*
An hour later, the Frenchman comes to Samuel’s tent to thank him for buying his freedom, and Samuel bursts out laughing. “You weren’t being held for ransom,” he says, and Vincent d’Argès smiles, looking embarrassed. He is sitting cross-legged, facing Samuel, and doesn’t know what to say. So to liven up this tête-à-tête, Samuel asks him where he wishes to go. D’Argès replies that he will go to Jeddah, and from there to Egypt, then Europe. It occurs to Samuel at this point that there is a question he is not asking: he is wondering how this poor boy will manage to finance such a trip. But the query must be written all over his face, for d’Argès smiles that smile of his which has the gift of spontaneously lighting up his face like a child’s. In fact, Samuel wonders if he is not actually a child. He can’t be very old, Samuel thinks, his gauntness has given him no wrinkles nor has it aged him. As he considers this, discreetly studying the Frenchman, the latter’s smile fades but his expression remains luminous. He removes the strange and very-heaving looking satchel he wears slung across his chest, sets it down like a goatskin bladder between himself and Samuel, opens it, and after plunging both hands inside as if into a bag of gold, comes out with a head, a severed head—not a real head, but the wondrous head of a god, or rather a goddess, sculpted from reddish stone, eyes wide open, a hint of a smile on her lips, curly hair like that of Arabs from the peninsula held back by a band in the Greek style, the head of a Hellenized statue which in one fell swoop alters the atmosphere inside the tent, concentrates and heightens the air, the shapes and colors around it. Before Samuel’s astonished eyes, d’Argès smiles once more and reminds Samuel that he is an archaeologist. He explains that this head comes from the region around Mada’in Saleh, and belongs to the goddess Allat, or Al-’Uzzá, or Atargatis—that is, one of the goddesses the Nabataeans and the Ghassanids worshipped, that there were many such heads in the same region, but that place is now inaccessible to him. This head is worth a great deal, a great deal indeed, and he offers it to Samuel in repayment for the ransom (he smiles at this word), and for some money to get home to Europe. Let us speak no more of the ransom, Samuel assures him; moreover, it was not he who paid but His Majesty’s Treasury, and as for the rest, everything will work out, there is no need to sacrifice such a magnificent object.
8
IT IS A LONG PROCESSION OF BEGGARS THAT LEAVES THE Bani Suheila encampment. And yet none of these people began as beggars; they are mostly the families of dignitaries, merchants, well-to-do tradesmen, carpenters. and coppersmiths as well as a few shopkeepers—families of wealth and small industry that Fakhri Pasha, governor of Medina, has accused of sympathizing with the Arab Revolt. All these people now form a great convoy of outcasts, trying as best they can to cling to some noble bearing, the most prominent seated on camels, their wives in improvised palanquins, their black slaves and their children riding mules that once bore rifles. The rest share what animals remain or go on foot, and all this stretches out over more than a mile, scantily escorted by Ibn Mansour’s twenty Bedouins, before whom the prospect of gold was dangled, gold that Samuel Ayyad still carries and always will. He has divvied up the bags between himself and Mohammed Ahmed, the Egyptian corporal who has become his confidant, whom he sometimes accidentally calls Gawad, and whose three fellow countrymen have also come along, with the reassuring machine gun everyone knows will be no good if they are ambushed. Samuel rides beside Hamid, and next to him are Mohammed Ahmed, Fahim el Mawlud, and the explosives sergeant who every now and again lets the Frenchman ride behind him—the Frenchman who, goddess head slung across his chest, barely says a thing, except when Samuel tosses a friendly word his way to ease his loneliness, whereupon his timidity gives way to a lively, laughing look.
For weeks they advance this way in a southwesterly direction. Then one morning, as a general might review the procession of his tired troops, Samuel watches the slow stream of repatriates pass before him, crossing the railroad tracks. His companions quiver with impatience—the train could come at any moment. But the tracks remain completely deserted, left to themselves. Afterward, the caravan veers truer south, surrounded by blazing summits, across a landscape furnished on all sides with great domes of rock and outpourings of sculptural shapes the dazzling light keeps them from seeing clearly, as if their beauty were such that no gaze could linger on them, for fear of searing the eye. During these endless days, it occurs to Samuel that he was once on his way home and is now instead helping others make their way home, a kind of unwitting Moses leading his Hebrews back to their promised land. And at times, he thinks, this is what the people of Israel must have looked like wandering in the Sinai, swaying clusters of men on camelback, clinging to their mounts like castaways to flotsam, mysterious women being led along in palanquins with draperies aflutter or simply veiled, upright, like black candlesticks on their mounts, men on foot, bags slung this way and that, faces vanishing beneath heaped rags that are their only headdress, and also slaves riding sidesaddle on mules laden with bundles, crockery, and rugs, all scattered and dangerously strung out, defended by a few dozen warriors, lighter and more mobile but just as sapped by the heat and harsh light. The only difference, he reflects at last, is that the Hebrews were not transporting a god in a satchel, and he wonders what the Medinans, just as fiercely attached to the idea of the unrepresentable divine as the Jews, would think of the singular baggage the Frenchman is lugging along among them, were they to learn of it.
And in this story, Pharaoh, too, has his counterpart—the bands of Billi or Shammar plunderers raiding far afield, harassing the caravan. For the unusual cortege and the prayer rugs it carries, the plain crockery for ablutions, the purported jewels of the dignitaries’ wives but also their black slaves, soon attract the far-flung and mysterious people of the desert. Attacks are so greatly dreaded as to sow constant panic up and down the convoy. One morning, everyone points out tall pillars of smoke rising from the earth, upright and unmoving as those of Abel’s sacrifices. But these fires are too distant to belong to possible pursuers. One afternoon, the rearguard turns up in a fever of excitement, proclaiming riders, many riders, an hour away. Yet these prove to be but phantasms the warriors thought to see in the desert’s mirages, in the blaze of the earth when it seems to touch the sky, for in fact through his binoculars Samuel sees nothing of these legions of soldiers except sunstruck crimson valleys, stony sculptures frozen like Lot’s daughters and, along the horizon, lunar mountains, red and black, and he can almost hear the eternal silence of these infinite spaces.
However, very soon the attacks become real. They are furtive, and the plunderers elusive. One day, three strapping young men sitting in the shade of a rock are found dead, naked, stripped even of their underthings, sandals in shreds. One morning, an attack zeroes in on a group in the middle, when the long procession has begun to fray. The men put up a fight, the women in their black robes ebb and flow from the tide of the assault, and finally, the Howeitat come to the rescue with Samuel and Hamid. Shots ring out and the attackers flee, leaving behind on the ground two of their own and a wounded camel that is finished off and served up that very night for dinner, in the middle of a camp pitched near a few brackish watering holes. The camel is in fact a windfall, for food is scarce. Now and again, a few of Hamid’s Bedouins go hunting. They disappear for whole days, worrying the others, then return with ostriches, oryxes, and once, a gazelle. All this improves their day-to-day existence, otherwise supplemented by goat meat Samuel buys from poor, peaceful nomad families they encounter along the way. And then one day, the hunters return overjoyed, carrying three live monkeys bound to poles, much to everyone’s delight. These are set aside for a time when hunger may grow too strong; meanwhile, they are a source of amusement. A woodworker builds them makeshift cages of tamarind wood. Mockeries of clothing are sewn for them, skirts and robes; beribboned agals are set on their heads. They become everyone’s favorite entertainment and during stops are teased, made to dance, left to pull their funny faces, their peculiar lit
tle expressions in which one and all find the distortion of their own image, and Samuel, as a graduate of the Syrian Protestant College of Beirut, where Darwin’s theories are making waves, declares to the Frenchman one day that the caravan is now transporting the entire evolutionary ladder: monkeys, humans—themselves divided into free men and slaves—and a deity in a satchel.
But the attacks continue, and one morning, Hamid declares that they must make contact with the Billi chieftains, to whom the wells in these mountains belong, as they are masters of the routes and could provide a guarantee of safety against the raids. “What chieftains?” Samuel asks. Hamid speaks of Nawaf Abu Shaddad, a powerful sheikh in the region. He adds that he doesn’t like the man much, that he’s too obsequious and lacking in generosity, but he could keep the bands of plunderers away. However, information on him is hazy. His favorite residence is the oasis of Al Arozz, but the nomad families met along the way claim he is currently by the Mukhlis wells, where Samuel’s troupe is going. Samuel decides to ride ahead, flying Faisal’s banners high. However, there is no sign of Nawaf. The Mukhlis wells are deserted, water is abundant there and fairly beautiful amidst a few pretty clusters of palm trees. That night, the repatriates make their camp there. According to what has become a habit, Samuel’s tents, the Egyptians’, and the Howeitats’ are left to the women. As these aren’t enough, long screens of sheets and other fabrics are hung from hedges, and the camp begins to resemble the bivouacs of bohemian vagrants. The men eat by the fires and tell each other stories, there is laughter, even the Medinans have recovered some cheer, fun is had with the monkeys’ clowning, songs are sung, and then the Howeitat dance beneath the great gemstones of the night sky. The next day, no one wants to leave, so great is their exhaustion, so beneficent the shade of the trees, and so sweet the water. A few noble ladies make themselves comfortable on rugs, and their slaves bring them drinks in ewers; everyone imitates them, and the oasis turns into a giant picnic spilling over onto the nearby rocks. The Egyptian soldiers, lying on their sides and backs, indulge in long naps in the shade next to their machine gun. The Frenchman seems to drift off into daydreams with his back against a tree and the head of his god between his legs. In the middle of all this, Hamid is worried, very worried, and he finally passes his worry on to Samuel. For one cannot take one’s ease in such a fashion at these wells, not without their owner’s approval. In the early afternoon, Samuel manages to get the caravan ready for departure. But it is too late. Just when they are ready, a Bedouin of Hamid’s comes galloping up to announce a significant party to the north, and indeed, Nawaf Abu Shaddad soon appears.
*
He towers atop his glittering camel bedecked like a wedding tent. His pearl-encrusted silver dagger seems a toy against his belly, his brocaded robe and damasked keffiyeh accentuate his imposing head with his prying eyes and fleshy lips. Accompanying him are a hundred-odd warriors, and he declares that he is unhappy with the liberties that have been taken with his wells, water is scarce, he will require compensation. Hamid tries to make him understand, but Nawaf, without dismounting, addresses him familiarly, and Hamid takes umbrage. The negotiations are about to get out of hand when Samuel intervenes and asks to speak among friends, for the Billi are Faisal’s allies, and the caravan consists of people also loyal to the prince. At the sight of this man who speaks Arabic but looks like an Englishman, with his military attire, wily eyes, and European mustache under his agal, Nawaf agrees to dismount. Drawing him aside, Samuel offers him two hundred gold pieces for his troubles. Nawaf, a giant of a man gone slightly soft, rolls his eyes and begins to laugh, his belly shaking beneath his enormous robe. He shoots quietly ironic glances at his companions, who return wide conniving grins full of suggestion, and then he declares that he doesn’t want gold, the Turks and Faisal have showered him with more gold than he can hide or spend; he wants gifts in kind. And when Samuel shows him, with a gesture, the pitiful state of his flock, Nawaf shrugs. “If you have nothing,” says he, “then give me a woman.”
By way of reply, Samuel gives the order to make camp again, then has the machine gun set up between the rocks, its muzzle pointed right where Nawaf Abu Shaddad is pitching his own tents. After which, at his request, the explosives sergeant readies odd-looking bags of small mines made from dynamite and detonators that Samuel then positions around the Billi camp. When evening comes, he sends a messenger to Nawaf saying that his request has been denied, and that two hundred gold sovereigns, a fair compensation, remain at his disposal as previously offered. Nawaf’s answer is brief: there must be a woman with the gold. The next day, Samuel heads for Nawaf’s camp with the British sergeant and Mohammed Ahmed to negotiate once more. The Billi chieftain listens to him and watches with eyes that lie in wait behind plump cheeks. Then he shifts, straightens, lifts the elbow propped on his rug. An odd moment of chaos, and the white mountain resettles; Abu Shaddad is sitting up. He neatens his robe, mutters imprecations, and suddenly his eyes grow rounder, almost affable, his mood brightens, and he speaks. But only in order to return stubbornly to the same idea: he will accept the gold, but requires a woman as tribute (and this time, as if to complicate matters, he uses the word “female” in contempt), or else he will slaughter all the water thieves. When he falls silent, Samuel catches a brief glint in his eye, a glint of great mirth, of boundless joy that vanishes quite quickly, and for Samuel, it is as if he has espied, through a crack in the door at an old wise man’s house, a scene of witchery and mischief. Samuel is suddenly convinced that Nawaf Abu Shaddad has made all this fuss for his own amusement, a bit of entertainment while terrifying the caravan.
For the rest of the afternoon, the mood at the Medinan camp is somber. The dignitaries and Samuel’s companions have any number of ideas: flee, charge into Nawaf’s camp with the machine gun. Fahim suggests sending a slave woman as tribute, or even two, to equal a free woman, and Mohammed Ahmed laughingly proposes offering him the machine gun, since that thing has to be pampered like a woman, and rubbed, and mounted and dismounted, but Nawaf couldn’t manage it, so what’s the point? Everyone looks at the Egyptian corporal reproachfully—how can he joke at a time like this?—but once again, Samuel gazes at him admiringly, for not only does he like the man’s sense of humor, but the corporal’s just given him an idea to boot, and he asks that they leave things to him. In the hours that follow, Samuel recovers his playful cheer—“You want to have some fun, Nawaf Abu Shaddad? Well, I’ll give you something to laugh about!” he says, almost aloud— and he also reflects that he’d never have believed the strange whims and madness of the Lebanese explorer in Dar Tama would be of use to him someday. He thinks back, almost moved, and two hours later a small convoy of three camels, one bearing a palanquin, leaves the Medinan camp for that of Abu Shaddad. At Nawaf’s camp, there is much commotion and cries that tribute has been paid. Nawaf is astounded and intrigued. He is in his tent, wearing an agal with silken gold cords that lend his childish face and ogre-like size something grotesque, and he announces greedily that he is ready to receive his gift. But soon quite a ruckus breaks out, along with imprecations and cries of vengeance, there is a mad rush for Nawaf’s tent, and he himself comes out at last to see what’s going on, only to discover that inside the palanquin the Lebanese with the face of an Englishman has sent is no woman, but a cage, and inside the cage, a female monkey dolled up in a ridiculous dress, outrageously festooned with bracelets and necklaces, a monkey that abruptly begins to fidget and whine, excited by the commotion the sight of her has stirred among the humans. When Nawaf turns to the leader of the Medinan delegation—none other than Mohammed Ahmed—he hears the declaration that, of all the females they asked, this was the only one who did not refuse to offer herself up.
Nawaf Abu Shaddad appreciates a good jest, but this one costs him dearly. For afterward, he is forced to avenge his honor. But the caravan has left. It hasn’t gone far yet when he sends his Bedouins in pursuit, but no sooner do they ride out, than the Egyptians’ machine gun speaks from the rocks
where it is hiding, it speaks again, incessantly, and the echo of its great coughing voice reaches the ears of the repatriates as Nawaf’s warriors fall back in panic and one of their horses tramples one of the sergeant’s mines, which explodes in an upheaval of sand and bits of camel. The muffled noise informs the Medinans, who are an hour away, that things are going rather well. Nawaf isn’t laughing anymore, and Samuel soon catches up to his convoy along with the Egyptians, the sergeant, and the Howeitat who stayed behind with him. For two days, they are on the alert, sleeping little, moving as fast as they can to leave Bani Shaddad territory behind, which Hamid believes they have done by nightfall on the third day, upon reaching the wells at Bir Allaya. After that, the reputation of the machine gun and the mines seems to keep plunderers and Nawaf’s kin at a distance, and they make their way unmolested past mountains and valleys, through the heart of granite deserts whose peaks glow red like crowns in the setting sun. Amidst these difficult splendors, the caravan drags its rags along, its camels are encumbered, the men’s heads are wrapped in pitiful heaps of scraps. The camps are vast and disorderly, strewn across the face of the earth, and during the night, women emerge cautiously from their tents, take a few steps with their faces bare before God, then lift their robes and piss beneath the great jewelry chest of the heavens.
*
For days on end, they make their way south in this fashion, but it is as if they are getting nowhere, so greatly do the mountains and the valleys and then the escarpments come to resemble one another. And yet they push on. Soon, near the mountains of Al Jarf, Samuel steers the convoy west. He is starting to feel impatience eating away at him; he fears Chalabi el Suheili will use his long absence to have his way with the palace. In his disheveled corporal’s uniform from the Egyptian army, Mohammed Ahmed is the only one to interpret Samuel’s often somber mood correctly, and he offers to return to Bir Suheila with two or three Bedouins to guard the goods. Samuel refuses, of course, for he hopes they will soon reach Yanbu. And in fact, they are nearing the small coastal town. But meanwhile, the troubles keep coming. One day, the caravaners want a raise, on another, the Howeitat are about to mutiny because they’ve had only one chance at plundering. And then one morning, Hamid threatens to leave with his men, and no one quite understands the reason for his falling out. He has had words with a Medinan dignitary to whom he pointed out, at dawn before departure, that the direction of the man’s prayer was slightly off-true with respect to the holy city. The Medinan took this for irony, sharp words were exchanged, and the Medinan finally said the last thing he needed was a Bedouin to teach him devotion, and now here is Hamid, threatening to drop everything and go home. The other Medinan worthies conduct an attempt at reconciliation at the foot of a cliff that bounces people’s words back as echoes whenever they raise their voices even a tad, forcing them to speak in low tones in a stark reminder of mutual respect. This is in fact a handy argument the mediators between Hamid and the dignitary use: be humble, be ashamed, don’t grow angry over a trifle when the power of Allah is manifest everywhere around you. At last the two men admit they’ve behaved like children; everyone gathers for tea, joking and laughing, then resumes their journey, and the next day, things take a slight turn: it is the Frenchman who opens up to Samuel.
Moving the Palace Page 10
