed out of the way with the other girls while Abdul was proudly introduced to the strangers.

  The red plush had covered the long settles; these lined three of the walls of the square room that led straight in from the road, Here the visitors were received and here Abdul sat noiseless, in a trance of red plush, while the English got their Arabic lessons from his father. The walls bore three enlarged photographs, one of General Gordon, one of Abdul’s grandfather on his mother’s side — a Syrian of mixed Arab and Norman stock, the progenitor of the blue-eyed children — and one of a crowded pilgrimage to Mecca, moving up to the Great Mosque. After the lessons the Ramdez women would slink in with cups of mint tea and swiftly merge back into the gloom of elsewhere.

  That was life in the old days. At the age of eight Abdul went to school in Jerusalem. His father prospered. Presently, the house had two refrigerators. The first and elder wife, whose children by Joe Ramdez were now married, returned, perhaps by inducement from Joe, to Jericho whence she came; whereupon Abdul’s mother started calling herself Mine Ramdez, and, with clothes more modern than ever before, assisted in the travel business, walking forth from the front door daily.

  Abdul went to the University of Cairo at the age of sixteen. There he belonged first t
o one, and then to another, cell of Arab politics. With eighty-odd of his fellow students he one day marched behind a banner marked ‘We Want Freedom’, past the British Headquarters, was fired upon, and escaped with a fright only, three of his fellow-students being slightly wounded. This was in 1944. The demonstration, Abdul learned later that day, was against King Farouk, although some of the participants claimed it had been against the British. Abdul had thought it was probably against the proprietor of Shepheard’s Hotel, who had been attempting to ban the students of late; but he did not worry very much. It made him feel good to belong to an Arab movement. He liked to feel that it was something to be an Arab, although he disliked the Lebanese and wished all the Arabs were Palestinian or Transjordanian and less alien in their ways. Abdul’s teacher in history, a Syrian, was pro-Hitler. Another of the teachers, an English communist, was the guiding spirit of another student faction. The cells split open from time to time, forming themselves anew, after some shouting, fighting, and expulsions of students, into regional structures, so that the Lebanese, the Egyptians, the Tunisians, Arabians and Syrians were plotters in separate fields of political allegiance. Every man among the Arab students proclaimed himself a nationalist, this word being their only common denominator. ‘Islam’, another word of rousing properties, was at first rousing only to the Moslem believers. The atheists among the students were at that time greater in number than at any time before or since; agnosticism, or any form of recognized doubt, was unknown to all but Abdul, who presently discovered it by chance. In the meantime he had joined practically every movement in the university, demonstrating with them sometimes but meeting in secret as often as possible for seditious discussions, since he liked them, they roused him up.