Jerusalem Commands

by Michael Moorcock

  Her manners were rather better than her vocabulary. I decided, for the moment, to let her continue to believe me a simple son of the desert, some noble Bedouin Valentino who had arrived to save her in the nick of time. Admittedly, Valentino had saved his young woman from a fate worse than death whereas I, apparently, had merely broken a sartorial impasse. She put her hand to her little breast and introduced herself. ‘I am Lalla von Bek and I am a flyer. I meant no ill in your land. I was shot down by a stray Arab bullet. See.’ And she pointed at a hole now visible just above the bag’s emblazoned crown. ‘I am on official business for the Royal Italian Geological Society.’

  For my own amusement I replied in English. ‘My brother was doubtless aiming at the cross. I see from your instruments that you are making maps. Perhaps you are seeking gold in our land?’

  She was vehement. ‘Oh, no! It’s oil, anyway, everyone’s looking for. This is a purely scientific expedition. I say, your English is wonderful. Were you educated over there? Or America? Do I detect a trace of Yankee?’

  ‘The wanderlust of the Bedouin is legendary, even among the Nazrini,’ I said. ‘But I have never seen a hot-air balloon as elaborate as this.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘it is rather over-elaborate. It’s very hard to keep height, you know, without throwing everything out. I’d never have been shot down if I’d had the ship I asked for. Still, I must admit, the gun did come in useful. I’m sorry if you hurt yourself. I have a little first-aid experience. If you like …’

  I refused manfully. It did not suit me at that point to let her see the whiteness of my skin beneath my robes.

  Like Kolya, I had been burned dark by the sun and had a full beard. I flattered myself that I looked every inch a Saharan nobleman.

  ‘Let the silk be my gift to you,’ I said, observing the courtesies of desert meetings. ‘I hope you will look even more beautiful in it.’

  She seemed impressed by my manners but baffled—then she smiled. ‘Oh, the silk! It’s for the balloon. We’ll cut a panel, oil it with what you have in that jar and make it airtight. I’m sure I have the other things I need. Those beggars down there got the best of my kit. It rolled out when we landed. We bounced a bit, as you can see.’ Reminiscently she dusted at her dress.

  ‘Though I am a bit fussy about clothes.’ She became thoughtful. ‘It doesn’t do to lose your standards.’

  ‘A sentiment you share with the Bedouin,’ I said.

  She was flattered by the compliment. ‘This isn’t what I normally wear, but I was beginning to feel a bit down. A change of clothes will often cheer you up. Now you’ve arrived so I was right to look on the bright side. It’s just like a film, isn’t it?’

  I was not happy to be reminded, just then, of the moving-picture industry. She took my silence for dignified disagreement. ‘I’m sorry, I suppose you’re not allowed to watch them.’ She was gracious. ‘I haven’t given you a chance to introduce yourself.’

  ‘I am the Sheikh Mustafa Sakhr-al-Dru’ug,’ I said, borrowing my name from an old script. ‘Like you, madam, I am an explorer. It is a tradition among my people. We are natural travellers.’

  Enthusiastically she endorsed my opinion, betraying, I thought, a dangerous Arabismus which has led more than one European woman astray. Yet it did not suit me to puncture her illusion. Something told me she would have more interest joining forces with a Desert Hawk than with a Steppe Eagle. Bedouin or Cossack, we still had more in common than we had differences and it was natural of me to assume the rôle of benign protector to a young girl stranded in the deep desert. It was my instinct, a natural chivalry.

  However, when I asked after ‘dear old Eton’, I was astonished to learn that she was not English at all and had lived there only intermittently. ‘My father was Count Richardt von Bek. My mother was Irish, Lady Maeve Lever of the Dublin Levers. I was finished in England, but I am by birth an Albanian. A second cousin, as it happens, to King Zog. I became an Italian national in 1925.’

  ‘Evidently you are an admirer of Signor Mussolini.’

  ‘Rather! My father always said Italy only did well under brilliant individuals. He was a Saxon, of course, and inclined to overstatement. He preferred the free-and-easy atmosphere of Albania. He was employed by the Turks. Engineers could live like princes in those days. We had a simply marvellous childhood. It spoiled us, really. And then, of course, Mother died of consumption, Father was shot as a traitor and that was the end of it. Luckily they’d taught us to stand on our own feet.’

  ‘You have brothers?’

  ‘Only sisters. They’re all married but me now. Really, I’m an engineer, but I can’t tell you how hard it is to convince people that I’m as good as a man. That’s why I’m here, really. A sort of publicity stunt, you’d call it. So people will take me seriously.’

  ‘I am familiar with such stunts,’ I told her. ‘And have an interest in engineering matters myself.’ My blood quickened at this change of luck. In the middle of the Sahara I had met a personable and pretty young woman who also happened to understand engineering. Such girls, who even today are considered odd, were thrown up by the Great War. I have nothing against them. Many have natural aptitudes in that direction, though as yet we have to see a female engineering genius. They will tell you they are above such things, preferring to sew and cook. Perhaps they really do prefer such activities. If so, it rather proves my point. I continued to treat Signorina von Bek with grave courtesy, delighted at last to meet in the desert someone who understood the difference between an internal combustion engine and a magic nut. ‘Not to mention,’ I added for politesse, ‘Albania.’

  From where I had hobbled them, my thirsty camels were complaining—roaring and grumbling loud enough to drown parts of our conversation.

  ‘Sons of the eagle, indeed!’ she said, indicating the collapsed fabric. She referred, I suppose, to the Albanians’ name for themselves, Skayptar. The smaller the country, the bigger its airs. Just as it is with little men. I remember the Lett, Adolf Ved. His country’s self-advertisement was only matched by its vainglory. And all they had in the way of a cultural tradition was a few borrowed folk-songs, a national hero with an unpronounceable name and a Jewish university. Yet I was grace itself, and she brightened. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it will soon be sundown. I must offer you daifa. I’ll get the primus going. Natives don’t like to attack, you know, at night. What would you say to some turtle soup and rusks? We could start with some pâté de foie gras and there’s still an excellent St Emilion in the locker somewhere. The champagne, I’m afraid, exploded. The heat and the altitude, I suppose.’ She led me towards the centre of the gondola where she had erected two parasols for shade above a camp table set with silverware and napkin for one. From a locker she produced a second folding chair and from a chest a set of cutlery. ‘I prepared for visitors, you see. Not quite knowing where I was going to land.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, I say, you’re not forbidden to eat anything, are you? Apart from pork, I mean.’

  I assured her I had the usual traveller’s dispensations and could, with her permission, even join her in a glass of claret. She apologised for her ignorance of my people’s customs. At least, I said, she had an interest in correcting her ignorance and had come to see us for herself and not depend upon the Albanian newspapers to characterise us. She was pleased by this. She said she had been told of the legendary good manners of the Bedouin. ‘I share that quality,’ I told her, ‘with your Don and Kuban Cossacks.’

  She seemed surprised by the reference, since few Bedouins are prepared to be compared to anything less than a demigod, but she took my remarks for modesty, warming to me still more. I basked in this angel’s approval! What ordinary man—what man of any kind—could fail to be charmed? I must admit I had no incentive for disabusing her. It had become second nature for me to disguise myself. For all her enchanting qualities I had no reason yet to trust Signorina von Bek.

  The Bedouin were respected everywhere in the desert. Even a single traveller was us
ually left in peace, for he was likely to have blood kin across the whole region. The fundamental point of the blood feud is that it has to remain a credible threat, for it is by this means that men are dissuaded from killing, and Chaos is kept at bay. Dog rarely attacked dog unless desperate or sublimely certain of his superior strength. That was also why, since the Goras were clearly well-fed and watered, I did not expect the conflict to last much beyond another day or two. Now they believed reinforcements had arrived, they would almost certainly choose the better part of valour.

  It was with a relatively easy mind that I sat down to tea with the pretty aeronaut while, visible below amongst the palms, the Goras argued over the day’s developments in high, declamatory voices. It was almost impossible to ignore the babble. I was suddenly reminded of taking a sunset supper on the balcony of Kruscheff’s in Kreshchatik, with the busy life of Kiev’s mainstreet going on below. I became nostalgic for my native trams, the colour and warmth of my childhood Ukraine and I would have wept in nostalgia rather than sadness, had it not been necessary to control myself, to remember I was a Bedouin and a gentleman. I still long for that Kiev. But it is a model today, like Nuremberg—an unconvincing Disney lifesize working replica of the great original. In the end, the communists destroyed both cities.

  Renis le Juif et tu renieras ton passé.

  I no longer worried that I might be hallucinating and lost in the desert. It was clear to me that this was either an elaborate illusion or that I had actually died. I had come, as the Bishop always puts it, to my reward. Yet, although Signorina von Bek’s scent was as subtle as her physical aura, and I was ready to enter any fantasy, I was not sexually aroused. Perhaps sensuality had become an over-familiar and rather horrible language to me. I was in a state of perfect platonic bliss, revelling without lust in the essence of her femininity as much as I enjoyed the quick amiability of her mind. I remained a little withdrawn, however, and as a result we kept a certain formality which was not uncomfortable. Indeed, we became quite cheerful as we discussed the accomplishments of fascism and the likely achievements of a reinvigorated Italian state. She knew my friend Fiorello. He was now a bureaucrat, she said. She apologised for the inadequacy of the shelter. ‘We had simply not anticipated needing it. It’s so hard to keep the sun off one’s arms and face. I freckle awfully easily. Of course, your women have the right idea. I can perfectly see the practicality of their clothes. The flies alone are bad enough. I hope I haven’t shocked you, sidhi, with my costume. I wasn’t really expecting a guest. But soon, of course, it will get chilly.’ She reached for her powder-blue cardigan.

  I assured her that I was at ease with the ways of the West and she could rely upon my understanding. It was important, I told her, that mutual respect be established between human beings. The desert made brutes of some—I waved my soup-spoon at the shadowy quarrelling Gora—but it also demanded that, for survival’s sake, we maintain civilised discourse and behaviour.

  Signorina von Bek agreed with considerable vigour. Standards were the key to everything. I was increasingly impressed by her quick wits. This woman was a true kindred spirit! We shared a fundamental political philosophy! In everything but appearance, she was a man! Myself! A perfect pal, especially under the present circumstances. As we sipped the claret and studied the agitated congress in the sun’s last rays, it seemed to me that she had adopted a certain coquettish air.

  I was flattered by her interest but remained unaroused. The very thought of another’s flesh next to mine was almost sickening. Only Kolya or Uncle Tom had known how to soothe me. Sensing my reserve, she of course took even more of an interest in me. She was lady enough, however, to make only the subtlest hint by word or gesture and I enjoyed a growing sense of well-being. It was a timeless moment. I have never quite experienced the same combination of sensations and circumstance. I knew then that this was reality.

  We finished our third cup of thé arabien, the delicious scent of mint augmenting the more exotic odours, and I thought I heard again the faint sounds of singing. I strained my ears and peered into the gloom, wondering if it were only the breeze, but I was fairly sure I had caught a few notes of Tristan und Isolde. Even as my hostess chatted on, I cocked the other drum to discover the direction of the song, but the arguing of the Goras in the torchlight drowned everything. They were all looking towards the fissure, the oasis entrance, as if wondering whether to leave or perhaps to attack from another direction. They could see little of our ledge from their own position and could have no idea how many reinforcements I had brought.

  She was speaking suddenly of Tokyo, which she had visited a year or two earlier with a League of Nations party. ‘There’s no doubt that intellectually the Japanese are at the head of the Mongol races. And, of course, racial purity is as important to them as it is to white people. Pure blood, as they say, will always triumph over mixed.’

  Although only a year or two younger than myself, she was wiser than I. Women often attain maturity earlier. I have regretted not listening at the time more carefully to her ideas. It would have saved me a great deal of inconvenience and danger in later years. But then I was wondering if she had not provided herself with some kind of protective logic: an antidote, as it were, against her sexual attraction to me. For my own part I was almost incapable of innocent conversation. I had become responsive to nuance. I had developed the profound alertness of the hunted animal. I listened to her; I listened to the Gora; I listened to all the sounds of the desert, constantly interpreting yet, relative to earlier states, thoroughly relaxed. I had learned another migrant animal’s trick and took advantage of every secure moment, every chance to rest.

  Again I thought I detected a tune on the wind, an aria from Tannhäuser, perhaps. This time I politely signalled to her, listening carefully. I began to suspect I was haunted by no more than a painful memory.

  She asked what I heard, but I shook my head. ‘I was listening, I suppose, to the desert,’ I said.

  She was impressed by this and for a while said nothing. It was not yet nine o’clock and the Goras had still failed to reach a decision. I was considering firing a burst from the mitrailleuse, to encourage them, when I saw that some of the blacks were coming back into their firelit camp pushing a prisoner, a bearded, wild-eyed creature, barefooted and in the torn burnoose of a Bedouin. His arms were bound behind him and a stick had been wedged in his teeth, tied with thongs to gag him. It was a moment before I recognised Count Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff. He would, as he had promised, be the first white man to taste the waters of the Lost Oasis!

  Now I understood the complexities of the Gora debate.

  They were wondering if Kolya could be of any value to us. If so, with a hostage they might be able to barter, save face and regain their dignity before moving on. All that remained was for me to put down my teacup, walk to the edge of the basket, raise a large hurricane lamp and sign a greeting to the white-turbanned chief. ‘I believe,’ I said in my best Arabic, ‘that there has been a misunderstanding.’

  Signorina von Bek joined me at the rail. ‘Is that a comrade of yours, Sheikh Mustafa?’

  ‘A servant,’ I explained. ‘A simple-minded fellow. He wandered off some days ago. He is the son of a Caucasian woman and has a smattering of Russian. Do you speak Russian, Signorina von Bek?’

  She admitted to only a few words. This meant I could address Kolya directly.

  ‘My dear friend, I intend to rescue you,’ I called. ‘But you must play your part.’

  I was pleased to see Kolya nod vigorously, proving he still had some control of his sanity.

  Then began the long negotiation with the tribesmen as they attempted, through shouted questions, to get some measure of Kolya’s value to me. I understood they were offering this slave for sale. I was in need, I said, of a strong fellow, but this one looked rather weak. Had he been exposed to the desert? And why was he gagged?

  They assured me he was muscular and fit, a veritable work-camel of a creature. True, at present he was a t
rifle touched by the sun, but this made no difference to his value. He would recover.

  By this time negotiations were settling into a rhythm and I felt my friend’s cause would best be served by my pretending a lack of interest. ‘A strong dog is of no use to me if he is mad. Look—he is foaming!’

  They responded with shrill denials. That was merely saliva caused by the tightness of the gag. If I was not interested, they would take him to Khufra and sell him there. I remarked that I had come from Khufra and was not aware people were buying crazed outcasts to work their fields. The slave must be possessed, I added, by a djinn. Why else would he be bound and gagged in that way? Better allow the poor creature to wander into the desert where God would look after him.

  No, they insisted, he would work. By torchlight they removed Kolya’s ropes. They took the stick from his mouth. He mumbled something incomprehensible. Then, with their spear-tips, they pushed him towards the water and watched as he drank. Next he was forced to fetch skins to the oasis and fill them, which he did with some speed, aware of the importance of playing this game to the full. He hurried back and forth through the firelight. He carried a dozen skins at a time. I began to fear that he would work so hard he would put his price beyond my means.

  Signorina von Bek was admiring of my bargaining skills, although I had not as yet made any kind of offer for Kolya. We were still at the stage of agreeing whether he was worth selling or not. As the moon emerged and silver light spread to the horizon, either side had yet to name a price. At length I told them I would say in the morning if I wished to make an offer for their captive. We would all sleep on the question. Kolya did not seem too pleased by this, but I spoke briefly in Russian again, as if calling back to someone in my own party. ‘Be patient, old friend. I will have your release by noon tomorrow.’

  That night, after I had bedded down and watered my camels using Signorina von Bek’s reserves of ballast, I wearily wrapped myself in my jerd and prepared myself to sleep on the ground. On the other side of the wickerwork, Signorina von Bek remained awake for some while, reading by the light of the hurricane lamp while out of the darkness came the muffled rendering of some of the more familiar passages from Lohengrin sung against the monotonous rhythms of a Gora drum with which, I think, they were trying to drown him out. Eventually his voice cut off suddenly and I shared the relief of silence.