Parade of Shadows (8 page)

“My friend has been generous and given the
hurmeh
his own camel to ride,” Asad said.

Edith, perched on the top of the beast, looked down at us. “Generous, my foot. He chose not to come. I told him he must ride pillion, as I would not; it's a most uncomfortable way of hanging on to a camel. I hope this thief has not talked you into giving him baksheesh for my return; if so, I have warned him I will report him to the next soldiers we see.”

“We didn't give him a sou to return you,” Louvois said. It was the literal truth, but it sounded unchivalrous.

The Metawileh couched Edith's camel and offered his hand, which she refused, getting down quite nimbly on her own. “I must in all truth say that you gave me a good dinner.
In return, you will be pleased to know, while you were gone and the man you left me with was asleep, I aired out the bedding in your tent, which was full of lice. I only hope I haven't brought them back with me. Some of your bedding was simply too disgraceful, and I tossed it into the fire.”

Abdullah smiled. “We will give you back your amulet and you may have the
hurmeh
.” But before he had finished his offer, the Metawileh hurriedly turned the camels toward the desert.

“Well, it's all my fault, of course,” Edith said. “I'm afraid I've given you a great deal of trouble. I found a ranunculus quite unknown to me, and since one specimen is not proof enough, I went looking for another. In my excitement I must have become disoriented. Asad and his friend, Faiz, and another man, Yusuf, kindly—or so I thought—took me in and fed me. Just when I expected that they would bring me back here, Asad and Faiz disappeared, leaving me with Yusuf. Of course I was onto their game of ransom at once, but I was reluctant to start off in the dark, not knowing how far from camp I was.”

Hakki was torn between relief at having Edith back and dismay over her disappearance. “Miss Phillips, I most humbly entreat you never, never to leave our group again. I have said over and over that we must stay together, and here
on our first night in the desert you vanish from me.”

Edith said, “I give you my word, Hakki, that hereafter I will stay near the camp.” But no one, least of all Hakki, believed her.

I was puzzled. The men obviously had been asking for ransom in return for delivering Edith, yet all the while Edith appeared to be the one in control. I felt I had been present at the performance of a little play, but I could not figure out the characters or the plot. Still, I was so pleased to have Edith safely back in the tent with me, I put my suspicions aside. Even the mice scurrying about seemed less a problem with her there. “We were worried,” I said.

Edith sat down on her cot heavily. “I was never in any danger, but it's been a long day.” She appeared strangely exhilarated.

“More than a long day, surely,” I said. “If I had been you, I would have been terrified.”

“You are safer in the desert than on the streets of London.”

“But you were lost. What if those men had not come along?”

“But they did, and I am grateful to them. They kindly took me in, and if they made a little money from their hospitality—for I don't believe for a moment that ransom
wasn't paid—I don't begrudge them.” She was quiet for a minute, and then in a voice very different from the light tone she had used before, she said, “One of the men, Asad, had a rather unhappy tale. His two brothers were conscripted into the Turks' army and were killed in Crete fighting the Greeks.”

Edith stopped abruptly, as though she was sorry she had told Asad's story. Looking for a diversion, she picked up my sketch of the white cyclamen and held it to the candlelight. “This is very fine,” she said. “I had no idea you had so much talent. I shall certainly make use of it.”

I was pleased. “I've never done flowers before.”

“All the more amazing. You have a natural talent that we will have to develop. It would be a great help to me to have someone who can sketch the specimens I collect. The rare form of ranunculus that I found today I believe is an entirely new species. One day there may be a
Ranunculus phillipsus
named for me, and you shall sketch it. Together, Julia, we will make an excellent pair. I must say you are the one person whose company I enjoy on this tour, for you are the only one who is not greedy for something. Now I'm for a few hours' sleep.”

Edith, however, woke frequently, and I could hear her tossing about. “Are you upset over what happened?” I asked.

“No, no,” Edith said. “It's the lice that I picked up lounging about in their tent. Tomorrow I shall have a good bath and a sprinkling with my Keating's powder. We must tell Habib to be sure to keep my sheets separate from the others.”

The mukari were careless with the sheets, and a few days later I had lice.

I
WAS AWAKENED BY
the muezzin—the crier who summons the faithful to prayer—as he started his five-times-a-day ritual. Edith, who must have been tired from her adventures and her sleepless night, remained asleep. On a suitcase next to her bed lay her glasses, neatly folded on a copy of the Koran. She told me she read a sura, a chapter, from it each evening. Monsieur Louvois had admired the book with its tooled leather cover. “Very rare,” he said. “Sixteenth century. Perhaps you would care to sell it?”

Edith had responded indignantly. “No. Must you lay your hands on everything you see?”

The Koran's cover was decorated with cruelly beaked birds hidden in leafy trees and tigers springing out of a bank of flowers onto the backs of terrified gazelles. “The Koran is more than the Arab religion,” she had told me. “It's their
survival as a people. The Arab language is forbidden in the Turkish courts and in all official Turkish offices. If an Arab wishes to govern his own people, he must do so in the language of the Turks. That is why the Arabs cling to their Koran. As long as they know it chapter and verse, they keep their language and their identity as well.”

While the muezzin called and Edith slept on, I reached for my slippers, shaking each one as Edith had taught me, lest it harbor a scorpion. Pattering over to the tent flap, I pushed aside the flap to see the mukaris praying, their robes and kaffiyehs falling forward and winging back with their devotions. The sun was already blazing, and I knew the day would be hot.

His prayers over, Mastur brought a jug of washing water, which he delivered with a tender smile and modest, downcast eyes, his long lashes fluttering at me in a saucy way.
“Moyêh,”
he said, and grinned. He pronounced the word meaning “water” with an almost worshipful tone and a smile on his face.

I was eager to see Graham and hurried into my clothes, modestly slipping my underwear on under the cover of my nightgown. Edith, who was now awake and chattering about the specimens she had discovered the evening before, pulled her nightgown over her head without a blush, exposing her
sagging flesh, which she proceeded to splash with water in the racketing manner of a bathing bird.

“It is somehow a very great treat to come upon flowers in the desert, a kind of gift given by someone who can least afford it,” she said. She was pulling on a faded pink undershirt and knickers. “Louvois is right. The real excitement is in finding something for which you haven't been looking—finding, as he would say, the
‘singulier.'
There is a great difference between those who want to see only what they understand and those who are willing to be surprised by a miracle.”

I was flattered by Edith's pronouncements and lectures, for I understood that she liked me and was eager to pass on to me some of the many things she had learned in her travels.

Breakfast was simple: hard-boiled eggs, dates and figs, a melon, and flatbread still warm from the coals. Graham and I helped each other. I neatly peeled his egg for him, and he slathered honey on my bread, licking his fingers afterward. Mastur handed around tiny cups of dark, rich coffee spiced with a few grains of aromatic cardamom. In the past Mastur had appeared to be closest to Edith, but now, to my surprise, he seemed to have taken a special liking to Father, for he made a point of serving Father first and with great deference. The moment breakfast was finished,
everything was whisked away and packed.

We were a cheerful lot that morning. Monsieur Louvois, who had appeared in a silk kaffiyeh, was teased mercilessly. Graham asked, “I suppose in that getup you'll want to ride the camel today?”

Monsieur Louvois always enjoyed being the center of attention, and when it was time to leave, he approached the couched camel, which was slobbering over its cud, and tried to clamber on it as if he were scaling a wall. Father would have nothing to do with the antics, but the mukaris emitted peals of laughter at his awkwardness. Hakki stood by, embarrassed that one of his charges should willingly appear so foolish. I was sure he felt it reflected badly on his own dignity.

Our caravan followed the wadi between bleak hills to a small village, where after suitable baksheesh was paid, water was taken on from the town well. Near the well was an ancient castle, its tower and some of its crumbling walls decorated with the Maltese crosses of the crusaders.

“Why would crusaders willingly leave the green island of England for this godforsaken outpost?” Father asked no one in particular. He had been looking weary, and I thought his question reflected something of his own feelings.

Unlike my father, I was growing to love the desert more each day. Years of the dull life I had lived disappeared, until
all that was left of my mind was a clean emptiness. I was becoming accustomed to Fadda's gait and gave myself over to the little horse's movements. Fadda picked her way gracefully over the stones, leaving me to think my own thoughts of how far I had traveled and how eager I was to see what surprises further travel would bring.

Graham interrupted my thoughts to point out a patch of sky where bright blue was giving way to a sulfurous yellow. “What is it?” I asked, only mildly curious, considering it another display set forth by the desert for my amusement.

“I'm afraid it might mean a storm, and a bad one.”

“It rains in the desert?”

“Yes, and like all things in the desert, the rains are unusually harsh.”

Abdullah was already signaling the caravan to stop. The horses sensed the storm; shivering and tugging at their reins, they were made secure, then we riders huddled together while the sky darkened and the wind rushed through the slot of the wadi. Abdullah shooed us out of the wadi's dry river course, for though it was dry now, rainwater would soon come surging through it.

We grabbed whatever protection we could find. Hats were pulled down and jacket collars turned up. Hakki threw saddle blankets at everyone and implored us to stay together.
Only the camel, having changed itself into a boulder, was indifferent to the approaching storm.

At a little distance Abdullah and the mukaris gathered their robes around them, transforming themselves into shapeless black humps. Graham joined them and crouched next to Mohammed, with whom he quietly carried on an intense conversation.

Edith made a tent of her blanket and used the halt to jot some notes, continually losing bits of paper to the gale. Monsieur Louvois, looking put out, as if the storm were some trial sent solely for his torment, hunched himself into as small a target as possible. Father pulled me down next to him. The rough texture of his tweed jacket and the familiar smell of tobacco sent me back to some unremembered sheltering in my childhood.

“You won't like this,” he said. “It's not like London, where you can escape a little shower by running into the nearest tea shop.” I felt a splash on my hand and another on my face. The next moment the wind snatched away my hat and tugged at my clothes. A cloud of brown dust flew up at the same moment that a wall of water slammed into us. I could barely see my father, who was only inches away. The rain poured down, drenching us until we were sodden sponges. Water careened over the hills that edged the wadi,
puddling among the rocks and pebbles, creating rivulets that swelled into sluices, filling the wadi with a torrent of water. My hair had blown loose and was plastered in wet rags against my face. My jacket and skirt clung to me, smothering like a second, damp skin.

The mukaris cursed while the camel made a kind of coughing noise and the horses whinnied and neighed their complaints. Worst of all were the winds, which lifted the sand and dust so the rain was a brew of silt congealing into a mucky slime on our wet faces and clothes. When the rain finally stopped and we saw one another, our alarm and misery dissolved into laughter.

Graham said, “We look like prehistoric creatures climbing out of the primordial mud.”

“Something of a nuisance,” Edith said, “but most welcome. One rain like this will grow flowers for years to come.”

We begged Abdullah for water to wash in, but he refused, warning, “There is no water between here and Karyatein. We mustn't waste what we have.” He pointed to the puddles. “You may wash with that, but do not drink it.”

Graham soaked his handkerchief in the water and, tilting up my chin with his hand, began to scrub my face. Laughing, I reached up and did the same for him while
Father scowled at our foolishness. The coolness of the water was pleasant, and Monsieur Louvois, seeing the camel drinking, put a little of it in his mouth, only to spit it out. Abdullah, watching him, laughed; nothing pleased him more than one of us making a fool of himself. “How can it rain salt water?” Louvois asked.

“The hills are of salt,” Abdullah said. “The rain carries salt with it. To the camel it makes no difference.”

We were a ragged group coming into Karyatein, but the villagers were too busy repairing the damage the rain had done to their homes and tents to bother with us. Only the children took notice, running alongside our horses and laughing at how we looked. Karyatein was a nondescript jumble of white blockhouses surrounded by Bedouin tents woven from black goat hair. Camp was set up at the edge of the village, and each of us was given a basinful of water to clean up. Toward the end of our washing, the water was thick mud. It was Mohammed who saved us by learning from the villagers that a small stream ran through the village.

Edith and I were given the privilege of bathing first, while the men, well away from the stream, stood with their backs turned to us to preserve our modesty against a knot of curious children. The stream was lukewarm and little more
than a trickle; worse yet, while walking down to its bank, Edith and I saw the camel urinating into the water, its head held up in a kind of offhand ecstasy, but the water appeared clear and in our grubbiness we didn't care. Before the men had their turn, we changed into clean clothes, Edith borrowing a robe from Mastur.

Mastur had managed to shoot some rock partridges, and Edith in a fit of enthusiasm went off looking for wild asparagus while Hakki stared after her, fretting. Father oversaw the cooking of the birds, and Edith returned with a bag of small green spears and a handful of wild garlic. Monsieur Louvois had discovered there was a local wine. Although the Arabs do not drink, Karyatein had vineyards.

Monsieur Louvois said, “They appear not to care about the corruption of infidels, and send their wine on with traders traveling to Damascus.”

Hakki, happy to see us all getting along, beamed at us like a parent whose children are enjoying themselves in a harmless way. It was Monsieur Louvois who ended Hakki's pleasure by asking him where he had taught school.

“In Damascus.”

“What kind of school was it?” Everyone listened politely to Monsieur Louvois's questions and Hakki's answers.

“It was just a special school of no particular importance.”

“It was for special students,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“In a way.” Hakki was growing uncomfortable.

Monsieur Louvois persisted. “What kind of special students?”

Hakki was goaded into the truth. “They were the sons of soldiers,” he mumbled.

“You were an
employé
of the Turkish military?”

“Only to teach their children,” Hakki insisted, but Monsieur Louvois, Father, and Graham were all looking at Hakki in an odd way. Only Edith appeared unsurprised. After a bit everyone went back to eating and the banter died out, but I could see the men had become suspicious of Hakki's relationship with the Turkish army.

The tents were pitched within sight of the town, and all during dinner we heard eerie music, its notes drawn out as though they were being pulled endlessly through some musical knothole. Interspersed with the music were shouts and laughter. When we questioned Abdullah, he said, “The daughter of the local sheikh, the head of this tribe, has just been married, and the village will celebrate for three days.”

With no thought that my wish would be taken seriously, I said, “I'd have given anything to see that celebration.”

Abdullah bowed in my direction and went jogging off in
the direction of the music. A few minutes later he returned with the father of the bride, a short, squat man with a moon face and eyes that were all over us. He bowed obsequiously, and Abdullah translated the man's cordial invitation for us to “bring honor to my humble house.”

The more he groveled, the more we were sure he did not want us, but it was too late to refuse. The irony did not escape Father. “We irritate him if we come and insult him if we don't.”

Monsieur Louvois said, “We must bring a
cadeau
, some little gift. Money?”

“Money would insult him further,” Edith said, and Father agreed.

“What about this?” I held up a small silver case. “I haven't powdered my nose since we left Beirut.”

“Just the thing,” Edith said. “She can keep her henna in it.” Edith turned to me, explaining, “Henna is a reddish-orange powder the women put on their faces and hands to enhance their beauty, rather in the way an Englishwoman might use rouge.”

The father of the bride sent one of his sons, a slim, handsome boy with glistening oiled hair and a friendly manner, to escort us. Only Father stayed behind. “I have been to more wedding receptions than I care to recall, and I am sure
one is much like another.”

The entire village was crowded into a courtyard over which a huge tent had been erected. The tent was illuminated by torches casting eerie shadows.

Everything was revealed slowly in the dim light; handsome rugs and cushioned banquettes, and in the center of the tent long boards supported by trestles and spread with embroidered cloths. On these improvised tables were dishes of pickled aubergine and boiled eggs, brass trays heaped with fresh and dried fruits, and enormous bowls of rice and mutton kept warm on braziers. Pastries oozing a gooey mix of almonds and honey were arranged in pretty patterns on palm fronds. As our little company walked into the tent, there was a sudden silence, but almost at once the music and laughter resumed; even the sight of a band of exotic foreigners—a young Turk, an older woman dressed in the robe of an Arab, and an English girl who kept looking at a man with hair the color of fire—could not squelch their enthusiasm.