Barnabas Tales

by Denzil Lawrence

  I keep thinking of you and our baby. I expect to be at HQ for some time, and when I arrive will make arrangements for you to come and visit me, probably within a few weeks. There is a senior officers’ car pool, so my darling will be met in a grand vehicle suitable for an ambitious and successful holder of the King's Commission. I also have a few other small special things from the museum to show you when we meet.

  I cannot wait to see you soon.

  All my love, William.

  THE DUNES

  Hassan pulled his shawl tighter. Prayer was difficult while travelling, and some client always asked questions when he wished to pray silently. His mind drifted, and he wondered what he would find at his home village. Both daughters would have grown and be delighted to see him and the gifts he would take. But his wife would be worried about his job, and with good reason since his employer’s son, careless and ne’er-do-well, had reached the age when he would join the family business and displace one of the guides. Hassan’s employer had recently enquired about health, suggesting that twenty years of guiding might have made Hassan too old and weary to wish to continue. He had assured him otherwise, but remained uneasy.

  The bus approached a palm grove by a small village where red houses exactly matched the colours of the barren hills. Hassan leaned forward and told the driver to continue to Erfoud. He switched on the microphone and in a few sentences described the production of dates and their export to other countries, some to be relabelled European for sale through the Common Market. Sitting behind him his group murmured together. He switched off the microphone and asked himself “What do I think of them?” Most were ordinary grey, middle-aged tourists, and easy enough to shepherd into selected shops or bazaars. However, except for the two Americans, they were poor reluctant purchasers of perfumes or carpets, and he had few hopes that they would buy many fossils next morning, so his commissions would be small. More troubling was that his instinct told him that one younger pair of tourists was dangerous. The woman had a wild look, and from time to time she and her male companion had furious rows. This afternoon they sat apart on the bus. The previous day the woman had astonished him by wanting to demonstrate belly dancing, and she also had a tendency to wander off. With a cloud hanging over his job, the last thing he wanted was a client who complained, but even worse would be one whose behaviour caused hotels or police to report back to the tour company.

  He shook himself, switched on the microphone again, and gave information about the paperwork to be completed at the hotel in Erfoud, and included the time and place of departure for their visit to the Great Sand Dunes. Everyone was to be ready at three o’clock for the ride in special Land Rovers. As they left the bus, he saw the difficult woman angrily snatch a coat and camera from her companion. He sighed. This was a tolerant country and dependent on tourism, but he sometimes felt upset and even defiled by the behaviour of some visitors he was obliged to welcome. He hoped this couple would not behave too badly.

  In the late afternoon three Land Rovers took the group to a restaurant at the foot of high red dunes which reared over it and the stony plain. The sun was already low, and sharp shadows accentuated the knife edges of the dunes. One breathless woman from his group decided to stay at the bottom and smoke, and declined his offer to hire a camel. Hassan led the remaining party up into the dunes on foot. On the skyline a line of silhouetted camels approached the summit of the dune to his right.

  Previous experience told him this was a place where visitors might separate and even become lost. Two of Hassan’s couples walked ahead seeking a better vantage point to watch the sunset, but the dangerous pair, for this was how he now regarded them, were still with his main group. Then he saw that one elderly woman was missing, and her husband said she had decided to descend. Hassan quickly walked back down to be sure that she was safe, just as the young pair began to quarrel.

  The elderly lady was talking with a group of camel drivers, so Hassan quickly climbed the dune for a second time. The sun was barely above the horizon and the sand glowed a brilliant red. He counted his flock of tourists. Two couples were missing, the Americans and the problem pair. He was told they had walked upwards and out of sight. With a sinking feeling Hassan ran forward until he could see into the next depression, which contained two people only, the American couple. He called and waved to them to return. The sun had almost disappeared, so he led the group back towards the Land Rovers, hoping against hope that the missing pair, his problem pair, would be there first. They were not.

  Concealing his concern he sent the group into the restaurant for mint tea and looked anxiously up the slopes. Out of the deepening dusk came a tall figure – the young man alone. “Where have you been? Where is your lady?” Crossly the tall man replied, “We had another row and I walked on, but she insisted on coming back. She must be here by now. Catherine can be very difficult.”

  Hassan took the man to join the others over their tea. The missing woman had not joined them, at which the young man became very anxious. Hassan promised to find her, left the group, and jumped into one of the Land Rovers. He ordered the driver to take him along the edge of the dunes. Powerful headlights lit the foot of the dunes and the desert’s stony edge, but revealed no sign of a young woman or any other human life.

  When he returned without Catherine, the young man, by now extremely worried, took him on one side and said he did not want the police involved. It was essential there should be no publicity. Catherine was a senior politician’s daughter and due to marry a famous sportsman later in the year. She had recently had a breakdown and this holiday was to help her to recover. Discretion would, he hinted, be well rewarded. Hassan shuddered and silently hoped that his daughters would not grow up to be like this these Western women, but at that moment the elderly deaf lady who had talked with the camel drivers came over and said she had had not realised until then that Catherine was missing. She had seen Catherine approach the same camel drivers. She thought money had changed hands and they had all left together along the foot of the dunes.

  More anxiety gripped Hassan’s throat. Losing a tourist was a serious failure, but for a young woman to fall into the hands of a group of camel drivers could prove even worse. Single foreign women were sometimes regarded as fair prey. On the positive side he had a witness that she had gone freely, and she was not lying lost or injured on a dark dune.

  The restaurant proprietor promised to contact any camel drivers with mobile phones, but by now Catherine might be in any one of a large number of encampments. With many misgivings Hassan decided not to phone the police, tried to reassure the young man, and gathered his remaining tourists into the Land Rovers to return to Erfoud, supper, and their comfortable beds.

  Late that night after the rest of the party had gone to bed, Hassan and the young man paced the hotel foyer. Hassan had not been able to contact the restaurant proprietor again. But eventually a vehicle arrived and from it descended a subdued, dusty Catherine accompanying an elderly, wizened, but authoritative figure. This old man, after formal greetings, identified himself as the sheikh of one local group of Berber nomads. “She danced in front of my men so badly that laughter overcame them. They did not want me to know we had a guest, but the disturbance reached my ears. Her dancing was truly dreadful, and I have brought her back to preserve the standards and customs of my people.”

  The young man thanked the sheikh and pressed into his hand a large roll of notes, which was accepted with quiet dignity. And before leaving the foyer with Catherine he thanked Hassan “Very many thanks. It is vital to keep this quiet. I am really most grateful and will do my best to stop my sister wandering off again. She has not been herself recently.” He turned fiercely to Catherine and as they walked away down the corridor, Hassan heard raised voices. He turned, also thanked the sheikh, and together they reflected sadly on the deterioration of modern life.

  Sleep eluded Hassan for many hours, but he comforted himself. The girl was safely back, he might yet retain his job, and he hoped the
re would be a reward for his discretion. He could still visualise the roll of notes in the young man’s hand. But he could also imagine the row continuing in one of the hotel’s rooms. He thought of the large double bed, winced, and put the idea behind him. Brother and sister, the young man had claimed – whatever next? Shaking his head he picked up his black shawl, checked the prayer arrow in his room, and knelt towards Mecca.

  FIGARO'S LAST LETTER

  “My Darling Susanna, Thank you for your message, and for begging the Count to visit me. He brought money for food, a bottle of wine, and he promised to end my ordeal very soon. My appetite is poor and I gave money to the warder in exchange for paper and ink and wrote this letter to you before eating. I hope it finds you as lively, beautiful and virtuous as ever, my love. Try not to worry about me - I’m sure all will be different now that the Count knows I am here. He has always been one of your admirers and I know he will do his utmost for us.

  Three weeks ago His Holiness travelled to Florence with the master-cooks, leaving me in charge of the kitchens - a great honour and responsibility for a newcomer. Master Pedro gave me careful instructions about where to buy provisions, how to prepare them for Her Ladyship’s taste and to provide her special supplements. Also he told me when to send deaf-mutes to serve in the private apartments, and the special diets for castrati. I asked him about his spice cupboard but he just smiled and said a Master Cook had to keep safely some important secrets. I threw myself into the work with great gusto and drove the assistant cooks mercilessly. Though it is I who says so, the food and presentation were magnificent. I bought the best Tuscany boars, plump swans, soft-breasted larches and wonderful venison. I decorated the feasts myself – and you know how delicate and skilful my hands can be. When His Holiness returned I fully expected to be made a Master Cook.

  We received many messages that the court had approved of my meals and then I was placed in charge for my most special occasion when invited guests included ambassadors from London and Vienna. I even had the honour of Her Ladyship visiting the kitchen one day to congratulate me and especially to prepare for a visit of Duke Lorenzo, her cousin. His special passion is for highly flavoured foods, and I confessed that I should have to purchase spices. “Do so.” she said, and I went around the market and bought the best. When the day came and the meal was almost ready on the best gold plates Her Ladyship came to the kitchen again and sampled the food. “Not spicy enough,” she said, “Show me the turmeric. Put in the rest.” so I went to get the turmeric and added it while she supervised. Then she swept out. When she left I tried a morsel – but it was far too strong for my palate. Anyway the food went up to the banqueting hall with one plate decorated with L in sparkling red-currents and a large ruby, and the other with B in milk-white nuts and two flawless pearls. That night the physicians were called. They could do nothing and Duke Lorenzo died of the vomiting flux by morning - God rest his soul. By our Saviour’s good grace Her Ladyship was not affected and only one or two of the other guests died. I myself vomited in the night but had recovered by next morning when the holy investigators came. I described the meal and how we had prepared it, the spices, and even Her Ladyship’s visit. They glanced at each other then. Our spices were taken and tried on some prisoners, but they all survived. Under guard at the market I tried to identify the spice sellers, but the fellow who sold turmeric had gone and all the turmeric I bought had gone into the meal.

  So now I am in this dungeon. A tiny grating admits air and a little light. I know that I am innocent, and the Count will see that I am either released or get a fair trial. His bottle of wine stands on the table as a sign of his interest and support and also of your love - my darling wife who beseeched him to come to my aid. I thought of tasting the wine, my dear, and then decided to write first. Please give my love to our parents, and remember me to your good friend the Countess. The light is fading - in the morning I will write more before the interrogators return - they do not get up early. I think of you settling down in our bed at home while I stretch on this board, but the wine will ease my aches and bruises. Sleep well, dearest. With all my love - ‘till the dawn.”

  In the Vatican archives, there is spidery writing on the back of the document which reads:-

  “Found by the body of Figaro. Died in his sleep. Case closed.”

  BABA NOEL

  Once upon a time, a young man lived by the sea in a strange land because the high priest in his own country had sent him to be a missionary. Nicholas was a humble poor priest, and never expected to be important or famous. “Go and take our message to the people of Myra town.” ordered the high priest. “Take this money and use it well.”

  So Nicholas took ship and went to sea. Each day he was sick, but by great good fortune the craft avoided storms and rocks and pirates and reached the port of Myra. He built a tiny house with some of the money and hid the rest, for he was a careful as well as a humble, low priest. He planted a garden, and when anyone in Myra would listen to him he told them about his God and his faith.

  But the people of Myra already had their own God and a faith already with more than enough priests, both high and low. They had temples with tall towers and glittering domes. Nicholas would stand in the sun and talk about his faith, but the only people who listened carefully were those few travellers who already held that faith. Sometimes he felt disappointed, but he worked hard in his garden which rewarded him with fruit and many vegetables since although Nicholas had gardener’s hands although he made no converts. He let birds nest in the bushes and trees even though they pecked some of his crops. When he sold produce, he told customers about his faith and usually they would nod politely.

  Now and then the priests of Myra would discuss Nicholas in their glittering temples. Some would say “We must silence this foreign priest who tries to mislead the faithful.” but others would say “He does no harm, the people laugh at him, and he grows excellent vegetables. Perhaps he is afflicted by God. We should be merciful.” And so the years passed by.

  Not far from Nicholas’s garden and his little house there lived a trader with his wife and three young daughters. The trader was tall and haughty with black eyebrows and a large arrogant nose who would walk or ride past Nicholas without noticing him. But his wife had a kind voice and she would talk with Nicholas when he went to the large house to sell vegetables and fruit. Her face was always covered, but the girls were young enough to play outside and they were lively and beautiful.

  More years passed and Nicholas thought he had been forgotten by those who sent him to Myra. Eventually a new chief priest came to power in Myra who was not merciful like his predecessors and who made the authorities decree that Nicholas must never speak in public of his faith. So he could only talk seriously to friends in his house or his garden. Sometimes Nicholas would feel homesick and would walk to the harbour to watch boats setting sail for his own country over the sparkle and splash of the water. Then he would sigh until he remembered his mission when he would square his shoulders, stand up straight, and walk back to his garden. Hidden away all this time was the money he had brought to build a temple to his faith.

  Meanwhile the trader’s daughters grew older, so they were shaded from both the sun and from the sight of men. Three ceremonial bottles stood on the roof of the merchant’s house to indicate that three marriageable girls lived inside. Suitors came, but the trader loved his daughters so dearly that he believed none of the visiting young men were good enough.

  Late that year a great storm blew and wrecked many ships. In the market Nicholas heard that two of the merchant’s ships had sunk, and the merchant himself was overdue on a voyage in his third and last ship. Next week, Nicholas took fruit and vegetables to the merchant’s house as usual and knocked on the door. There was no reply, but he could hear weeping and sobbing. He knocked louder, and the merchant’s wife came to the door, her veil soaked with tears. “Nicholas - no fruit or vegetables today - I have no money - Oh Nicholas!” and she began to cry again. “Today I heard that m
y husband was drowned when his ship was lost. He borrowed heavily for this voyage, and now I cannot pay his debts. We have no family to help. There are no dowries for our daughters.” She wept more tears. “The money lender wants this house and will put me and my daughters in a hovel by the harbour. From there the sailors carry women and girls on to the ships for their amusement - what shall we do?” The daughters had come behind their mother and she began to cry again.

  Nicholas shook his head “You could live simply in a hut in the fields. I have a neighbour with a small hut. It is empty, but the roof is sound and the well is clean. He needs someone to help with his olive trees. Meanwhile let me leave you a present of some fruit.”

  So the mother and daughters moved to the hut of Nicholas’s neighbour, which was much better than moving to the harbour area, but Nicholas could still hear the daughters sighing and crying as he worked in his garden, and sometimes he even heard them as he lay on his bed at night. He gave them vegetables and fruit, and the widow, for that was what she believed she was, earned just enough with her daughters to pay the neighbour’s rent.

  At about that time, the town authorities visited Nicholas to warn him more seriously not to speak about his faith. The authorities had intercepted and opened a letter from his high priest requiring a report about his progress and stewardship. . Nicholas lay awake at night and wondered. “And what have I achieved, apart from my garden?”