Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  ‘So! I presume you are here for a short holiday only? Tell me, Mrs Pringle how long are you planning to stay in our city?’

  ‘I suppose till my money runs out.’

  Taking this for a joke, Halal made a slight, choking noise intended for a laugh: ‘Then I may hope you will be here a long time.’

  Harriet laughed, too, but she knew he felt there was something odd about her presence in Syria though he had not the courage to ask what it was.

  The taxi stopped at the mosque and Halal announced: ‘We are now outside the great mosque of the Ummayad.’

  An attendant, lolling half asleep on a bench, leapt into life as he saw Harriet and, reaching into a closet, brought out a black robe which he held out to her.

  Halal said: ‘I fear you must wear this. He says to put the hood over your head so it hides your face.’

  Disliking the robe, which was dusty and not over-clean, Harriet asked: ‘Why must I wear it?’

  ‘I’m sorry but they fear a lady will distract the men from their devotions. The men have, you understand, strong desires.’

  ‘You mean they are frustrated. Tell him that you can’t make men chaste by keeping women out of sight.’

  Halal stared at her, disconcerted, then smiled, not knowing what else to do: ‘You are an unusual lady, Mrs Pringle. Very unusual. You think for yourself.’

  ‘Where I come from that’s not unusual.’ Harriet shook the robe and laughed: ‘This is ridiculous but if I must, I must.’ She adjusted it about her, trying to give it some dignity, then started to walk away. The keeper croaked a protest and pointed to her shoes. Halal said:

  ‘Ah, I forgot. We must enter barefoot.’

  ‘In Cairo they give you felt slippers to put over your shoes.’

  ‘Here they are more strict.’

  At last they were admitted to the spacious, sunlit courtyard where the marble flooring was cold beneath their feet. They paused under the porticos to admire the mosaics.

  ‘See, they are very old, very beautiful,’ Halal said, as though Harriet might not be aware of these facts: ‘You must understand, the cities they portray are not real. The buildings, the forests, all are fanciful. You will observe that there is no human figure, no animal, no creature that could be mistaken as an object of worship.’

  ‘Because of the ancient Egyptians, I suppose?’

  ‘I suppose, yes. You can hit the nail very nicely, Mrs Pringle.’ Halal smiled again, more warmly, beginning to approve Harriet’s habit of independent thought. ‘Now we enter the mosque proper.’

  The vast interior hall, lit only by the glow from stained-glass windows, was in semi-darkness so Harriet had no clear view of the men whose devotions were to be protected against a female form. A few were at prayer but most of them seemed to treat the mosque as a social centre. They sat on the floor in groups, talking and slipping their amber chaplets through their fingers.

  ‘Do the women ever come here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Halal pointed to a heavy curtain stretched across a corner: ‘They may sit behind there.’

  Harriet was glad to have an escort. No one gave her curious looks or nudged against her or stared into her face with bold, provocative eyes. She was hidden, the concern only of her protector who was probably mistaken for her husband. Halal, for his part, held himself with an air of importance. As guide, he was almost too knowledgeable. Harriet became weary, standing about while he talked. He required her to ‘give attention’ to the lamps of which there had once been six hundred, each hanging from a golden chain. He started to count them but on reaching a hundred, gave up, saying apologetically, ‘Many have been plundered, I fear. At times there has been much destruction, massacres and such things, and the mosque is very old. It was first a Greek temple — the temple of Rimmon spoken of in the Bible — then a Christian church, and now a mosque. They have beneath this floor a precious relic: the head of John the Baptist.’

  ‘I’d like to see that.’

  ‘I, too, but it is put away, I think because of the war. Still, there is another relic. Very interesting. Follow me.’

  They came to an ancient doorway, the main doorway of the early Christian church. Halal stretched out his right arm: ‘Behold what is written above! Can you read it?’

  ‘No. I never learnt ancient Greek.’

  ‘Then, I will translate for you.’ Holding himself stiffly, his black case under his arm, he proclaimed with reverence: ‘Thy kingdom, O Christ, is an everlasting Kingdom and thy dominion endureth through all generations.’ He relaxed and smiled on her: ‘That was true in the fourth century and still true, is it not?’

  ‘Why do you think Christ let the Moslems take over?’

  Halal thought it best to evade this question: ‘We must not question the will of God. Now we will visit the old castle.’

  Taken for a walk round the castle walls, Harriet was surprised by her own energy. She was recovering what she had lost in Egypt: the will to exert herself. When Halal proposed ‘a little drive into the Ghuta’ next day, she said: ‘That sounds pleasant.’

  ‘It is pleasant,’ Halal earnestly told her: ‘The Ghuta is the Garden — the Garden of Damascus. You will come, then, Mrs Pringle? Good! I will call for you.’

  That evening Dr Beltado leant towards her to say with a conniving smile: ‘I see you have made a conquest.’ Knowing he suspected a liaison had started, she was discomforted, chiefly because Halal had no attraction for her. She decided that the outing to the Ghuta must be their last.

  The next day Harriet wished she had rejected it. The sky was overcast and the suburban greenery, heavy with the night’s rain, seemed to her oppressive. She had become conditioned to desert, the nakedness of the earth, and the orchards and market gardens worried her. Anything might be hidden among their massed, lush leaves.

  ‘We owe all this,’ Halal complacently said, ‘to our great rivers that in the Bible are called Abana and Pharphar.’

  ‘The ones that couldn’t cure Naaman?’

  ‘Ah, I could take you to the house of Naaman. It is now a leper colony.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  Halal smiled but, discouraged by her manner, kept silent until they were beyond the town and driving into the grassy slopes of the Anti-Lebanon. The sun broke through, the mists cleared and the green about them became translucent. Harriet, now more appreciative of Halal’s hospitality, said: ‘It is beautiful here.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Halal became eagerly talkative again: ‘And now we come to a very nice café from where we can see Damascus encircled by gardens as the moon by its halo.’

  Harriet laughed: ‘You’re quite a poet, Halal.’

  ‘Alas, it was not me but another that wrote that deathless tribute to our city.’

  The café, a white clap-board bungalow, was hung on the hillside, its terrace built out over the slope below. Three young men, one with a guitar, were seated on the terrace and called to Halal as he passed them: ‘You’re out early Halal,’ and they looked, not at Halal, but at Harriet.

  Halal gave them a cold ‘Good morning’ and led Harriet to the rail so she might see rising above the ‘halo’ of foliage, the battlements of the castle and the gold-tipped domes and minarets of the Ummayad mosque.

  ‘Mohammed was right, was he not? This is paradise. Some say it was indeed the Garden of Eden.’

  When Harriet did not speak, he asked, ‘Could you live your life in this place?’

  ‘Yes, if I had to. I feel well here.’

  ‘That is good. And now observe,’ Halal pointed towards the minarets: ‘See the very tall one? There Christ will alight on the Day of Judgement.’

  ‘Christ? Not Mohammed?’

  ‘No, not Mohammed. Mohammed will return to the rock in Jerusalem from which he leapt up to Heaven. It is in the Mosque of Omar and still bears the mark of his horse’s hoof.’

  Behind them, the young man with the guitar had started to strum a popular Arabic song. He sang quietly: ‘Who is Romeo? Who is Julietta?’ Harriet noticed
two tortoises crawling near her feet and as she bent towards them, she caught the eye of the guitarist who gave her a sly, sidelong glance and smirked. So the song was directed at her.

  Halal, seeing her attention diverted, frowned and spoke to regain it: ‘The spring is already here! The anemones are coming out.’

  Looking down at the grass, Harriet saw that a few buds were breaking and one, more sheltered than the rest, was opening, a gleam of scarlet.

  ‘In summer, when the evenings are long, we walk by the river and many young men bring musical instruments. Such things are common here.’

  Before Halal could instruct her further, a waiter called to him and he led her to a table set with cakes and coffee: ‘I took the precaution of ordering by telephone so there would be no delay.’

  The young men put their heads together in wonder at this precaution. Halal, becoming more confident, asked boldly: ‘May I ask you, Mrs Pringle, why you came here alone to Damascus?’

  Ready now for this question, Harriet said: ‘Because I was ill in Cairo. The climate did not agree with me. I developed amoebic dysentery and was advised to come here to regain my health.’

  ‘Ah, I understand. And your husband could not come with you?’

  ‘No, his work kept him in Egypt.’

  ‘So you will stay till you are restored, is that it?’

  ‘I will if I can but, to tell you the truth, I need to earn some money.’

  ‘You need to earn money? E-e-e-e-e!’ Halal made a noise that expressed his astonishment. ‘But that is very difficult for an English lady. And yet it might be possible. I may have an idea.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We will say no more. I would not raise false hopes.’

  Driving back into the city, Halal stopped the taxi and said to Harriet: ‘Let us take a little stroll. There is something that may please you.’

  The stroll, up a lane between the backs of houses, ended at the gate of a graveyard. The graves were so old, the stones had sunk almost out of sight but in the centre there was a prominent tomb, an oblong protected by iron railings. A rambler rose, just coming into leaf, sprawled over the rails and covered the tomb’s upper surface. Halal crossed to it and put his hand affectionately on the stone.

  ‘This is a Christian graveyard and this is the burial place of Al-Akhtal, a poet and a wild fellow. Because he was a Christian, he was free to drink wine and he loved to go with singing slave girls. These things inspired him and he wrote about them.’ Halal tittered: ‘It was very shocking, of course, but perhaps enjoyable. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds very innocent to me.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Halal looked pleasurably surprised: ‘That, I agree, is how we should see it but most people here are not very advanced.’ He smiled and lifted his eyes to the sky: ‘There is the new moon. Do you know what the Moslems call it? The prophet’s eyebrow.’

  The moon was brilliant, a sliver of crystal in the green of the evening sky. Halal, lowering his gaze to her, said solemnly: ‘You know, Mrs Pringle, you are like the new moon.’

  ‘Meaning I’m thin and pale?’

  ‘Meaning you are very delicate. When I saw you in the souk, I thought, “She is so delicate, these ruffians will sweep her away.” Yet, though you are delicate, you shimmer like the moon. You are, if you will permit me to say it, the wife I wish I had.’

  ‘Oh dear! Surely there are a great many ladies in Damascus who would do as well?’

  ‘Yes, there are ladies here, very nice but very simple. For myself, I like them less nice and more intelligent. Tell me, will you come tomorrow and see the ravine through which the Abana flows?’

  Harriet replied firmly: ‘No. You have been very kind to me, Halal, but I cannot go out with you again. People will misunderstand.’

  Halal’s face lengthened with an expression of tragic melancholy and he slowly shook his head: ‘It is true, they observe and do not understand. And I know, you are afraid of your husband. Gossip will reach him and he will be angry.’

  Harriet laughed at the idea of Guy’s anger. ‘Nothing like that,’ she assured Halal but he knew better.

  ‘Believe me,’ he said: ‘I respect your prudence.’

  Harriet laughed again but left it like that. Before they parted, she asked him: ‘Please tell me, Halal, what do you keep in your black case?’

  He gravely answered: ‘My diplomas.’

  As the days passed without Halal, Harriet wished she had not given him such a definite dismissal. Almost any company was better than none. In her solitude, it seemed to her that Dr Beltado was ignoring her, perhaps in disapproval of her separation from Halal. The women, once she had an escort of her own, had relented somewhat and had even given her a glance or two. Now all three seemed determined to stress her loneliness. But perhaps she imagined this for one evening Dr Beltado, his coffee cup in his hand, came over and sat in the chair beside her.

  ‘Our friend Halal tells me you might like to help me out with my book?’

  ‘Why, yes, I would.’

  ‘Say, that’s fine. You know we have the big room on the top floor? Every morning we work there together. Well, little lady, any time you feel like it, come up and join us.’

  Overwhelmed by this proposal, Harriet wished Halal were there so she might show her gratitude.

  The room that Beltado spoke of was very big; a long, low attic with two dormer windows. It was as sparsely furnished as Harriet’s bedroom but the Beltados had brought in their own folding chairs and tables and the floor was heaped with their books.

  Dr Jolly who had her work space at one end of the room, sat bent down in concentrated study and apparently deaf to her husband’s voice. Dr Beltado and Miss Dora held the centre of the room where there was most light. Beltado dressed for breakfast and then apparently, undressed in order to do battle with his enormous task of correlating all cultures. The bed had been pulled forward to accommodate him and, resting on one elbow, he lay, wearing a Chinese robe that exposed more of him than it covered. He was dictating to Miss Dora when Harriet tapped on the door. He called to her to come in, obviously irritated by the interruption. He stared at her, bemused for some moments before he remembered why she was there.

  Rather exasperated, he said: ‘What are we going to do with you?’ He ordered Miss Dora to show Harriet her shorthand notes: ‘Think you can make a rough typescript of that?’

  The shorthand was unlike any Harriet had seen before: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t, eh? Sit down then and we’ll find you something else.’

  Harriet sat and listened and learnt about different cultures but she never learnt what she was employed to do. Or, indeed, if she were employed at all for, from first to last, there was no mention of a salary.

  Forgetting Harriet, Dr Beltado dictated, waving his arms about and letting his robe slip so all might view his white legs, his belly and his large pudenda. Miss Dora, obviously used to this display, ignored it and meekly scribbled on. Advocating the co-ordination of all cultural disciplines, Dr Beltado said that the experts should work together like an orchestra gathered under the baton of one supreme conductor.

  ‘And who,’ Beltado asked, ‘should that conductor be? I think I may, without undue conceit, suggest myself, a man widely travelled and experienced, and not one to flinch from responsibility. If invited to fill the role . . .’ Gazing round, he caught Harriet’s eye and came to a stop.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a job.’

  Miss Dora was told to find Harriet a job. She produced a box of photographs that had to be sorted according to their countries of origin. There were some five hundred photographs and sorting them gave Harriet three days’ work. That finished, she was set to making a fair copy of Miss Dora’s rough typescript. At the end of the first week, she hoped Dr Beltado would mention money, but nothing was said. She spent the next week typing each day from nine in the morning until six in the evening and once, when Dr Beltado had gone to reliev
e himself, she spoke quietly to Miss Dora: ‘Does Dr Beltado pay one weekly or monthly?’

  ‘Pay?’ Miss Dora seemed never to have heard of pay. Her homely face with its small eyes and thin, red nose quivered in embarrassment, but she asked: ‘What did you arrange with him?’

  ‘I didn’t arrange anything but I need to earn some money.’

  ‘If I get a chance, I’ll mention it to Dr Jolly.’ Miss Dora turned away as though the subject were distasteful and nothing more was said for the next three days. Then Harriet managed to trap her in the passage.

  ‘Miss Dora, please! Have you asked Dr Jolly about my salary?’

  ‘You’re to send in your account.’ Miss Dora dodged round Harriet and was gone. Harriet, used to a system of wages paid weekly for work done, had no idea what to charge or for how long. She bought some ruled paper and spent Friday evening in her room, concocting an account so modest no one could question it but when, on Saturday morning, she went up to the Beltado work-room, she found no one there.

  Dr Beltado, Dr Jolly and Miss Dora, folding chairs and tables, books and papers — all had gone. The bed was back against the wall. The whole place had the abject nullity of a body from which life had departed. And Harriet, on the floor below, had not heard a sound.

  She hurried down to ask Madame Vigo where Dr Beltado had gone? He and his ladies had departed the pension soon after daybreak, leaving no forwarding address.

  ‘And when are they coming back?’

  ‘One year, two year. I not know.’

  ‘They did not pay me for my work.’

  ‘They forgot?’

  Perhaps they did forget; and Harriet felt the more disconsolate to think herself forgotten.

  Eleven

  The news reached Cairo that British and American forces had made contact in North Africa. At the same time Guy received official confirmation of Harriet’s death. The letter stated that the name of Harriet Pringle was on a list of 530 persons granted passage on the evacuation ship, the Queen of Sparta, that sailed from Suez on 28 December 1942. The Queen of Sparta had been sunk by enemy action while in the Indian Ocean. Harriet Pringle, together with 528 other passengers, had been declared missing, believed drowned. One passenger and two members of the crew had survived. The passenger’s name was given as Caroline Rutter.