Love and one kiss
C.
I read the letter twice, decided that my claws would do perfectly well as they were, and Charles was lucky he was half-way to Damascus right now, then poured out my coffee, and sat down and reached for the telephone. One was, of course, completely independent, and had run one’s own affairs for years. One was twenty-two, and came of a family that declared itself indifferent. One certainly didn’t need help or advice, and one didn’t particularly like Great-Aunt Harriet …
But it would be very nice to tell Daddy all about it. Just for a laugh, of course. I put a call through to Christopher Mansel at Mansels of London, and then sat down to wait for it, drinking coffee and pretending to read Hachette’s Moyen-Orient and watching the unchanging blue of the sky above the concrete sky-scrapers of the changing East.
Daddy’s advice was short and to the point. ‘Wait for Charles.’
‘But, Daddy—’
‘Well, what did you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not that, I suppose, it’s just that I’m furious with him; he might have waited for me! It’s so exactly like him to play it the selfish way.’
‘Certainly,’ said my father. ‘But if he was anxious to catch Ben’s father he couldn’t afford to wait for you, could he?’
‘But why should he be? What’s with Ben’s father? I’d have thought if he wanted a useful contact he could get hold of some of our people in Beirut.’
There was a short pause. ‘I’ve no doubt he has his reasons,’ said my father. ‘Do you know if he has actually made any contacts there yet?’
‘Not unless he did some quick telephoning this morning. I suppose he could have talked to someone yesterday after his first trip to see me, but he never mentioned it.’
‘I see.’
‘Shall I get in touch with our people?’
‘If you want to … But I’d leave family matters to Charles for the moment, I think.’
‘Well, all right,’ I said. ‘For one thing, I haven’t a clue why he’s gone rushing off like this, specially if his “dark hints” last night haven’t come to anything.’
‘Did you tell me all he’d said in his letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d have said the sensible thing was to stop thinking about it. The boy seems to know what he’s about, and he’s certainly quite clear on one point.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, my child, don’t go doing anything fatheaded just because Charles is getting on your wick,’ said my parent frankly, ‘Forget him, and get on with your sightseeing, and telephone him tonight to find out what he’s up to. Don’t dream of going up to the palace again without him … Christy?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Did you get that?’
I said: ‘I got it. Blast you, Daddy, men are all the same, you’re still in the Stone Age. I can look after myself perfectly well and you know it. In any case, what’s wrong? Why shouldn’t I go up again if I want to?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Then try not to be more of an idiot than Nature made you,’ said my father crisply. ‘How are you for money?’
‘Okay, thanks. But, Daddy, you don’t really think—?’
The operator intervened, in that smooth mechanical voice. ‘You time is up. Do you wish an extension?’
‘Yes,’ I said promptly.
‘No,’ said my father, across me. ‘Now go and enjoy yourself, my child, and wait for your cousin. Nothing’s wrong as far as I can see, but I’d rather you were with Charles, that’s all. He’s got a lot of sense.’
‘I thought he was spoiled rotten and lived for nothing but pleasure.’
‘If that doesn’t show sense I don’t know what does.’
‘And don’t I?’
‘Lord, no, you take after your mother,’ said my father.
‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ I said acidly, and he laughed and rang off.
For some absurd reason relieved and immensely cheered, I put my own receiver down and turned to the serious business of doing my face and hair and thinking about lunch.
I had planned originally to see Beirut at leisure and alone, and it was indeed idiotic to be annoyed that I had been left alone to do so. In any case there was nothing else to do with the afternoon. I went out to explore.
The Beirut souks are dirty and crowded and about as dramatic as Woolworth’s. Though my recent sojourn at Dar Ibrahim, and a lot that I had read about Beirut, had conditioned me to expect romance and excitement here, I have to report that nothing whatever happened except that I trod on a pile of rotten fish and ruined a sandal for good, and when I asked the name of some exotic blue powder in a sack, expecting it to be hashish or crude opium to say the least, I was told it was Omo. The Soul of the Goldsmiths was best and I fell heavily for a necklace of huge turquoises, and almost decided to start a bank account like Halide’s – so lovely, and so cheap, were the thin gold bracelets tinkling and glittering in their hundreds along the rods that spanned the windows. But I resisted them, and eventually found myself emerging from the souk into Martyr’s Square with nothing to show for the afternoon but a tube of hand cream and a gold-mounted turquoise bead that I had bought as a charm for Charles’s Porsche before I remembered that I was furious with him and the sooner the Evil Eye got him the better I’d be pleased, and that if I never heard from him again it would not be a moment too soon.
It was dusk now, soon to be dark. Perhaps he had arrived in Damascus. Perhaps he had already telephoned … I got into one of the service taxis, and soon was set down within a few yards of my hotel.
The first person I saw was Hamid, leaning gracefully against the counter talking to the desk clerk. It was a different clerk this time, but Hamid smiled across the foyer at me and said something to the man, and before I had crossed to the desk the clerk had checked my pigeon-hole and was shaking his head. No messages.
I suppose my face must have given me away, for Hamid asked quickly: ‘Were you expecting something important?’
‘Only my cousin. I haven’t seen him since last night.’
‘Oh? He wasn’t here when we got back this morning?’
‘He’d already left for Damascus,’ I said.
‘For Damascus?’
I nodded. ‘There was a letter waiting for me when I checked back in this morning. He’d had to go early. I thought he might have been there by now, and phoned me … Yes?’
This to the clerk, who had been attending to some query from a sad-faced Arab gentleman in a red tarboosh, and who was now claiming my attention.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Mansel, I heard what you were saying, and I wonder if perhaps there has been a mistake. There was a call from Damascus earlier. I understood it was for Mr Mansel, but it might have been “Miss Mansel”.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Oh. Well, even if it was for me,’ I said reasonably, ‘I’d have missed it. I’ve only just come in. What time was this?’
‘Not long ago, perhaps an hour. I had just come on duty.’
‘I see. Well, thanks very much, that may have been the one. Don’t worry, it’s not important – and if it is he’ll call again. I suppose he didn’t leave a number?’
‘I don’t think so, but I can check.’
He reached a chit down from Charles’s pigeon-hole and handed it to me. It said merely that a call had been made from Damascus at 5.05. No name. No number.
I handed it back. ‘Well, I shan’t be going out of the hotel again tonight, so if he does call again, you’ll have me paged, won’t you?’
‘Of course. I’ll tell the switchboard right away.’ He picked up the telephone and began to talk into it in Arabic.
‘If you knew where he was staying,’ said Hamid, ‘you could ring him up yourself, now.’
‘That’s just it, I’m afraid I don’t. He’s gone to see a friend, and it’s only just occurred to me, I’ve forgotten the surname completely –
can’t even remember if I ever heard it, but I suppose I must have done. I’ve even visited the house, but haven’t a clue what the address is.’ I laughed. ‘I could find out easily enough if I rang around a bit … they’ve connections in Beirut, and there’s a brother-in-law who’s something in the Cabinet – Minister of the Interior, whatever that may be.’
‘Among other things, the police,’ said Hamid cheerfully, ‘Which should make him very easy to trace. Do you wish me to ask—?’
‘No, no, don’t bother, really. I’d much rather not disturb them. My cousin will ring again.’
‘Is he coming back to Beirut?’
‘On Wednesday or Thursday, he wasn’t sure.’
‘Miss Mansel.’ It was the clerk. ‘Here is some luck. The call came again while I was talking to the switchboard. It is for Mr Mansel, but when the caller heard he was not here, he asked for you. He is on the line now.’
‘Then it’s not my cousin? All right, where do I take it?’
‘In the booth just there, if you please.’
The booth was one of those open stalls which are supposed to be sound-proof if you lean far enough forward into them, but which in fact broadcast just about as well as the Whispering Gallery of St Paul’s. Just beside it, two Englishwomen were discussing the ruins of Byblos, a group of Americans were talking about food, and a French youth twiddled the knobs of a transistor, and in the booth next to mine the sad-faced Arab was apparently failing in sullen Arabic to get the connection he wanted. I put a hand over my free ear, and tried to get on with it.
It was Ben who was on the line, and in the general hubbub it was some time before we could sort ourselves out, and then he was decisive and a little surprised.
‘Charles? Here? Not yet, at any rate. What time did he leave?’
‘I’ve no idea, but early. He didn’t telephone?’
‘No. Not that it won’t be very nice to see him again. He couldn’t have waited and brought you along with him?’
‘It would have been lovely, but I gather there was something fairly urgent he wanted to talk to your father about, and he wanted to be sure of catching him.’
‘That’s what I was calling him about. My father’s due home tomorrow from Homs. We expect him for dinner. I promised I’d let Charles know.’
I said puzzled: ‘But he said, he definitely said … Oh, well, he must have got it wrong.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing, I’m sorry, I’m in the foyer of the hotel, and there’s a frightful row going on just behind me here. It’s just that Charles seems to have got his days mixed – he thinks your father’s due home today. Then he could have waited, after all, instead of walking out on me! Look, I wonder – I’m sorry to bother you, but could you please ask him to ring when he does arrive?’
‘Of course I’ll tell him. You’re not worried, are you?’
‘Not a bit,’ I said, ‘only mad as fire.’
He laughed. ‘Well, look, I’ve had an idea. I’ve been longing to meet you myself, and I know my father would like to, so why don’t you come down and join Charles here anyway – join the conference, whatever it is? Stay two or three days and I’ll show you Damascus myself, and if Charles never does turn up, so much the better. How about that?’
‘It sounds very tempting.’
‘Well, why not? Temptation’s no use if it’s resistible. Do come. Have you got a car?’
‘I – no I haven’t. I’ve been using a hired one …’ I hesitated. ‘Do you know,’ I added slowly, ‘I think I’d like to, very much. If you’re sure …?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ He certainly sounded it, he sounded warmly welcoming. ‘It would be lovely to have you. I was sorry I missed you before, and I know my father will be pleased. That’s settled, then! We’ll expect you. Did you get to see the Lady of the Lebanon?’
‘The –? Oh, I forgot you knew about that. Yes, I did, but Charles didn’t. To tell you the truth, he’s a bit needled about it, and there are one or two complications and I gather that’s what he wants to talk to your father about. He’s making a bit of a mystery about it all. We had quite a turn-up there, Charles and I, but I’d better not tell you over the telephone.’
‘You intrigue me. I hope you don’t mean there was trouble?’
‘Oh, no, but he seemed to think there was something a bit off-key. He got all mysterious about it, and now he’s belted off without telling me a word, and that’s why I’m so mad with him.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll warn him.’
‘As if he’d care!’
‘Well, we’ll get it out of him between us. I’d certainly like to hear all about Dar Ibrahim! Then I’ll see you tomorrow? Have you got the address?’
‘Lord, no, I haven’t! What must you think of me? Half a minute. I’ve got a pencil here, if you could spell it out …? Mr Who? Thank you … And the telephone number, just in case? Yes, I’ve got it. I’ll read it back, shall I? … Okay? Fine, my driver will find it. It’s really marvellous of you, I shall love it. Does it matter what time I arrive?’
‘Not a bit. We’ll look forward to seeing you, and we’ll show you the real Damascus this time.’
The line – roaring and crackling and certainly bugged at the frontier – went dead. Behind me, the English ladies had switched to the ruins of Krak des Chevaliers, the Americans were still talking about food, and the Arab in the next booth, clinging to his receiver, regarded me with sour envy. I looked at him sympathetically, and emerged from my booth.
Hamid was still at the desk. The clerk looked up. ‘It was not the right call?’
‘In a way it was. It was the people my cousin was going to see in Damascus. They say he isn’t there yet. He may ring later when he does arrive.’
‘I’ll have you called,’ he promised.
‘Thank you,’ I turned to Hamid. ‘Are you booked for tomorrow?’
‘Not yet. You want me?’
‘Will you take me to Damascus, please? I’m going to see them myself. The name’s Sifara, and there’s the address. You’ll be able to find it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I won’t be coming back the same day, but of course I’ll pay you for the return trip.’
‘You have already paid me for a lot I haven’t done. No, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll arrange to bring back another one-way fare from Damascus to Beirut. It’s a perfectly normal arrangement and we do it every week. What hour shall I call for you in the morning?’
‘Ten, please.’
‘And if the cousin rings?’
‘Let him ring,’ I said. ‘We still go to Damascus.’
But there was no telephone call from Charles that night.
12
But shall be overtaken unaware
E. Fitzgerald: The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
AND no telephone call in the morning.
Three times I picked up the paper where I had scribbled the number, and three times put a hand to the receiver. And three times dropped it. If he wanted to ring me, he would ring me. If he didn’t, then I certainly wasn’t going to bother him. The days of trailing after my cousin Charles were over, but definitely over.
Besides, I was going to Damascus anyway.
I left the silent telephone and went down to the foyer.
The morning was hot and cloudless. The familiar big car slid to the door at ten, and I slipped into the seat beside the driver. Hamid, immaculate as usual in his whiter-than-white shirt, gave me a cheerful greeting and swung the car away from the kerb and up through the traffic of Bab-Edriss and the narrow streets behind the Great Mosque, to gain the long curve of the Route de Damas and climb away from the coast and through the summer gardens of the rich to the foothills of the Lebanon. Just beyond Bar Elias the road divides, north for Baalbek, and south-east for the junction whose left fork takes you to Wadi el Harrir and the pass between Mount Hermon and the Djebel Ech Sheikh Mandour where the frontier lies.
I had crossed this frontier before in the reverse direction,
travelling from Damascus to Beirut with the group, so I was prepared for the long wait, the crawl from point to point, the four tedious halts and the frenzy of suspicion that the almost domestic frontiers of the Arab countries demand. We were fourth in line at the Lebanese side, but two hundred yards away, across no-man’s land, I could see quite a queue of north-bound vehicles, including a bus, waiting in the hot dust to be free of the Syrian border.
Hamid took the car’s papers and my passport, and vanished into the concrete hutments which did duty as a frontier post. Time passed, crawling. The first car went through the barrier, stopped again for the car-check and the bribe to the gatekeeper, and crept across to repeat the performance on the other side. Fifteen minutes later the second car followed it. Only one in front of us now.
It was hot in the stationary car. I got out and climbed the roadside bank and found a boulder slightly less dusty than the rest, where I sat down. The hotel had provided a picnic, and I sat munching a sandwich, till I met the eyes of a thin dog which had crept to the edge of the road below me and was eyeing me wistfully, just out of stick distance. I held out the remains of the sandwich. He looked at it with his soul in his eyes, and came no nearer. I made to throw it down to him, but at the first movement of my hand he flinched violently away. I got up slowly, took two steps down to the road, leaned over and placed the bread and meat carefully in the dust, then retreated the few paces back towards the car. Watching me, the dog inched forward, every bone eloquent through his dirty skin, and took the food. The faintest movement of his tail thanked me.