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 schoolboy 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, th
e 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.
I was left with the view of the city, which without Graham seemed a little less enchanting. I told myself there were many days of travel ahead, and Graham would be with me.
That evening, when Father and I arrived together at the entrance to the dining room, Father was startled to see Paul Louvois in a white linen suit that glistened across the room.
“What the blazes is that Frenchman doing here?” Father hissed to me. We made our way toward the table where Monsieur Louvois was sitting with Miss Phillips and Graham. I was sure Father would have liked to dine apart, but a table had been reserved for the tour group, and it would have been poor manners to ignore our fellow travelers. Seeing my father’s irritation, I was glad I had not confessed to mentioning the tour to Monsieur Louvois on the train.
Monsieur Louvois made the gesture of kissing my hand and then hastened to pull out a chair for me. He said, “I was explaining to Mademoiselle Phillips that I was here in search of beauty. Now I need search no farther.” Graham shot an amused look my way. Father grimaced.
Edith Phillips, who obviously thought Paul Louvois pompous, brought things down to earth. “Monsieur Louvois says he buys and sells art.”
Monsieur Louvois appeared irritated at the image of himself buying and selling. He explained to Graham, “I make little discoveries for museums and galleries.”
“Ah, here is our schoolmaster,” Graham said, “come to be sure his charges are not up to some mischief.”
Hakki stood over us, counting. “Our party is all present. I am pleased to see you are eating together. Remember tomorrow morning, nine o’clock exactly. It might be best if you all took to your beds early this evening.”
After Hakki left us, we felt like newly introduced children admonished by our parents to “get along nicely.”
Miss Phillips said, “Well, we must make the best of this. For myself, I can get on with anyone—not that I mean to imply any of you are going to be a problem, but we must allow for the fact that we each have our own ways. You all must call me Edith. We are going to be much together, and we might as well be as comfortable with one another as possible. I am here to hunt plants for the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew.”
Father was amused by Edith. “I’m sure you’ll have us all plucking daisies for you. As to why we are here, I think I can speak for my daughter as well as myself. We are here for nothing more than a little diversion, a distraction from the tedious profession of a solicitor, for my part”—Father avoided Graham’s eye—“and an escape from the schoolroom for my daughter.”
I had been relieved to have my father answer for me until I heard him describe me in front of Graham as a schoolgirl. My anger grew so hot that I hardly heard Monsieur Louvois speak of his search for the art of ancient worlds. When it was Graham’s turn, he said, “I am here to do some scholarly investigation on the rather obscure tribe called the Druze.” This time it was Graham who would not look at Father. The room was full of secrets.
Monsieur Louvois scowled at the mention of the Druzes. “Please do not forget to ask the Maronite Christians—those still alive because they were rescued by the French—how they like the Druzes who hunted them down not that many years ago and butchered them by the thousands.”
“The French may have protected the Maronites, but it was the French who incited the Druzes.” Graham had picked up a fork and accompanied his words with sharp thrusts at the tablecloth.
Paul Louvois’s mood changed almost at once. “For myself,” he said, “I am happy to assign such morbid investigations to someone else. Life is too short for assigning blame.”
“Quite right,” Father agreed. “We must leave justice to those who govern.”
“That would be the last place I would look for justice,” Graham said.
Father threw down his napkin. “I sincerely hope that our tour will not disintegrate into a series of dreary confrontations on matters over which we have little agreement, no influence, and from what I’ve been hearing, not a great deal of knowledge.”
“I second that,” Edith said. “I suspect we are all weary from our journey, and we ought to follow Hakki’s very good advice and take to our beds.”
In bed that night I was relieved not to be involved in Father and Graham’s squabbles and hoped that before the trip was over, I would not have to choose sides.
VII
DAMASCUS
THE NEXT MORNING, when I stopped at Father’s room on the way to breakfast, he announced, “I have no intention of subjecting myself to a ‘tour’ of a city I know perfectly well. I mean to visit an old acquaintance of mine.”
Left to myself, breathless with excitement at the prospect of seeing the fabled Damascus, I set off to join the others. In the hotel lobby Edith was explaining that she meant to go her own way, but Hakki’s obvious disappointment made her relent.
Graham—after first making sure I would be on the tour—informed Hakki that he, too, would join us.
“It is urgent that we keep together,” Hakki said, leading us into the hotel parlor. He pulled the chairs together, transforming the parlor into a little classroom.
Edith placed herself firmly in the middle of the circle and folded her arms as if prepared to challenge anything Hakki said. Graham, with an amused expression that suggested an adult about to tolerate a child’s clumsy recitation, settled down next to me, resting his arm casually over the edge of my chair. Monsieur Louvois chose a chair on the edge of the group. He was elegantly turned out in a tan linen suit, miraculously uncreased. A paisley silk cravat was knotted about his neck. His white curls were still damp and grooved from their morning combing. In his hands he clasped chamois gloves, a white Panama hat, and a walking stick with a silver handle in the shape of a dog’s head.
“I am going to tell you all about this city you are now visiting.” Hakki flashed us an eager smile. “Damascus!” he announced, as though we might have thought ourselves in Bombay or Rome. “It is said Damascus is the oldest city in which people have always been living. If you recall your Genesis, you will remember that Abraham, who is our Ibrahim, and his servants pursued their enemy into ‘Hobah, which is on the left hand of Damascus.’ In your New Testament
your Paul ‘preached boldly at Damascus,’ and here in this city he was let down over the wall in a basket to make his escape. Already one of our own little group, Mr. Hamilton, has made his escape. Ha-ha.”
I was sleepy and distracted by Graham, whose hand had slipped from the back of the chair onto my shoulder. Hakki’s droning voice came and went in my head. At first the words were pleasant: Damascus was an oasis to the desert people; a city of streams and canals; a vision of the heaven pictured in the Koran, Islam’s holy text; the home of the great princes of Arabia. But soon the voice became the voice of doom—the devastation of the city by Tamerlane, the burning of the Christian quarter. At last, with relief, I heard Hakki deliver a more immediate warning about the drinking water, and then he was leading us into the streets.
I looked longingly at the lively bazaars, sorry to pass them by, for in the life that lay ahead of me there was unlikely to be another opportunity. Hakki hurried us along to the Umayyad Mosque, which turned out to be not unlike the mosque I had seen with Graham in Beirut, only much larger and more ornate than seemed necessary. Hakki carried a long black umbrella, which he used as a pointer to catch our attention or as a standard to muster us when we strayed. “What you are looking at,” Hakki told us with obvious pride, “was once a heathen temple over which was constructed the Church of St. John the Baptist. Indeed, it is believed by some Christians that the head of St. John once rested here. A mosque was then built in the church. For many years both Christians and Muslims entered by the same door and worshiped together, but for the last thousand years it has been Muslims only.” The latter fact was produced as a recent bulletin and in an apologetic tone.
While Hakki pointed his umbrella here and there and told the story of the Muslim conqueror Musa ibn Nuair’s triumphal march into the mosque with his four hundred Visigoth princes, crowned and girdled in gold, Monsieur Louvois slipped away from time to time to examine the pattern of a mosaic or the color of a tile. He did not seem able to keep his hands away from any object that caught his interest.
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