Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Really, Dobbie, you’re ridiculous!’

  By the time Guy arrived full of excuses and apologies, Harriet had forgotten her annoyance. When he asked if she had been waiting long, she replied blandly: ‘Since three o’clock.’

  He took this lightly: ‘Oh, well, you had Dobbie.’

  Although he had earlier emphasized the need to ‘go early and leave early’, he sat down and ordered tea, saying, ‘I’ve just had the greatest piece of luck. Two chaps rang the Institute last week and said they wanted work, teaching English. I saw them today and — it’s almost too good to be true — they’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. They speak excellent English. They’re well read, personable, willing to take on any number of classes. In fact, they’re a gift. I think they could get much better paid jobs, but they want to teach.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ said Dobson: ‘What are they? Egyptians?’

  ‘No, European Jews.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘Hertz and Allain.’

  Dobson, who expected to have knowledge of the European refugees under British protection, said, ‘Never heard of them. What was their last place of residence?’

  Guy had not thought to ask. ‘Does it matter? They may have come from Palestine.’

  ‘Did you ask what they are doing here?’

  ‘No, but I suppose they can come here if they want to?’

  ‘Why should they want to? Jews who have the luck to get into Palestine are only too glad to stay there.’

  Not liking these questions, Guy became restless and looked at his watch. Gathering up his books, he said, ‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ and added; ‘I cannot see why you should be suspicious of two civilized, intelligent and harmless young men who want to teach. I can now delegate the English language classes and give my time to the literature.’

  Never perturbed for long, Dobson smiled and said, ‘Oh, well! But keep an eye on them in case . . .’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just feel they’re too good to be true.’

  Guy, glancing at Harriet, said, ‘Darling, do hurry,’ as though she was responsible for the hour. He had left a gharry waiting outside the café. When they were seated, he said to the driver, ‘Qarafa,’ and that was the first time Harriet heard the true name of the City of the Dead. He had learnt more Arabic than she had and was able to explain to the driver the dire need for haste. The man was so galvanized that he gave his horse a lick and the creature trotted for nearly a hundred yards before settling back into its usual lethargy.

  They made their way through the old quarters of Cairo, among crowded streets from which minarets, yellow with sand, seemed to be crumbling against the cerulean of the sky. The kites, that found little of interest in the main roads, here floated, slow but keen-eyed, above the flat rooftops where the poor stacked their rubbish. As the lanes narrowed, the crowds became thicker and the enclosed air was filled with the smell of the spice shops. Guy, worried by their late arrival, had nothing to say.

  Harriet, feeling the ride was spoilt by his mute disinterest in things, asked, ‘Why didn’t you come at three o’clock as arranged?’

  ‘Because I had more important things to do. You don’t stop to think how much I have on hand.’

  His tone of controlled exasperation, exasperated her. ‘Most of it unnecessary. I suppose you got so involved with the two teachers, you forgot the time.’

  Truths of this sort annoyed him and he did not reply but stared ahead, his face creased as with suffering. ‘This,’ she thought, ‘is marriage: knowing too much about each other.’

  They came up to the Citadel wall and turned towards the desert region beneath the Mokattam Hills. At one time the dead had been buried in front of their homes, but Napoleon put a stop to that. Now they were carried up to their own city where there were streets and mausoleums built like houses. The relatives who escorted them took food and bedding and settled in until the spirit had become accustomed to the strangeness of the after-life.

  Harriet had thought this a pleasing idea until she learnt that the dead were not buried but merely placed under the floor-boards on which the family had to sit. Having gone up with friends on moonlit excursions, when the place had a macabre attraction, she had once or twice caught a whiff of mortality that brought the imagination to a standstill.

  Now, in the oppressive, fly-ridden heat of late afternoon, the city looked as discouraging as death itself. The air, reflected off the naked, cinderous Mokattam cliffs, was suffocating and Harriet said, ‘I suppose we won’t stay long?’

  ‘No, it’s just a courtesy visit.’

  The gharry wheels sank into soft ground and the only noise in the dead streets was a snort from the horse. The driver asked where they wanted to go. Guy said the tomb belonged to a family called Sarwar; the dead boy was called Gamal. None of this meant anything to the man who went aimlessly between the rows of sham houses, some of which had sunk down into heaps of mud brick. The city seemed to be deserted but, turning into a main avenue, they came on a young boy standing alone. At the sight of the gharry, he took on joyful life and ran towards it.

  ‘Ah, professor, sir, we knew you would come.’ He was Gamal’s brother, posted to intercept Guy, and had been waiting an hour or more. He jumped on to the gharry step and, talking excitedly, he explained that the arba’in went on all day so Guy must not think he was late. It was, of course, a family occasion but the Pringles must regard themselves as part of the family. And how welcome they were! Gamal, who was, as it were, holding a reception to celebrate his inception into the next world, would be delighted.

  Guy, though he did not believe in a next world, seemed equally delighted that his ex-pupil was now an established spirit.

  A few streets further on, they came on the Sarwars gathered before the family tomb. It appeared to be, like most occasions in Egypt, an all-male function and Harriet said she would remain in the gharry. Gamal’s brother would not hear of it. Mrs Pringle must join the party.

  The Sarwar men, in European dress but each wearing his fez, stood in a close group, occasionally shaking hands or touching breasts with gestures of grief and regret. All this must have been done much earlier but now, to reassure the visitors, it was being re-enacted as though the Sarwars, like the Pringles, had just arrived.

  Harriet was warmly received by the men who might keep their own wives in the background but were quick to show progressive appreciation of an educated Englishwoman.

  ‘Where is Madame Sarwar?’ Harriet asked one of the men.

  ‘Madame Sarwar?’ he seemed for a moment to doubt whether there was such a person, then he smiled and nodded. ‘Madame Sarwar Bey? She is, naturally, with the other ladies.’

  ‘And where are the other ladies?’

  ‘They are together with Gamal in the house.’

  Glancing inside the tomb, she saw dark forms in the darkness and, imagining the hot, crowded room with the corpse beneath the floorboards, she was thankful that no one suggested she should join them.

  But something was required of Guy. After they had exchanged condolences and compliments, Sarwar Bey, a stout man in youthful middle-age, took Guy by the arm and led him close to the tomb, beckoning Harriet to follow. The other men came behind them and they all stood at a respectful distance gazing into the door from which the black-clad women retreated.

  Taking Guy a step forward, Sarwar Bey called to his son: ‘Gamal, Gamal! Emerge at once and witness who is among us.’ He paused, then satisfied that Gamal had obeyed his command, he shouted vigorously: ‘My boy, who do you see? It is your teacher, Professor Pringle, come to visit you on your arba’in. This is a very great honour and on your behalf I will tell him you are very much pleased.’ This admonitory oration went on for some time, then Sarwar Bey turned to address Guy.

  ‘And you, Professor Pringle, you will remember our Gamal for a long time, even when you have gone back to England. Isn’t that so, Professor Pringle?’

  Sarwar Bey spoke impressive
ly and Guy was impressed. Tears stood in his eyes and at the final words, he gulped and put his face into his hands. The Egyptians, emotional people who warmed to any display of emotion, crowded round him to console him by pressing his arm or patting his back or murmuring appreciation. Sarwar Bey, holding him by the shoulder, led him away from the house and wept in sympathy.

  A woman servant came from within carrying cups of Turkish coffee on a large brass tray. This strong restorative was pressed on Guy who, making a swift recovery, became the vivacious centre of the group of men.

  Harriet, remaining apart, watched the men making much of Guy who beamed about him, enjoying the attention and recalling things said and done by Gamal. Gamal, he said, had written in an essay: ‘My professor, Professor Pringle, is an Oriental. But if he is not, he should be because he is one of us!’

  Gamal may have said that, or written it. Certainly some one had said it: and in Rumania and Greece there were people who had said the same thing. They had all laid claim to him and he had responded. He was, Harriet felt, disseminated among so many, there was little left for her.

  The evening was coming down. The heat fog was turning to umber and through it the lowering sun hung, a circle of red-gold, above the western riverbank that had been the burial place of the ancient dead.

  The gharry horse stamped its feet and Harriet shared its bored weariness. She was depressed by the arid inactivity of the cemetery and wished them away. Then, as the light changed, the scene changed and she was entranced by it. The white Mohammed Ali mosque, that squatted like a prick-eared cat on the Citadel, took on the roseate gold of the sky and everything about it — the Mokattam cliffs, the high Citadel walls, the small tomb houses — glowed with evening. As the heat mist cleared, she could see in the distance the elaborate tombs of the Caliphs and Mamelukes, and thought that as they had driven so far, they might drive a little further and see the Khalifa close to.

  The colours faded and twilight came down. Inside the Sarwar house, the women had lit petrol lamps and the flames flickered in the unglazed windows. The Khalifa tombs ceased to be visible but as the moon rose, they reappeared, touched in by a line of silver light.

  Guy, eager enough to stay among his admirers, had to realize that time was passing. It was almost dark. The last day of mourning was coming to an end. The Sarwars themselves would soon return home and Gamal would be left alone. One after the other’, the men took Guy by the hand and held to him a little longer than necessary as though, for a while, he could deliver them from the bewildering inexpedience of life.

  Then they had to let him go. As he followed Harriet to the gharry, she pointed to the Khalifa monuments edged with moon light: ‘Let’s go and look at them.’

  ‘Good lord, no. Who would want to see things like that?’

  ‘They’re magnificent. And they’re no distance away.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m late as it is. I have to get to the Institute. You can go any time to see them. Ask Angela to go with you.’

  ‘But I want to go with you.’

  ‘Darling, don’t be unreasonable. You know how I hate things like that. Useless bric-a-brac, death objects, memento mori! What point in making oneself miserable?’ He climbed into the gharry.

  Harriet stood where she was, watching the moon that heaved and rippled like liquid silver through the moisture on the horizon. Then, rising clear, it shed a light of diamond whiteness that picked out the traceries of the great tombs and lit the small houses of the common dead so that the cemeteries, arid and dreary during the day, became mysterious and beautiful.

  Guy, losing patience, called to her and they drove down into the old streets where the mosques lifted themselves out of shadows into the pure indigo of the upper air. The evening star was alone in the sky but before they reached the main roads, the sky was ablaze with stars, all brilliant so the evening star was lost among them. This time of the evening, Harriet felt, compensated for the heat and glare, the flies and stomach upsets of the Egyptian summer. Her energy was renewed and feeling reconciled to Guy, she put her hand on his and said, ‘Darling, don’t be cross.’

  He said, ‘Have you thought any more about taking the boat to England?’

  She withdrew her hand: ‘No, I haven’t thought any more because I’m not going. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  She had told him the question was settled and his bringing it up again when she was affectionate and, he supposed, compliant, gave evidence of his obstinacy and his cunning. These qualities, known only to her, were seldom manifested but when manifested, irritated her beyond bearing.

  Neither spoke again until they came into the wide, busy roads with large pseudo-French buildings, shabby and dusty during the day but coming alive at night when windows lit up, and there were glimpses of rooms where anything might be happening. Pointing to some figures moving behind lace curtains, Harriet said, ‘What do you think is going on in there?’

  Guy shook his head. He did not know and did not care. He seemed distant and vexed, and she felt this was because she had refused to go on the boat to England. The thought came into her head: ‘He wants me to go because he wants me out of the way.’ But why should he want her out of the way?

  When they came to the Institute, he left her to take the gharry on to the Garden City. ‘I won’t be late,’ he said and Harriet said, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably be in bed before you return.’

  She thought, ‘If I go, it will be because I want to go. And if I don’t want to go, I won’t go. And if he has any reason for wanting me to go, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.’

  She looked defiantly at the crowded, brilliant street where everyone seemed intent on enjoyment, and she wondered, miserably, what reason she had for staying with a husband she seldom saw in a place where she had no real home and little enough to do.

  Four

  Reaching the Column five days sooner than he was expected, Simon was aware of ridicule rather than approbation. When he reported his return to Major Hardy, the major said fretfully: ‘What brings you back at this time, Boulderstone?’

  ‘I thought you’d want me here, sir. In Cairo, they’re all saying the balloon’s going up.’

  Hardy, his dark, lined face contracting as though he were in intense pain, seemed at a loss. He had been headmaster of a small school, and no doubt had been happy in his power, but the war had disrupted his life and he had manoeuvred himself, from vanity, into a position beyond his capacity. Simon, who had gathered this partly from Ridley and partly from his own observation of the man, saw now that his unnecessary return had upset Hardy by exceeding the natural order of things.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘All right, Boulderstone.’ Reassured by the apology, Hardy spoke more kindly: ‘It’s as well you’re here. No knowing what will happen. Something could be underway, though I’ve heard nothing.’

  Ridley, finding Simon back in camp, could hardly hide his derision. ‘You handed in five days, sir? Back to the old grind for sweet damn all? Well, I hope the night you was there, you didn’t waste no time.’

  Simon was able to say with truth: ‘I went to the Berka.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Ridley’s face, burnt to the colour of an Arbroath smokie, was cut through by his lascivious smile: ‘Well, good for you, sir!’ He whistled his appreciation and said nothing more about the wasted five days. That evening, when they were supervising a brew-up, he asked Simon: ‘Find the captain all right, sir?’

  ‘The captain?’

  ‘That captain you went to look up? The one you thought might be your brother?’

  As Simon shook his head and walked away, Ridley called after him: ‘Not the right bloke, then, sir?’ but Simon pretended not to hear.

  The battle at Himeimat was in its third day before the Column came within sound of it. Ridley, in touch with the news and rumours of the line, brought what he heard to Simon.

  He said, ‘The jerries’ve been taking a pasting. They were stuck all day in the mine fi
elds with our bombers belting hell out of them and our tanks waiting to blast them when they got out.’

  ‘And did they get out?’

  ‘Don’t know. Better ask his nibs.’ Ridley jerked his head towards the HQ truck where Hardy, standing on a seat with his head through a hole in the roof, was observing the westward scene through his over-large binoculars.

  Simon went to him: ‘See anything, sir?’

  He was risking a snub because Hardy, inclined to self-importance, preferred to keep his information to himself. This time, surprisingly, he replied with unusual friendliness: ‘Not much. Plenty of smoke from burning vehicles but no sign of the hun.’ Putting down the binoculars, he turned to smile on Simon who flushed, feeling a fondness for the man.

  The Sunday after his return to the unit had been declared a national day of prayer: Monty’s idea. Ridley said: ‘They say he’s a holy Toe. Thinks he’s got a direct line to God.’

  The padre arrived in a staff car and a squaddy set up a small portable altar in the sand. Going into the HQ truck, the padre was affable and smiling. Coming out, wearing his cassock, he was grave-faced and he made an authoritative gesture to the congregation of men seated cross-legged, awaiting him. They stood up for the hymn, ‘Now praise we all our God.’ The singing began but the battle did not stop. During the night the flashes and flares on the horizon, and the near gunfire, had kept the camp in a state of semi-wakefulness. Now, as the loud but tuneless praise went forth, it was drowned by flights of Wellingtons overhead.

  Ridley whispered behind Simon: ‘Still giving the buggers hell.’

  A new distraction arrived during prayers. A messenger on a motor-cycle drew up beside the group of officers and waited until Hardy, head bent, put out a hand for the signal. Opening it, still muttering his devotions, he appeared to be thunder-struck by what he read. His prayers ceased and, looking up, he stared at Simon in furious astonishment. Simon, his conscience clear, glanced uneasily round at Ridley who shrugged his ignorance of the contretemps. As soon as the padre had driven off to another camp, Hardy’s batman called Simon to the HQ truck.