Parade of Shadows (4 page)

“I have never believed that innocence is its own protection; in fact, it leads to terrible muddles.” He relented. “But then, I'm a confirmed cynic.”

“I don't believe you are a cynic at all. I think you are someone who wishes he could change things, or why would you keep bringing up all that misery? Why would you care so much?”

He gave me a searching look, as if he wondered whether he could trust me. He must have decided he could, for he said, “I will tell you a secret, but under no condition are you to tell your father. I have just come from Salonika. It is a lovely city, with its sweep of waterfront, ships coming and going, the frosted peak of Mount Olympus, the church bells.
I went there from Oxford to talk with the Young Turks. I don't mean to brag, but they were impressed with my knowledge of the Druzes. The Young Turks believe I can help their cause in Syria.”

Graham was losing me. “What is their cause?”

“The Young Turks are convinced that France and England mean to get a piece of the Ottoman Empire. They are against the sultan, but they are also fiercely opposed to other countries taking Turkish land.”

“But what could you do?”

“They want me to travel through Syria pleading the cause of the Young Turks to the Druzes. They want me to assure them that under the Young Turks, the Druzes will be given their freedom.”

So Graham was a young revolutionary! I looked quickly about, as if the sultan might be hiding beind a tree, ready to jump out and arrest Graham—and me, for listening to such talk. Graham's face was flushed with enthusiasm. “For the first time in my life I am working for a cause in which I believe: not England's colonial rule but democracy for Turkey. The Druzes will once again be free to speak their language, and to practice their faith as they wish; and I will have had a part in it.” In his excitement he grasped my hand. “Why shouldn't I make a little history as well as learn it?”

Graham sat up and gave me a searching look. “I have trusted you with my secret. You won't betray me to your father?”

I shook my head. “I promise I won't,” I said. I was flattered that Graham had cared enough for me to tell me his secret; still, I couldn't help feeling guilty. Wasn't Graham working against my father? I had heard Father say England opposed the Young Turks.

Graham must have noticed my worried look. “That's enough about the world's troubles,” he said. “We're on holiday and should be talking of pleasant things.”

“No,” I said. “I want to know what you know. Why don't you start by telling me about the Druzes. Are they Muslims?”

Graham took off his jacket and, rolling it up, lay down again with the jacket under his head. He was so close to me, I could feel the outline of his body against my own. I tried to keep my mind on his words. “They are an offshoot of the Muslim faith, but they are not Muslims; at least the orthodox Muslims will have nothing to do with them. They give Muhammad no more importance than Moses or Jesus. Yet they worship with the Muslims.”

“How can they worship with the Muslims when they don't believe what the Muslims believe?”

“The religion of the Druzes permits them to conform outwardly to the religion of the people among whom they live. Certainly that is a civilized attitude. In fact they are encouraged not to reveal their faith. Unlike the Muslims, they have no polygamy and the women are allowed to worship with the men and can even participate in the councils of the elders. The Druzes are a very honest people and are forbidden to tell lies—except to non-Druzes.” He recited all of this in a dry voice.

“Are they a peaceful people?” I asked.

Graham said, “The Druzes are an impartial rather than a peaceful people. They have slit the throats of Turkish Muslims with the same gusto as they have beheaded Christians.”

I shuddered. “I can't imagine why you study such people.”

“My dear Julia, if I were to limit my studies to the history of those people who have never practiced violence, I would have to scratch for a subject. But there are much nicer things to do on so beautiful a day than talk of man's inhumanity to man.” He reached up and carefully pulled out the pins from my chignon, and catching his fingers in my hair, he leaned toward me.

We heard the
yayli
. Graham drew away and I hastily did
up my hair. Graham's voice was matter-of-fact. “The driver is right on time, which means he will expect baksheesh.”

“Neharak sa id,”
the driver called.

“Neharak sa id umubarak,”
Graham responded.

“What does he say?” My voice was unsteady as I fumbled with my hair.

“It is the Muslim greeting to someone not of his faith: ‘May thy day be happy.' I answered, ‘May thy day be happy and blessed.' But that is enough instruction for today. Please remember I am on vacation from school.”

I caught the driver's half-amused, half-censorious look and blushed. I could neither account for my behavior nor regret it. I did not know how I would find a word to say on the return ride to the hotel, but as the
yayli
jostled through the crowded Beirut streets, I had my first look at a camel not in the zoo at Regent's Park. I exclaimed with pleasure.

Graham laughed at me. “There is no need for camels in this city. I believe they hire that beast to walk back and forth to give a false impression. Beirut is not a city of the desert, as Damascus is. It's an enormous assortment of men wishing to do business—very shrewd and ruthless men, as your father is no doubt finding out.”

At the hotel I thanked Graham with what I hoped was a nonchalant word or two. Though I was trembling inside, I
was determined to appear a woman of the world.

“No, it's I who should be grateful,” he said. “You've rescued me from my own tedious company.” For a moment Graham's air of detachment slipped, and he took my hand and said, “I'll be very pleased if I find we'll be together on the tour.” With a mischievous smile he added, “And of course I look forward to meeting your father.”

When Father returned to the hotel, I gave him a report of my day, stumbling over Graham's name, sure that Father could read my mind and see that I had listened to Graham's revolutionary ideas.

On hearing Graham's name, my father was obviously irritated. “Do you know him?” I asked, trying to keep my voice impersonal.

“When I was up speaking at Oxford, I heard of his interest in the Druzes and worse, the Young Turks. He made quite a speech after my lecture, and suspecting there might be trouble in the future from that quarter, I inquired as to who he was. I suppose Geddes recalls my being there. The unfortunate thing is that he will now know who I am. I'll have to have a word with him before he spreads rumors among the others on the tour. Under the circumstances I wouldn't see too much of him if I were you.”

“How did your day go?” I asked, anxious to change the
subject before my father said more, for I intended to see Graham as often as I could.

“My day went exactly as I anticipated,” he said shortly, then excused himself to dress for dinner.

Once inside my room I stood for a long moment with my back against the door as though I were keeping someone from entering. I let my hair down, trying to imagine how it felt to Graham. Though I had been traveling for many days, I realized I had just begun my journey. I saw that it could be a dangerous one.

At seven the next morning Father and I boarded the train for Damascus. Graham was in a compartment two or three up from ours. When he saw us passing, he came out, a grin on his face, to introduce himself to Father. I could see he relished catching Father out in his game of posing as a solicitor.

Father acknowledged the introduction in a stiff voice. “I understand you were very kind to my daughter yesterday.” Turning to me, he said, “You had better go and stake out a couple of seats in our compartment. I'll be with you in a minute.” I was used to being sent off because my father had more important things to do, but this time, because it took place in front of Graham, I resented the dismissal more than usual and was glad that I had a secret Father didn't know.

When Father joined me, he had nothing to say about Graham. Leaving me to look out the window, he took up a book. The train made its way through small Muslim villages, up into mountains, and down again onto plains with apricot and apple trees and gardens bordered by hedges. “We might
be traveling in England,” I said, glad for a safe topic.

“There is something else that links us to England.” Father pointed to a Roman aqueduct. “England shares a mutual conqueror with the Syrians—the Romans.”

I was sorry that Father had spoiled the peaceful countryside with his tales of war. In this he and Graham had much in common.

At noon we stopped at Rayak for the buffet. The luncheon, a tasteless affair of chicken wings laid out on a bed of gummy rice, left us hungry, so as we boarded the train, Father paused to bargain for a melon with a startlingly beautiful young boy whose high cheekbones and angelic smile made him look, in his rags and tatters, like a disguised prince wandering among his subjects.

When we reached our compartment, Father found the slender blade of his pocketknife would not penetrate the melon's tough rind. His disappointment was severe, for I knew he had meant to give me a treat.

While he was struggling with the melon, a woman peered into our compartment as though she were studying us to see if we would make suitable companions. We must have passed her test, for after a moment she entered, pushing a number of large, battered boxes and chests ahead of her, then dropping down onto one of the vacant seats. The woman was about
Father's age, quite short and square, not fat, but thick and dense like a timber, with a tanned, weathered look suggesting something belonging to nature. Even her clothes, which were heavy tweeds, seemed fashioned of twigs and weeds. Under a felt hat that was clamped down upon her head like a helmet, her hair was gray and cut as short as a man's. Her eyes were dark and lively.

“I just got on at Rayak,” she said in a breathless voice. “Sorry to crowd you with all this gear, but it's rather important, and I can't trust it to the baggage car.” Seeing Father attempting to pierce the melon with his knife, she said, “I have just the thing for you.” She began to grope about in one of her bags, pushing aside large sprigs of foliage.

She drew forth a wicked-looking knife. Taking it out of its scabbard, she gave the melon a whack, cleaving it into two large hemispheres. “There we are. Eat away.”

She wiped the blade on her skirt and was about to replace it when Father said, “We are greatly indebted to your prowess, and by all means make another cut so that you will have a piece for yourself. I'm Carlton Hamilton, by the way, and this is my daughter, Julia.”

“Miss Phillips. Edith Phillips. Please forgive my appearance—I've just come from Baalbek. I'm engaged in collecting botanical specimens for England's Kew Gardens. Some
would have said this was Professor Ladamacher's territory, but I can assure you that London was here before Berlin. England's William Lunt brought a hundred and fifty specimens out of Arabia, and I am very close to exceeding his record.” In a sober voice that scarcely concealed immense satisfaction, she said, “Ladamacher is dead now. Killed in a rather violent way by the Metawileh tribesmen.” She used her large blade as dexterously as a fruit knife to cut away another chunk of the melon. “Delicious,” she said. “I'm not sorry I've run into you. What are you doing here?”

Father winced at her directness. “My daughter and I are on a little tour of Syria.”

“Charles Watson and Sons?” she asked.

With a deep sigh he said, “Yes, Watson and Sons.”

Miss Phillips took no notice of his dismay. “It would have to be. They don't run more than a handful of tours in a year's time through this country, and Watson has the trade. After I learned the happy news that Ladamacher was out of the way, I decided I would move in to fill the gap. He and I had different approaches. He stayed in hotels and in the mansions of Turkish pashas, while I tramped through the desert to find my prizes, living in tents or under the stars, brushing away spiders as large as my hand. I despised Ladamacher for plucking the choice
species from a land he neither cared for nor understood. I'm not sorry that the last glimpse Ladamacher had of this world was of a country he did not appreciate.”

She looked furtively about as if there might be spies in our compartment. “There are those who say plants were not his only interest—that he was doing a little spying for the Germans. A few months ago he was botanizing near the railroad the Germans are laying down. But that is another subject. I knew the moment I saw you that you were going to be on Watson's tour. Well, you'll have to put up with me.”

“I am sure you and your weapon will add greatly to our trip,” Father said.

“I know just how you mean that,” Miss Phillips replied, “but you'll find I can be useful.” She launched into a story of how she had saved the life of a traveler who had become involved in a tribe's blood feud. “It was near Jebel el 'Ala, where there is a wonderful, unique
Iris stylosa
.”

I listened entranced. I, who could not recall meeting a single really interesting person in all my years, was now making the aquaintance of someone fascinating nearly every day.

Miss Phillips's story was a long one and led to another, about a journey in the Hadhramaut, which I gathered was somewhere in Arabia, and several more stories until Miss
Phillips interrupted herself to point out the minarets in the distance. “Esh-Sham, the city of Damascus,” she said. “It was the chief city of Islam until the House of Umayyah fell. It is said that when the prophet Muhammad looked upon the city, he refused to enter it, not wishing to anticipate paradise. I was only twenty-four when I saw it for the first time, and I've seen it many times since, but I never get over the thrill. What is so satisfying about the city is that it continues to maintain the old Arab traditions: It is a city of the desert. Ah, here we are in the Beramkeh Station.”

I stepped out of the station and into paradise! At the station the
Watson & Sons
sign was held aloft by our Turkish tour director with a certain hesitation, like the standard of a warrior reluctant to enter into battle. He claimed his small party and called the roll: “Miss Phillips, Mr. Hamilton, Miss Hamilton…,” and with a racing heart I saw Graham join us as his name was called.

With a great deal of bowing and hand shaking our tour leader introduced himself as Hakki Mahir Bey. “But for easiness you must call me Hakki, for I am going to be your good friend.” Although it was a warm day, he was muffled and armored in a dark suit and a stiff-collared shirt. At first glance the round glasses on a round face, the slicked-back hair under his fez, and the slight frame suggested a school
boy on his first visit to town, but a second look told me he was well into his thirties.

“They have sent a boy to do a man's job,” Father muttered under his breath.

“I have a carriage waiting to take our party to the Hotel Victoria,” Hakki said. “The other member of our group arrived yesterday. I am so relieved to have you all together in my hand. Please know this is not your England, and a wrong turning in this country is not without danger. We must all stay together. The important thing is that I do not lose anyone in my care.” For a moment a look of panic came over his face, as if such a mishap would have terrible consequences for him; and, thinking of the dangers of the Ottoman Empire, I wondered if Hakki was something more than a tour leader.

Hakki plunged at once into his responsibilities. He told us, “I am sure you are tired from your train ride and you will want to retire to your rooms and make yourselves tidy.” His eyes rested on Miss Phillips. “I will not bother you with stories now,” he said, “but tomorrow morning we will meet after breakfast at nine exactly and I will tell you everything. In the meantime please when eating fruit, confine yourself to fruit that will peel: I understand the English stomach. Tomorrow for breakfast you will like our fig jam. Know that
even though pork is not eaten by some of us, you will be able to get your rashers of bacon at the hotel. Sometime you must explain that word
rasher
to me. Believe that I am ready to learn at all times.”

Watching Hakki make arrangements for our luggage, Father said, “I hope the man knows what he's about.” I could see Father longed to take over and was having the greatest difficulty in his unaccustomed role of dependent tourist.

“He seems good enough at details,” Edith Phillips said, “which is exactly what I don't wish to be bothered with.”

When I reached my room, I looked about, delighted with the arrangements. The bedcovers and draperies were of silk—worn and patched, but a lovely shade of green, like water colored by the reflection of trees. On the floor were Turkish rugs woven into patterns of small flowers and leaping stags. Against one wall was a bench covered with silken cushions, fringed and tasseled and only a little dusty. I went through open French doors onto a balcony, where I could see the street vendors—water carriers and hawkers of bread and sweetmeats—all crying out in Arabic. The city was nestled up against the mountains, and beyond the mountains stretched the desert. The very word
desert
was enchanting. I felt that at last I had left Durham Place behind, and my
escape was complete. Everything around me was so bewitching that at first I didn't see Graham standing on the neighboring balcony watching me, the expression on his face both amused and tender. The railings were low, and he had no difficulty moving from his balcony to mine. He laughed when he saw the draperies and cushions in my room.

“It's like a harem.”

I said, “It must have been frightful for those women, shut away from the world.”

“You're being a little smug, aren't you?” Graham asked. “After all, your own world isn't so different.”

I winced. Father had not even wanted me to attend a university and had dismissed my wish to sit for the exams at Cambridge.
What good would that kind of experience be? University education is wasted on women who aren't suited for that kind of thing.

Graham saw my reaction. “You see, just as I said. Men like your father colonize their women just as eagerly as they colonize countries. They conquer them and keep them in their place with their kindly oversight. It's time you think for yourself.” I could see he took pleasure in stirring up yet another small revolution to trouble Father—this time right under Father's nose—but when he looked at me, he saw I
was smiling. “What is it?” he asked.

I said, “I don't think you want me to think for myself. I believe you only want me to stop listening to my father and start listening to you. I don't see the difference.” I could hardly believe I had the courage to speak up to Graham.

For once he was silenced. Miffed, he said, “I have an appointment. You'll have to see the city on your own today without either your father's or my instruction. That should please you.” Seeing the disappointed look on my face, he appeared to relent. “I hope you will give me the pleasure of being your guide again very soon. I haven't forgotten our last little journey.” A warm wind had ruffled my hair, and he gently ran his hand over it to smooth it. With that he climbed back onto his own balcony and disappeared into his room.