Forty Days of Musa Dagh (33 page)

 

 

When the sun shone full and golden into the room, Gabriel put an end
to this comatose dreaming. "I think we've all done our duty tonight,
and that nothing's forgotten."

 

 

"No. We've forgotten one thing -- the most essential thing." Ter Haigasun
remained seated as he spoke, but his resonant voice brought all who had
risen back to the table. The priest raised deep, significant eyes. He
stressed each syllable:

 

 

"The altar."

 

 

Then added with calm matter-of-factness that a great wooden altar must
be set up, in the center of the camp, as the holy place for prayer,
the service of God.

 

 

 

 

Toward five o'clock -- the sun was high by now -- Gabriel came into
Juliette's room on the top story. He found there a number of people who
had sat up all night with Madame Bagradian. Stephan, for all his mother's
commands and entreaties, had not gone to bed. Now he lay on the sofa, fast
asleep. Juliette had spread out a rug over him. She was standing leaning
out of the window, with her back to the people in the room. Everyone
here gave the impression of being alone, apart from the others. Iskuhi
stiffLy sat by the sleeping Stephan. Hovsannah, Pastor Tomasian's wife,
whose fears towards morning had driven her to the villa, sat sunk in an
armchair, staring out at nothing. Mairik Antaram, less affected than any
of the others by this night of alarums and excursions, listened at the
open door to the buzz of voices from the council-room. But a man was also
in the room. Monsieur Gonzague Maris had been keeping the ladies company
all night and, although at the moment nobody noticed him, he seemed to
be the only person present who was not lost in his own thoughts. His
beautifully brushed hair shone in the sunlight, unruffled by either
his vigil or these events. His observant, indeed alert, velvet eyes,
under the blunt angle of their brows, strayed here and there among the
women. He seemed to be reading every wish, as it passed across these
haggard faces, in order, gallantly, to fulfill it.

 

 

Gabriel came a few steps nearer Juliette, but stopped and stared at Gonzague.
"It's a fact, isn't it, that you have an American passport?"

 

 

A mocking, rather scornful twist crept across the lips of the young Greek.
"Would you care to look at it, Monsieur? Or my registration papers as
a journalist?"

 

 

His cool, slender fingers strayed to his pockets. Gabriel had ceased
to notice him. He had hold of Juliette's hand. The hand was not cold,
but the life had gone out of it, it was shamming dead. All the more
vivacious, therefore, the eyes. There was in them a
va et vient
, an
ebb and flow, as always at moments of conflict. Her nostrils quivered
a little -- a sign of resistance well known to Gabriel. For the first
time in twenty-four hours a cloud of fatigue began to descend on him.
He hesitated. Within him, hollowness and the void. They watched each other's
eyes in a long scrutiny, man and woman. Where was Gabriel's wife? He could
still feel her hand in his, like an object, like unyielding porcelain --
but she herself had slipped away from him. How many days' marches and sea
journeys away? But this time-devouring distance, longer and longer every
second, not only increased from her to him, but from him to her. Here
stood Juliette's tall and beautiful body, so near, so entirely a part
of his. Every inch of it must remember his kisses, the long neck, the
shoulders, the breasts, the knees and shins, the very toes. This body had
born Stephan, had endured for the future of the Bagradians. And now?
He could scarcely recognize it. He had lost the image of its nakedness.
It was like having forgotten one's name. But bad enough as it was to find
some French lady standing here, with whom one had once had a liaison --
this lady had become an enemy, she was on the other side, had a seat on
the exterminators' councils, although she was herself an Armenian mother.
Gabriel felt something huge and hard rise in his throat, without really
noticing it. Only in the last half-second did he free himself of this
choking sensation.

 

 

"No . . . that isn't possible . . . Juliette."

 

 

She put her head slyly on one side. "What isn't possible? What do you mean?"

 

 

He stared at the vivid colors outside the window, could distinguish no
shapes. For several hours he had been making Armenian speeches, and French
now crept back into his mind, outraged. He began, in a hesitant voice,
in a hard, unusual accent, which seemed to set Juliette's nerves still
more on edge: "I mean . . . you're right, I think . . . you mustn't be
dragged into this. . . . Why should you? . . . You remember our talk
that night? . . . You must get away. . . . You and Stephan."

 

 

She seemed to be weighing her words: "I remember exactly what we said
. . . that time. . . . Unheard of as it is, I'm in this with you. . . .
I said so, then." She had never used such a tone before, but that was
a matter of indifference. She threw a reproachful glance at Hovsannah
and Iskuhi, as though in them she recognized the responsible parties.

 

 

Gabriel passed his hand twice across his eyes. He was again the man and
leader of last night. "There's a way out for you and Stephan. Not a safe
or easy one. . . . But you've got a very strong will, Juliette."

 

 

A sharp, testing look came into her eyes. Roused wild beasts have such a
look before they spring, in one long bound, away past a man or a danger
into freedom. Perhaps, now, every impulse to flight was crouched, ready
to spring, in Juliette. But scarcely did Gabriel begin speaking when the
glowering tension left her face; she became uncertain, dismayed, and sly.

 

 

"Gonzague Maris will be leaving us today or tomorrow, said Bagradian with
the unanswerable decision of a leader. "He has an American passport. It's
invaluable in circumstances like these. I'm sure, Maris, you won't refuse
to get my wife and son into safety. You can take the hunting-trap. It's
summer, and the roads in the valley are still passable. And I'll give you
reserve wheels and all four horses. Knistaphor will go with you, as well
as the coachman; those two can get away as your servants. Via Sanderan and
El-Maghara it's only five or six hours to Arsus. I reckon you'll have to
walk the horses most of the way. The fifteen English miles to the coast,
from Arsus to Alexandretta, are a trifle, because you can trot for hours
along the sandy beach. In Arsus, I believe, there's a small garrison. It
won't be hard for Maris to frighten the onbashi there with his passport."

 

 

Kristaphor had come in to ask his master for orders. Gabriel turned to him
sharply. "Kristaphor, is it possible to get to Arsus, via Alexandretta,
in ten hours with the hunting-trap?"

 

 

The steward opened his eyes wide. "Effendi, that depends on the Turks."

 

 

Bagradian's voice grew sharper still. "I didn't ask you that, Kristaphor.
What I really mean is: Would you trust yourself to get the hanum, my son,
and this American gentleman to Alexandretta?"

 

 

Sweat stood out on the steward's forehead. He looked like an old man,
although he was only forty. It was not quite clear what it was that moved
him -- fear of a hazardous adventure, or the sudden prospect of saving
himself. His eyes strayed from Bagradian to Gonzague. At last a furtive
look of wild joy came into them. But this he controlled at once, either
out of respect for Bagradian or so as not to give himself away. "I could
do it, Effendi. If the gentleman has a passport, the saptiehs won't be
able to touch us."

 

 

After this explanation Gabriel sent Kristaphor back to the kitchen to
prepare a copious breakfast for everyone. He continued his instructions
to Maris. Unluckily there was no American consul in Alexandretta, only
German and Austro-Hungarian vice-consuls. He had made inquiries some
time previously about these two. The German was called Hoffmann, the
Austrian, Belfante; they were both well-disposed European business men,
who might be expected to do all they could to help. But since they were
both Turkish allies, it would be necessary to use the greatest discretion.

 

 

"You'll have to make up some story . . . Juliette is a Swiss, who has lost
her passport in a travelling accident. . . . The vice-consuls must get you
a railway passport from the local military authorities. . . . In the next
few days they'll be opening the branch line to Toprak Kaleh. . . .
Hoffmann and Belfante will be sure to know whether the commandant can
be bribed. If so, it'll be all right. . . ."

 

 

Gabriel had passed a great many sleepless nights thinking out these
directions for escape -- rejecting, altering, taking up again. There were
various alternatives: one in the Aleppo direction, another to Beirut.
Yet now his jerky indications sounded as though he had only just thought
of them. Juliette stared; she seemed not to be understanding a single
word he said.

 

 

"You must think out some plausible tale, Maris. . . . It won't be so easy
to make them believe in the accident and the lost passport. . . . But that
isn't the main thing. . . . Juliette . . . the main thing is that you,
an obvious European, won't be suspected of belonging to us. And that in
itself is enough to save you. . . . You'll be taken for an adventuress,
or at worst for a spy. . . . There's certainly the danger of that. . . .
You may be subjected to inconveniences and even perhaps have to suffer.
But, after all, compared to what we're suffering here -- it's scarcely
worth mentioning. . . . You must keep the one main object before your
eyes -- a way out of this. Free yourself from this people under a curse,
with whom you've got involved through no fault of your own."

 

 

With these words, which he brought out in a loud staccato, Gabriel's
face suddenly lost its look of desperate strain. Juliette bent the upper
half of her body a little backwards, an involuntary movement, which
seemed to suggest that she was ready to do her husband's will. Gonzague
Maris came a few steps nearer the couple -- perhaps to suggest that,
though he was ready, he did not want to force any decisions. All the
others seemed to accentuate the stiff lifelessness of their attitudes,
as if to mitigate their inconvenient presence at such a scene. Gabriel
had regained his self-control.

 

 

"Troop trains are the only ones still running. You'll have to bribe the
commandant of every section of the line. . . . They're usually old people,
who've stuck to the old ways, and have nothing to do with Ittihad. . . .
Once you're in the train, you'11 have gained a good deal. . . .
The hindrances will be frightful. . . . But every mile nearer Istanbul
will improve matters. . . . And you'll get to Istanbul even if it takes
you weeks. . . . Juliette, there you must go straight to Mr. Morgenthau.
. . . You still remember him? . . . The American ambassador."

 

 

Gabriel felt in his pocket and drew out an envelope bearing a legal seal.
This, too, his last will, he had for weeks been keeping ready for Juliette
without her knowledge. He held it out, silently. But slowly she drew back
her hands and put them away behind her back. Gabriel, with a slight tilt
of his head, pointed through the window at Musa Dagh, which stood as though
molten in the strong morning sunlight. "I must go up there. The work's
beginning. . . . I'm afraid I shan't be able to get back today."

 

 

The outstretched hand, with its sealed letter, sank to his side. What
kind of tears were these? . . . And Juliette can't control them,"
marvelled Gabriel. "Is she crying about herself? Or about me? Is she
saying good-bye?" He sensed her grief, but could not recognize it. He
glanced round quickly at the others, those silent ones, still scarcely
venturing to breathe lest perhaps they influence this decision. Gabriel
longed for Juliette, who was standing only a few paces away from him. He
spoke clearly and urgently, like a man who must talk to the woman he
loves, across foreign countries, into a telephone: "I've always known
it would come, Juliette. . . . And yet I've never known it would come
like this . . . between you and me."

 

 

Her answer came obscurely, drawn up out of depths, outraged, and not torn
by any sob. "And so that's what you really thought of me!"

 

 

Nobody knew how long Stephan had been awake, nor how much he had clearly
heard and understood of this conversation between his parents. Only Iskuhi
suddenly stood up, in a startled movement. Juliette knew, and had often
marvelled at the fact, that between Gabriel and her son there was a
relationship as shy as it was profound. Stephan, usually eager and
voluble, was mostly silent in Gabriel's presence, and Gabriel's manner
with Stephan was also peculiarly reserved, serious, and sparing of
words. Their long stay in Europe had obscured Asia, and yet not stifled
it, in the souls of the two Bagradians. (In every house of the seven
villages sons, no matter what their age, kissed their fathers' hands
every morning and evening. There were even a few strict houses in which,
at meals, the father was not waited on by his women, but by his eldest
son. And, on his side, the father honored his eldest in a fashion tenderly
severe, in accordance with a very ancient tradition, since a son is the
next step on the shimmering staircase of eternity.) True that, in the
case of Stephan and Gabriel, this relationship had ceased to express
itself in the ancient rituals prescribed; but it remained in a shyness
which bound and separated them. Gabriel's attitude to his own father had
been the same. He, too, in his father's presence, had always felt this
constraint, this solemn shyness, so that he never dared a tender word
or a caress. All the more shattering, therefore, the effect of the cry
uttered now by Gabriel's son, as he realized that separation threatened
them. He flung off the rug, rushed across to his father, and clung to him.