They Came to Baghdad (18 page)

Then Richard turned to her.

“Fond of the cinema? Then you shall see a performance.”

He spoke to the two men and they smiled with pleasure. They set up the bench and motioned to Victoria and Richard to sit on it. Then they set up the round contrivance on a stand of some kind. It had two eye-holes in it and as she looked at it, Victoria cried:

“It's like things on piers.
What the butler saw.
”

“That's it,” said Richard. “It's a primitive form of same.”

Victoria applied her eyes to the glass-fronted peephole, one man began slowly to turn a crank or handle, and the other began a monotonous kind of chant.

“What is he saying?” Victoria asked.

Richard translated as the singsong chant continued:

“Draw near and prepare yourself for much wonder and delight. Prepare to behold the wonders of antiquity.”

A crudely coloured picture of Negroes reaping wheat swam into Victoria's gaze.

“Fellahin in America,” announced Richard, translating.

Then came:

“The wife of the great Shah of the Western world,” and the Empress Eugénie simpered and fingered a long ringlet. A picture of the King's Palace in Montenegro, another of the Great Exhibition.

An odd and varied collection of pictures followed each other, all completely unrelated and sometimes announced in the strangest terms.

The Prince Consort, Disraeli, Norwegian Fjords and Skaters in Switzerland completed this strange glimpse of olden far-off days.

The showman ended his exposition with the following words:

“And so we bring to you the wonders and marvels of antiquity in other lands and far-off places. Let your donation be generous to match the marvels you have seen, for all these things are true.”

It was over. Victoria beamed with delight. “That really was
marvellous!
” she said. “I wouldn't have believed it.”

The proprietors of the travelling cinema were smiling proudly. Victoria got up from the bench and Richard who was sitting on the other end of it was thrown to the ground in a somewhat undignified posture. Victoria apologized but was not ill pleased. Richard rewarded the cinema men and with courteous farewells and expressions of concern for each other's welfare, and invoking the blessing of God on each other, they parted company. Richard and Victoria got into the car again and the men trudged away into the desert.

“Where are they going?” asked Victoria.

“They travel all over the country. I met them first in Transjordan coming up the road from the Dead Sea to Amman. Actually they're bound now for Kerbela, going of course by unfrequented routes so as to give shows in remote villages.”

“Perhaps someone will give them a lift?”

Richard laughed.

“They probably wouldn't take it. I offered an old man a lift once who was walking from Basrah to Baghdad. I asked him how long he expected to be and he said a couple of months. I told him to get in and he would be there late that evening, but he thanked me and said no. Two months ahead would suit him just as well. Time doesn't mean anything out here. Once one gets that into one's head, one finds a curious satisfaction in it.”

“Yes. I can imagine that.”

“Arabs find our Western impatience for doing things quickly extraordinarily hard to understand, and our habit of coming straight to the point in conversation strikes them as extremely ill-mannered. You should always sit round and offer general observations for about an hour—or if you prefer it, you need not speak at all.”

“Rather odd if we did that in offices in London. One would waste a lot of time.”

“Yes, but we're back again at the question: What is time? And what is waste?”

Victoria meditated on these points. The car still appeared to be proceeding to nowhere with the utmost onfidence.

“Where is this place?” she said at last.

“Tell Aswad? Well out in the middle of the desert. You'll see the Ziggurat very shortly now. In the meantime, look over to your left. There—where I'm pointing.”

“Are they clouds?” asked Victoria. “They can't be
mountains.
”

“Yes, they are. The snowcapped mountains of Kurdistan. You can only see them when it's very clear.”

A dreamlike feeling of contentment came over Victoria. If only
she could drive on like this forever. If only she wasn't such a miserable liar. She shrank like a child at the thought of the unpleasant denouement ahead of her. What would Dr. Pauncefoot Jones be like? Tall, with a long grey beard, and a fierce frown. Never mind, however annoyed Dr. Pauncefoot Jones might be, she had circumvented Catherine and the Olive Branch and Dr. Rathbone.

“There you are,” said Richard.

He pointed ahead. Victoria made out a kind of pimple on the far horizon.

“It looks miles away.”

“Oh no, it's only a few miles now. You'll see.”

And indeed the pimple developed with astonishing rapidity into first a blob and then a hill and finally into a large and impressive Tell. On one side of it was a long sprawling building of mudbrick.

“The Expedition House,” said Richard.

They drew up with a flourish amidst the barking of dogs. White robed servants rushed out to greet them, beaming with smiles.

After an interchange of greetings, Richard said:

“Apparently they weren't expecting you so soon. But they'll get your bed made. And they'll take you in hot water at once. I expect you'd like to have a wash and a rest? Dr. Pauncefoot Jones is up on the Tell. I'm going up to him. Ibrahim will look after you.”

He strode away and Victoria followed the smiling Ibrahim into the house. It seemed dark inside at first after coming in out of the sun. They passed through a living room with some big tables and a few battered armchairs and she was then led round a courtyard and into a small room with one tiny window. It held a bed, a rough chest of drawers and a table with a jug and basin on it and a chair.
Ibrahim smiled and nodded and brought her a large jug of rather muddy-looking hot water and a rough towel. Then, with an apologetic smile, he returned with a small looking glass which he carefully affixed upon a nail on the wall.

Victoria was thankful to have the chance of a wash. She was just beginning to realize how utterly weary and worn out she was and how very much encrusted with grime.

“I suppose I look simply frightful,” she said to herself and approached the looking glass.

For some moments she stared at her reflection uncomprehendingly.

This wasn't her—this wasn't Victoria Jones.

And then she realized that, though her features were the small neat features of Victoria Jones, her hair was now platinum blonde!

I

R
ichard found Dr. Pauncefoot Jones in the excavations squatting by the side of his foreman and tapping gently with a small pick at a section of wall.

Dr. Pauncefoot Jones greeted his colleague in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Hallo Richard my boy, so you've turned up. I had an idea you were arriving on Tuesday. I don't know why.”

“This is Tuesday,” said Richard.

“Is it really now?” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones without interest. “Just come down here and see what you think of this. Perfectly good walls coming out already and we're only down three feet. Seems to me there are a few traces of paint here. Come and see what you think. It looks very promising to me.”

Richard leapt down into the trench and the two archaeologists enjoyed themselves in a highly technical manner for about a quarter of an hour.

“By the way,” said Richard, “I've brought a girl.”

“Oh have you? What sort of girl?”

“She says she's your niece.”

“My niece?” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones brought his mind back with a struggle from his contemplation of mudbrick walls. “I don't think I have a niece,” he said doubtfully, as though he might have had one and forgotten about her.

“She's coming out to work with you here, I gathered.”

“Oh.” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones' face cleared. “Of course. That will be Veronica.”

“Victoria, I think she said.”

“Yes, yes, Victoria. Emerson wrote to me about her from Cambridge. A very able girl, I understand. An anthropologist. Can't think why anyone wants to be an anthropologist, can you?”

“I heard you had some anthropologist girl coming out.”

“There's nothing in her line so far. Of course we're only just beginning. Actually I understood she wasn't coming out for another fortnight or so, but I didn't read her letter very carefully, and then I mislaid it, so I didn't really remember what she said. My wife arrives next week—or the week after—now what have I done with
her
letter?—and I rather thought Venetia was coming out with her—but of course I may have got it all wrong. Well, well, I dare say we can make her useful. There's a lot of pottery coming up.”

“There's nothing odd about her, is there?”

“Odd?” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones peered at him. “In what way?”

“Well, she hasn't had a nervous breakdown or anything?”

“Emerson did say, I remember, that she had been working very
hard. Diploma or degree or something, but I don't think he said anything about a breakdown. Why?”

“Well, I picked up her up at the side of the road, wandering about all by herself. It was on that little Tell as a matter of fact that you come to about a mile before you turn off the road—”

“I remember,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “You know I once picked up a bit of Nuzu ware on that Tell. Extraordinary really, to find it so far south.”

Richard refused to be diverted to archaeological topics and went on firmly:

“She told me the most extraordinary story. Said she'd gone to have her hair shampooed, and they chloroformed her and kidnapped her and carried her off to Mandali and imprisoned her in a house and she'd escaped in the middle of the night—the most preposterous rigmarole you ever heard.”

Dr. Pauncefoot Jones shook his head.

“Doesn't sound at all probable,” he said. “Country's perfectly quiet and well-policed. It's never been safer.”

“Exactly. She'd obviously made the whole thing up. That's why I asked if she'd had a breakdown. She must be one of those hysterical girls who say curates are in love with them, or that doctors assault them. She may give us a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, I expect she'll calm down,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones optimistically. “Where is she now?”

“I left her to have a wash and brush up.” He hesitated. “She hasn't got any luggage of any kind with her.”

“Hasn't she? That really is awkward. You don't think she'll expect me to lend her pyjamas? I've only got two pairs and one of them is badly torn.”

“She'll have to do the best she can until the lorry goes in next week. I must say I wonder what she can have been up to—all alone and out in the blue.”

“Girls are amazing nowadays,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones vaguely. “Turn up all over the place. Great nuisance when you want to get on with things. This place is far enough out, you'd think, to be free of visitors, but you'd be surprised how cars and people turn up when you can least do with them. Dear me, the men have stopped work. It must be lunchtime. We'd better go back to the house.”

II

Victoria, waiting in some trepidation, found Dr. Pauncefoot Jones wildly far from her imaginings. He was a small rotund man with a semi-bald head and a twinkling eye. To her utter amazement he came towards her with outstretched hands.

“Well, well, Venetia—I mean Victoria,” he said. “This is quite a surprise. Got it into my head you weren't arriving until next month. But I'm delighted to see you. Delighted. How's Emerson? Not troubled too much by asthma, I hope?”

Victoria rallied her scattered senses and said cautiously that the asthma hadn't been too bad.

“Wraps his throat up too much,” said Dr. Pauncefoot Jones. “Great mistake. I told him so. All these academic fellows who stick around universities get far too absorbed in their health. Shouldn't think about it—that's the way to keep fit. Well, I hope you'll settle down—my wife will be out next week—or the week after—she's been seedy, you know. I really
must
find her letter. Richard tells me
your luggage has gone astray. How are you going to manage? Can't very well send the lorry in before next week?”

“I expect I can manage until then,” said Victoria. “In fact I shall have to.”

Dr. Pauncefoot Jones chuckled.

“Richard and I can't lend you much. Toothbrush will be all right. There are a dozen of them in our stores—and cotton wool if that's any good to you and—let me see—talcum powder—and some spare socks and handerchiefs. Not much else, I'm afraid.”

“I shall be all right,” said Victoria and smiled happily.

“No signs of a cemetery for you,” Dr. Pauncefoot Jones warned her. “Some nice walls coming up—and quantities of potsherds from the far trenches. Might get some joins. We'll keep you busy somehow or other. I forget if you do photography?”

“I know something about it,” said Victoria cautiously, relieved by a mention of something that she did actually have a working knowledge of.

“Good, good. You can develop negatives? I'm old-fashioned—use plates still. The darkroom is rather primitive. You young people who are used to all the gadgets, often find these primitive conditions rather upsetting.”

“I shan't mind,” said Victoria.

From the Expedition's stores, she selected a toothbrush, toothpaste, a sponge and some talcum powder.

Her head was still in a whirl as she tried to understand exactly what her position was. Clearly she was being mistaken for a girl called Venetia Someone who was coming out to join the Expedition and who was an anthropologist. Victoria didn't even know what an anthropologist was. If there was a dictionary somewhere
about, she must look it up. The other girl was presumably not arriving for at least another week. Very well then, for a week—or until such time as the car or lorry went into Baghdad, Victoria would be Venetia Thingummy, keeping her end up as best she could. She had no fears for Dr. Pauncefoot Jones who seemed delightfully vague, but she was nervous of Richard Baker. She disliked the speculative way he looked at her, and she had an idea that unless she was careful he would soon see through her pretences. Fortunately she had been, for a brief period, a secretary typist at the Archaeological Institute in London, and she had a smattering of phrases and odds and ends that would be useful now. But she would have to be very careful not to make any real slip. Luckily, thought Victoria, men were always so superior about women that any slip she did make would be treated less as a suspicious circumstance than as a proof of how ridiculously addlepated all women were!

This interval would give her a respite which, she felt, she badly needed. For, from the point of view of the Olive Branch, her complete disappearance would be very disconcerting. She had escaped from her prison, but what had happened to her afterwards would be very hard to trace. Richard's car had not passed through Mandali so that nobody could guess she was now at Tell Aswad. No, from their point of view, Victoria would seem to have vanished into thin air. They might conclude, very possibly they would conclude, that she was dead. That she had strayed into the desert and died of exhaustion.

Well, let them think so. Regrettably, of course, Edward would think so, too! Very well, Edward must lump it. In any case he would not have to lump it long. Just when he was torturing himself with remorse for having told her to cultivate Catherine's society—
there she would be—suddenly restored to him—back from the dead—only a blonde instead of a brunette.

That brought her back to the mystery of why They (whoever they were) had dyed her hair. There must, Victoria thought, be some reason—but she could not for the life of her understand what the reason could be. As it was, she was soon going to look very peculiar when her hair started growing out black at the roots. A phony platinum blonde, with no face powder and no lipstick! Could any girl be more unfortunately placed? Never mind, thought Victoria, I'm alive, aren't I? And I don't see at all why I shouldn't enjoy myself a good deal—at any rate for a week. It was really great fun to be on an archaeological expedition and see what it was like. If only she could keep her end up and not give herself away.

She did not find her role altogether easy. References to people, to publications, to styles of architecture and categories of pottery had to be dealt with cautiously. Fortunately a good listener is always appreciated. Victoria was an excellent listener to the two men, and warily feeling her way, she began to pick up the jargon fairly easily.

Surreptitiously, she read furiously when she was alone in the house. There was a good library of archaeological publications. Victoria was quick to pick up a smattering of the subject. Unexpectedly, she found the life quite enchanting. Tea brought to her in the early morning, then out on the Dig. Helping Richard with camera work. Piecing together and sticking up pottery. Watching the men at work, appreciating the skill and delicacy of the pick men—enjoying the songs and laughter of the little boys who ran to empty their baskets of earth on the dump. She mastered the periods, realized the various levels where digging was going on, and familiarized herself with the work of the previous season. The only
thing she dreaded was that burials might turn up. Nothing that she read gave her any idea of what would be expected of her as a working anthropologist! “If we do get bones or a grave,” said Victoria to herself, “I shall have to have a frightful cold—no, a severe bilious attack—and take to my bed.”

But no graves did appear. Instead, the walls of a palace were slowly excavated. Victoria was fascinated and had no occasion to show any aptitude or special skill.

Richard Baker still looked at her quizzically sometimes and she sensed his unspoken criticism, but his manner was pleasant and friendly, and he was genuinely amused by her enthusiasm.

“It's all new to you coming out from England,” he said one day. “I remember how thrilled I was my first season.”

“How long ago was that?”

He smiled.

“Rather a long time. Fifteen—no, sixteen years ago.”

“You must know this country very well.”

“Oh, it's not only been here. Syria—and Persia as well.”

“You talk Arabic very well, don't you. If you were dressed as one could you pass as an Arab?”

He shook his head.

“Oh no—that takes some doing. I doubt if any Englishman has ever been able to pass as an Arab—for any length of time, that is.”

“Lawrence?”

“I don't think Lawrence ever passed as an Arab. No, the only man I know who is practically indistinguishable from the native product is a fellow who was actually born out in these parts. His father was Consul at Kashgar and other wild spots. He talked all
kinds of outlandish dialects as a child and, I believe, kept them up later.”

“What happened to him?”

“I lost sight of him after we left school. We were at school together. Fakir, we used to call him, because he could sit perfectly still and go into a queer sort of trance. I don't know what he's doing now—though actually I could make a pretty good guess.”

“You never saw him after school?”

“Strangely enough, I ran into him only the other day—at Basrah, it was. Rather a queer business altogether.”

“Queer?”

“Yes. I didn't recognize him. He was got up as an Arab,
keffiyah
and striped robe and an old army coat. He had a string of those amber beads they carry sometimes and he was clicking it through his fingers in the orthodox way—only, you see, he was actually using army code. Morse. He was clicking out a message—to
me!
”

“What did it say?”

“My name—or nickname, rather—and his, and then a signal to stand by, expecting trouble.”

“And was there trouble?”

“Yes. As he got up and started out of the door, a quiet inconspicuous commercial traveller sort of fellow tugged out a revolver. I knocked his arm up—and Carmichael got away.

“Carmichael?”

He switched his head round quickly at her tone.

“That was his real name. Why—do you know him?”

Victoria thought to herself—How odd it would sound if I said: “He died in my bed.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I knew him.”

“
Knew
him? Why—is he—”