“It’s a lie. We only do that on festive occasions.” She rolled away from him. “We are prisoners of the past, all of us. People talk about things that happened thousand years ago as if they were there.”
“But don’t forget, Sarah, if it weren’t for things that happened thousands of years ago, your people could not justify being here. Without the past you Jews would be invaders and warmongers. Like this Hitler you hate so much.”
She had no answer to that. “Do you hate us?”
“I hate the effendis who sold you the land.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Every good Arab should hate the Jews. The Mufti ordered it.”
“That still is no answer.”
His smile was sad. He reached out and stroked her hair. “I would like to hate the Jews. It is my duty. But some of you make it very difficult for me. Now let me ask you a question. Aren’t you supposed to hate the Arabs?”
“I’m not doing a very good job of it, am I?”
He kissed her gently on the forehead. “If only you had been born an Arab.”
“If I had been an Arab I would be in Rab’allah, meekly fetching water from the well, and you’d be here with a feisty Jewish mistress. Wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged. He supposed she was right.
The Al-Rashid was a rundown hotel on the Suq Khan es Zeit. It stood near the seventh station of the Cross, where Christ was supposed to have fallen for the second time.
We all fall, Talbot thought as he hurried inside. But some fall further than others, and with less grace.
In a cafe on the other side of the bazaar a man in a checkered keffiyeh watched him go in. A few minutes later Levi Bar-Ayal followed, pausing only to pass the proprietor some Palestine pounds in return for a key.
Majid sat on the bed, smoking a cigarette. He wore a white silk shirt, bright scarlet silk underpants and paisley socks with suspenders. His jacket and trousers hung in the ancient wardrobe. A navy blue and yellow striped tie was draped over the back of the room’s only chair.
The jangle of oriental music filtered in from outside.
Talbot looked around with distaste. The curtains were drawn but he could make out a cockroach frozen in apprehension high on the wall in the corner. There were unidentifiable stains above the bed. He hated himself for coming here. He always promised himself it would never happen again.
“You look nervous, Henry,” Majid said. “Like a cigarette?”
“No thanks,” Talbot said. He went to the window and adjusted the curtains, making sure there were no gaps.
“What’s the matter, old boy?”
If only he wouldn’t talk like that, like a public schoolboy during Fag Week. ‘Nothing.’
He took off his jacket and went to the wardrobe. Majid had appropriated the only hanger for himself. He hesitated, then draped his own jacket over a chair and sat down.
“We haven’t got long,” Majid said. “I have a business meeting at four o’clock.”
“Can we just sit for a while?”
“All right.” He took a packet of Four Square cigarettes from the bedside table and lit two. He kept one for himself and passed the other to Talbot. “You look like you need it.”
It had begun when Majid had worked for him at the house in Talbieh. Majid had proved discreet and Talbot had allowed his lapse to develop into what could only be described as an affair. He was initially relieved when Majid had resigned his post and promised himself he would end this shameful liaison. But he couldn’t.
What if it all came out one day? It had to, surely. But he was powerless to stop this.
God, how I hate myself.
Talbot put his head in his hands. “I think I’m coming apart.”
“What is it, Henry?”
“It’s everything.”
“If you want me to leave I - ”
“No, don’t … don’t go.’
“You’re not making much sense.”
Talbot sat up. His eyes were tired. “Majid, tell me, as an Arab - what do you think of the Jews?”
‘The Jews? Is that what this is about?’
“The Mufti wants them all thrown out of Palestine.”
“That dirty little Arab. We should have hanged him when we had the chance.”
“Well, what do you think of us, the British? Do you think we have betrayed the Jews? Should we have let them come to Palestine, as we promised?”
“Of course you betrayed them. You betrayed everyone!”
Talbot noted how seamlessly Majid switched his allegiance from one moment to another. In one breath he was British; in the next he was an Arab damning them for their perfidy.
“Is this the reason you look like shit, Henry? You think too much.”
“The colonial service has been my life. I always believed that Britain stood for something good, that we were a civilizing force. But now . . . but now I don’t know what to think.”
“You’re getting upset about a few Jews. It’s not worth it.”
“What is worth getting upset about, Majid? What do you care about?”
“Myself,” Majid said, with alarming candor.
“There’s something I have never told you. When they hanged your brother I was there. I was ordered to attend the execution by the High Commissioner.”
“I know.”
Talbot stared at him. “You knew?”
“What was there to do? Wagil was always a little simple. What happened was inevitable. I cannot blame you for his stupidity.”
“You really are the most frightful little bastard, aren’t you, Majid?”
“I suppose I am. Now, why don’t you let me help you relax?”
The door burst open and a man in a checkered keffiyeh rushed in. He raised a camera and a flashbulb popped. Before Talbot could react the man turned and fled back down the stairs.
Talbot sat up, trembling. “Oh my God.”
Majid smiled in apology. “I’m really very sorry, Henry.”
“What?”
“They made me do it. It was a matter of life and death. May Allah bum me on the Day of the Fire if I lie.”
Talbot walked around the room in a circle, his face white. He clutched his chest. He thought he was going to have a heart attack. “You . . . you arranged . . . this?”
“I did not want to.”
Majid got out of bed and started to dress. “I’m afraid someone from the Haganah wants to meet you.”
“The Haganah?”
“They say if you don’t help them, every urchin from Alexandria to Beirut is going to be hawking your picture in the streets as a dirty postcard. They could just be bluffing.”
“You … fucking bastard.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Majid said. “But what did you expect?”
When he left Talbot was just sitting there, staring at the wall. The poor man looked like that widow’s son in the village, the one who played with his own droppings. He supposed he had left him in a bit of a fix.
It was Friday evening, the advent of Shabbat, the Jews’ holy day. A wailing rose over the city, the cry of the shofar in the synagogues mingled with the call of the muezzins and the peeling of bells in the carillons of the churches. Gaberdine-coated Jews hurried to prayer, Franciscan monks in brown habits shuffled in the other direction, heads down, in a bobbing sea of black-and-white-checkered keffiyehs.
Well, I don’t have time to join them tonight. I have another master to serve.
May she rot in the fire!
Sarah watched Talbot make his way up the hill from Damascus Gate, a tall figure in a white suit and dark tie, moving with diffident grace. He seemed discomfited by all the jostling, as if he expected the mass should part and move around him. When he reached the coffee house he ducked his head inside the door and looked around, uncertain.
Sarah picked up a packet of Four Square cigarettes and stood them on end on the table in front of her, the prearranged signal. He blinked in surprise. He was probably not expecting a woman.<
br />
He made his way over to the table and sat down. He avoided her eyes. “Haganah?” he said.
“Yes. You’re Henry Talbot.”
“Yes,’ he said, staring at the floor. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Such impeccable manners. The serving boy put a small cracked cup in front of him, and filled it with steaming black coffee from a brass finjan. He moved away again.
“This is without doubt the most despicable behavior I have ever heard of,” Talbot murmured.
“Is it, Mr. Talbot?”
“I am not proud of what I am. But even I place myself above the level of blackmailers.”
Sarah leaned across the table so that their heads were almost touching. “You pompous English bastard. You people sit in your clubs with your Arab flunkeys serving you gin and tonics and when the real world intrudes you start to rail about civilized behavior! I will tell you what is despicable, Mr. Henry Talbot. What is despicable is the world letting Hitler kill millions of Jews in gas ovens and leaving the rest to rot in camps all over Europe. That is despicable.”
“The papers have exaggerated what happened out of all - ”
“You think it’s just a few little kikes acting up. Is that it? It must be a bore for you. But we’re fighting for our survival and anything is allowable now.”
“What if I told you to go to hell?”
Sarah leaned back in her chair. “But you won’t, will you?”
“What are you going to do?”
Sarah reached into the breast pocket of her khaki shirt and produced a small envelope. She pushed it across the table. He opened it. Inside was a postcard: the black and white photograph was grainy and poorly defined but he was clearly identifiable. The caption underneath read: Strange Bedfellows. The British in bed with the Arabs in Palestine.
“Unless you agree to help us, we’re going to send a copy to the High Commissioner, and then distribute the rest on the street. Your career and your marriage will be finished. If you return to England you will live the rest of your life in disgrace, the butt of contempt and ridicule. That’s what we’re going to do.”
The card trembled in Talbot’s fingers. “Majid, you little shit,’ he murmured. He tore the card into small pieces. “Jesus Christ!”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Sarah said, more gently. “Personally, I think what people do in private is their own affair.”
Talbot screwed the pieces of cardboard into a tiny ball and threw them on the floor. He put his head in his hands. Sarah waited, concerned. She had not expected him to make a scene here in the coffee house. He was not going to be much good to them if his nerves were already shot.
She felt sorry for him. What she had said to him was true; she was not proud of herself. But what choice was there? If they did not save themselves, no one else would. Hitler had proved that.
When Talbot finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting. Perhaps he had, inside. At me or at himself? “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re on the High Commissioner’s staff.”
“Yes.”
“Then I should think our demands are obvious.”
He nodded. “Not enough that nature makes me a queer. You want to make me a traitor as well.”
“We are all traitors, Henry. Some betray their country, the rest of us betray our principles.”
He sneered. “A pretty little speech. Who are you trying to convince?”
“Just do it, Henry. Meet me here again next Friday. We want to know everything the British are thinking, everything they’re planning. If we don’t get tangible results we’ll destroy you. Am I clear?”
He rose to leave. “You know, you ought to recruit my wife. She would enjoy your job. In fact, I think she’d be rather good at it.”
He went out and was soon lost among the Friday evening crowds around the Gate.
Katamon
Katy Antonius was the widow of the most famous Arab historian and writer of his century, while she herself was the most celebrated socialite and hostess in Arab Jerusalem. Guests to her Friday night soirées included the most prominent members of the British and Arab communities. Henry Talbot accepted a gin and water from the white-jacketed Arab waiter and joined a group that included the Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem and the High Commissioner’s Private Secretary. The Haganah had blown up a bridge in Galilee and it was all anyone could talk about it, it seemed.
He found it hard to concentrate on the conversation. He kept replaying his conversation with the Shai agent in his mind.
If we don’t get tangible results we’ll destroy you.
His attention wandered. Polished parquet floors, the clink of ice, dinner suits, the sparkle of a bracelet, soft ripples of laughter. And over there Elizabeth in a black cocktail gown, her father’s emeralds glittering at her throat, offering her snow white neck as she laughed. A new predator moving in for the kill tonight. Who was it now? Ah, of course, Chisholm, erect and martial in his red-braided khaki uniform and Sam Browne.
“I think it’s about time we imposed martial law. What do you think, Henry?”
The Private Secretary was addressing him. Talbot turned back to the group with practiced ease. “I should say it’s about time we showed them what we’re made of,” he said. In his experience, such opinions covered lapses in most conversations. “Now if you’ll just excuse me, I must have a quick word with my wife.”
She had moved outside onto the balcony. The night was pleasantly cool, a faint breeze stirred the trees carrying with it the scent of pine and rosemary. A bell tolled dolorously in the Old City.
Elizabeth and Chisholm were locked in whispered conversation, their hands almost touching. Talbot coughed to signal his presence.
“Ah, Henry!’ Elizabeth said. ‘Just in time. Major Chisholm and I were just discussing the Jewish problem.”
“Have you found a solution?”
“Our feeling is there should be a little more intercourse between the two sides. Don’t you agree?”
Chisholm grinned wolfishly. How wonderful if he fell backwards off the balcony right now. “The most important thing is that people don’t get hurt,’ Talbot said.
“You’re too soft, Henry.” She grinned wickedly. “That’s always been your trouble.”
“I just think negotiation is better than confrontation.”
“Well I’m for anything that brings people closer together.’
The little tramp.
“Are we still talking about the same thing, Lizzie?” he said, using the diminutive she detested.
Chisholm deflected the conversation back to his favorite topic. “I think these kikes have been allowed to go too far. If I was in charge of the army I’d do things a little differently, I can tell you. Hitler had the right idea about some things, in my opinion.”
“Are you serious?”
“Like your wife says, Talbot. You’re too soft.”
“Almost flaccid, in fact,” Elizabeth said.
“Looks like it’s time to eat,” Chisholm said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He brushed past him on his way back to the dining-room.
Talbot looked at his wife. On heat, he thought. I can smell her. “Not quite your type, is he?”
“I don’t know. I quite fancy a bit of rough, occasionally.”
“Do you have to be so brazen about it?”
“What’s the point of pretending anymore?” She put her glass on the balustrade and took his arm. “I shan’t embarrass you, old thing. I promise not to fuck him until after dinner. Shall we eat?”
They started with Arab mezze; tiny dishes of hummus, brain salad, eggplant, and stuffed vine leaves. Chisholm dominated the conversation, expressing the view that the Jews should be brought to order by the use of greater force. Talbot saw the Anglican bishop flush with embarrassment while the Private Secretary concentrated on his food, appalled at such indiscretion.
Talbot was unable to adopt the same diplomatic silence. “But surely,” he said to Chisholm, “
we must accept part of the blame.”
Chisholm’s face was a portrait of derision. “The only mistake we’ve made is letting our bayonets get blunt.”
“You sound like Himmler.”
“What’s your solution, then? Let them walk all over us?”
“When this trouble started in 1936, the Jews exercised commendable restraint while the Mufti of Jerusalem was exhorting the Arab population to even greater feats of violence. As a result he got his way. I am afraid both sides learned a very grave lesson from us: that violence would be rewarded.”
“Even more reason to show them that’s not the case now.”
“I believe it is incumbent on us to find a just and equitable solution. You won’t find one on the end of a bayonet.”
“But Henry,” another voice said, and to Talbot’s dismay he realized it belonged to his own wife, “surely we cannot be seen to tolerate these dreadful Haganah people. I’m only a woman, of course, but it seems to me they are making us look quite ridiculous.”
The other army men flushed and found something of great interest on their plates. This unfettered criticism of their best efforts had all but rattled the windows.
Chisholm grinned at Talbot in triumph. “Your wife has hit the nail on the head, Henry. After all, we let them come here in the first place, and now they’ve turned on us. What’s the old saying about biting the hand that feeds you?”
It was pointless to argue further. He had already said too much. Besides, it was not the Jewish problem that weighed on him tonight; it was his personal failure. A traitor and a cuckold, he thought. The absurdity of it all! I have betrayed the two things I no longer love - my wife and my country. Both have shown me they are harlots yet still I cling to them. I was always taught that the very essence of a gentleman was to be British, and to be respectable. I have tried to be both these things but I am ruled by fools and married to a tramp.
Zion (Jerusalem) Page 8
