Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  Jamil’s café was not, as Harriet supposed, one of the bazaar cafés where men sat all day over a cup of coffee. It was in the new city, a large modern establishment with marble table-tops and tubular chrome chairs. Jamil, as proprietor, sat among an admiring crowd of young men, one of them the guitarist who had sung ‘Who is Romeo?’ They all shouted Halal’s name and Jamil, springing to his feet, placed a chair for Harriet, making it clear to the others that he was already acquainted with her. She realized that if they had not actually seen her with Halal, they had heard of her. Their welcoming laughter was not for Halal alone, it was for Halal accompanied by a lady. She might have a husband somewhere but if so, the fact merely enriched the drama of Halal’s relationship with a foreign woman, and the courtesy bestowed on her was all the more courteous.

  Halal’s manner was serious but that did not affect the humour of his friends and several minutes passed before he could tell them of Beltado’s perfidy. Even then, from habit, Jamil went on laughing, saying: ‘That Beltado! It is like him, isn’t it? You remember last time he was here he had long treatment for his stomach from Dr Amin, then one day he was gone and Amin was not paid?’

  One of them prompted him: ‘Tell us again what Amin said.’

  ‘Yes, what he said!’ This was so funny that Jamil could hardly speak for laughing: ‘He said of Beltado: “Pale, bulky and offensive like a sprue patient’s shit.’”

  ‘Jamil!’ Halal raised his voice in anger: ‘To tell such before a lady!’

  Jamil collapsed in shame, red faced and abashed to the point of speechlessness. Harriet pretended that Dr Amin’s remark had been beyond her comprehension and so Jamil gradually recovered and was able to discuss Beltado’s departure. But the discussion did not help Harriet. Beltado with his large, powerful car might have gone anywhere. He might even have returned to Turkey and, as he had done in the past, disappeared into Axis territory. Soon the talk ceased to relate to Harriet’s predicament and became an acclamation of Beltado’s mysterious, almost supernatural, ability to cross frontiers closed to the subjects of the Allied powers.

  ‘How is it done?’ they asked each other. ‘Is he British or American? If not, what is he?’

  Harriet told them that Beltado had an Eire passport.

  ‘But what is it, this Eire passport? How does it give him such powers?’

  ‘It means he has Irish citizenship and as Ireland is not at war with the Axis, he can enter occupied countries, but he doesn’t find it easy. The Axis officials can’t believe that Ireland, being part of the British Isles, isn’t an enemy country.’

  This explanation merely puzzled them further and led them a long way from Harriet’s problem. Halal, seeing that there was no help from Jamil, said: ‘I am taking Mrs Pringle to see my father’s silk factory.’ They left amid regrets and good wishes.

  Alone with her in the street, Halal said sadly: ‘I fear now you will return to Cairo.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do. To tell you the truth, I can’t return to Cairo. My husband thinks I’m on a ship going to England. I was supposed to go but instead of boarding the ship, I came here.’

  Halal, baffled by this confession, stopped and stared at her: ‘What you tell me is very strange, is it not? Do I mistake your meaning? Did you say you were to go in a ship to England but did not go? Ah, I understand! You could not bear to travel so far from Mr Pringle and yet, afraid to go back, you came here. Was that what happened?’

  ‘That may have been the reason.’

  The indecision of this reply puzzled him still further but sensing there was a rift between the Pringles, he walked on, staring down at his feet as though pondering what he had been told. He said at last: ‘Do you wish to come to the silk factory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The factory was in a series of sheds behind the souk. For a while she was distracted by the young workmen — very like Halal’s friends except that the friends were idle while these men had to work — and the large spools of brilliantly coloured silks. She was shown rolls of the finished materials in ancient patterns, some enhanced with gold and silver. She forgot Beltado but Halal did not forget his concern for her. Walking with her back to the pension, he said earnestly:

  ‘Mrs Pringle, my friends do not understand why I seek your company. They say: “Halal, you are foolish. We know such English ladies. They seem free but there will be nothing for you. All you do is waste your money.” But I know better. I have in me ideals they do not know of. They talk much of romance but they are afraid. In the end they marry within the family. It is usual with them to marry a cousin.’

  ‘And does it work out?’

  ‘Oh yes, well enough. The girls do not expect much. There is something simple and good in these women. They have the childish outlook of nuns. And what criteria have they? What do they know of men? They know only a father or a brother. A cousin is the nearest thing; he is safe. And the female relatives are tactful. When the bridegroom is seen, they are full of admiration, or pretend to be, so the girl is content.’

  ‘I suppose it is the criticism of the world that spoils things.’

  ‘Well, for me, I don’t fear criticism. I know what I want. I know what I am doing. I say to Jamil and the others: “If I spend money on this lady, I shall make a friend. One day I think she will reward me.’”

  He looked into Harriet’s face, expecting her to applaud him and perhaps give him hope, but she had no hope to give. The rain started as they reached the pension garden and they stood for a few minutes under the mulberry tree. Halal put his hand out to her but she would not take it.

  He said again: ‘May I offer you my protection?’

  She looked away, wondering how to escape him. When he tried to touch her arm, she said ‘I’m sorry,’ and hurried into the pension. Reaching her room she locked the door, not from fear that he would follow her but because she had to isolate herself. She had to face her own situation. She lay on the bed and closing her eyes, she projected her thoughts into space. With the resolution of despair, she cried to such powers as might be there: ‘Tell me what to do now.’ After a while she sank into a drowsy inertia, stupefied by her own failure.

  In London, she had earned her own living and had told herself that any girl who could survive there, could survive anywhere in the world. Now she knew she had been wrong. Here her attempt at an independent life had reduced her to penury. She slept and woke with a name in her mind: Angela.

  She knew only one Angela, her friend in Cairo who had gone off with the poet Castlebar. Remembering her with affection, she thought: ‘Dear Angela, I know if you were here you would help me. But you’re not here and I must help myself.’ She jumped up and packed her suitcase. When she went to the dining-room, she told Madame Vigo she was leaving next day.

  Unperturbed, Madame Vigo said: ‘You want taxi?’

  ‘No. I’ll go to Beirut by train.’

  ‘Not good train. Better taxi.’

  Harriet could not afford a taxi to Beirut but she had to take one to the station. Driving through the main square, she saw Halal at the kerb, his case under his arm, his sallow, vulnerable face grave, waiting to cross the road. Safely past him, she said to herself: ‘Goodbye, Halal. I’m afraid your friends were right.’

  At the station, she spoke to the stationmaster who knew a little English. When was the next train to Beirut? He shrugged, putting out his hands: ‘Mam’zell, who knows? Trains very bad. All stolen by army, better take taxi.’

  ‘I can’t. It would cost too much.’

  ‘Then go Riyak and then go Baalbek. In Baalbek many tourists, some English. They take you Beirut.’

  Here was a solution of a sort. She felt pleased, even excited, at the thought of seeing Baalbek. There was a local train to Riyak at one p.m. and she waited on the platform, fearful of missing it. There was no buffet, nowhere to sit, but she was getting away from Halal.

  The train arrived at two o’clock and stood for an hour in the station before setting out again. As it climbed the foot
hills of the Anti-Lebanon, she could see through the dirty windows the foliage of the Ghuta and the golden crescents of the mosque, and she said again: ‘Goodbye. Goodbye, Halal.’ The oasis, a thick green carpet, was sliced off abruptly and then they were in the desert, grey under a grey sky. The train, like a mule unwilling to go farther, jerked and jolted and stopped every few miles.

  Two old countrywomen shared Harriet’s carriage, speaking a language that was strange to her. Halal had told her that in some outlying villages the people still spoke Aramaic and she listened intently, wondering if she were hearing the language of Christ.

  When at last the train dragged itself into Riyak, the sky had cleared and a small tourists’ shuttle marked ‘Baalbek’ stood at the next platform. The ease of this transfer brightened everything for her. As the shuttle ran between orchards burgeoning in the sunlight, she felt sure that succour awaited her in this brilliant and fruitful land.

  Thirteen

  Dobson said at breakfast: ‘The navy’s been bombarding Pantellaria. I think we can guess what that means.’

  As Guy and Edwina had never heard of Pantellaria, he told them: ‘It’s an inoffensive little island shaped like a sperm whale. I suppose the Wops have it fortified.’

  ‘So you think we’re preparing to cross the Med?’ Guy asked.

  ‘My guess is as good as yours, but we’re certainly preparing for something. The gen is that Axis troops have folded up in North Africa. Not a squeak out of them. So we’re due for the next move which would be northwards. It could all be over quicker than anyone thinks. Home for Christmas, eh?’

  ‘Not this Christmas, I shouldn’t think.’ Remembering the wet, empty streets of London at Christmas, Guy knew he had no home there. On his last Christmas in London, on his way to an evening party, he had passed men standing at street corners, waiting for the pubs to open. Lonely men, men without homes. But he would not be like that. He would always have friends. He had friends wherever he went, but the truth was: friends had lives of their own and were liable to disappear. Castlebar had gone off with the mad woman Angela Hooper and Jackman had been sent to Bizerta under arrest. And perhaps even Simon would not need him much longer. He was beginning to feel that the only permanent relationship was the relationship of marriage, if death or divorce did not end it. He sighed, thinking that his had been as good as any yet he had not known it at the time.

  Fourteen

  Baalbek was the end of the line. Though the little train still went hopefully to its destination, tourists were few and Harriet was the only passenger. When she descended at the empty station, it seemed that even the engine driver and the guard had disappeared. There were no porters. The platforms were empty. She was alone. She dragged her case out to the road then stopped, unable to take it farther. She hoped to find a taxi but there were no taxis.

  At one side of the station entrance there was a primitive café with an outdoor table and bench. Pushing the case in front of her, she reached the bench and sat down in the late afternoon sunlight. Though the whole place looked unpopulated, she felt pleasure in being there.

  A wide road ran from the station into the distance where rust-coloured hills rose from among green foliage. The road was light-coloured, dusty, and on either side stood trees, very tall and slender, drooping towards each other. There were a few old buildings here and there and neglected fields. Beyond the fields there were the remains of ancient ramparts. At one side of the road a clear and brilliant stream ran into a pool. The place, what there was of it, conveyed a sense of tranquillity and broken-down grandeur.

  Tired, not knowing where to go, she let herself drift into the pleasing languor of the spirit that the Arabs called khayf and was startled when a man came out of the café and stood looking at her. He was short and though still young, stout. His dress, white shirt and black trousers, told her that he was a Christian. He asked in French what he could do for her. When she said she was looking for somewhere to stay, his plump, brown face became troubled.

  ‘I bring you mon frère George.’

  George, a large, red-haired, fair-skinned fellow, came from the café. From his appearance, he might have been an English yeoman and, as was fitting, he spoke some English. Harriet, deciding that the brothers were descended from a red-haired Crusader, was delighted with them for proving the Mendelian theory and tried to explain heredity, pointing out that while one brother was a brown-skinned Arab, the other was a copy of his English forebear. They did not know what she was talking about and she realized she was being absurd. Her situation was now so hopeless, she was almost light-headed.

  She said to George: ‘Where can I find an hotel?’

  George stared at her for some moments before reaching the point of speech: ‘Not any more hotel. Before war, two, but now all two are close-ed.’

  ‘Is there a train to Beirut?’

  ‘Tonight no train. Train tomorrow.’

  A third brother, very like the first, appeared now and the three of them, speaking in Arabic, discussed her situation with expressions of concern. It did not occur to them to abandon her. Here was a young woman alone, in need of a bed for the night, and something must be done for her. They appeared to reach a conclusion and the red-haired brother, saying ‘Come with me’, beckoned her into the white-washed interior of the café. She was led upstairs to a landing that had the smell of an unaired sleeping place. He opened a door and showed her a small room with a bunk, a broken-backed chair and some hooks for clothing. There were no sheets but a grimy, padded cover thrown to one side showed that this was a bedroom. One of the brothers had given up his room to her.

  The red-haired man offered this accommodation with a smile, apparently imagining it was as good as anything to be found in the world. She returned the smile, saying: ‘Thank you, it is very nice.’ What else could she do? Where else could she go? At least she had shelter for the night and next day there would be a train to Beirut.

  The first brother carried up Harriet’s suitcase and, left to herself, she went to look for a washroom. She found only a privy with a hole in the floor, high smelling and not over clean.

  When she went downstairs, the brothers were waiting for her and George asked: ‘You like to eat? We make kebabs.’

  ‘Yes, but later. I must see the temples first.’

  George came out to the road with her and waving at the long avenue of trees, said: ‘Baalbek very old.’

  She looked at the ruined remnant of fortifications and asked: ‘Roman?’

  He shook his head in forceful denial: ‘No, no. Much more old. Cain lived here. He built a fort to hide in after he murdered Abel. Noah lived here. King Solomon sat beside this water. He built the temples for his ladies. You know he had many ladies, all many religions.’

  Harriet laughed: ‘Are you sure Solomon built the temples?’

  ‘What other could do it?. Solomon had them built by his genii. Not men.’

  Harriet laughed again and started down the road. As she went, she could see columns rising in the distance, dark and ponderous, looking less like classical monuments than menhirs from a more primitive age. The sun was beginning to sink, the light was deepening and she hurried to see what she could before the night came down.

  Inside the temple enclosure, she came to the steps on which the columns stood. Standing below them, she gazed up at them, overawed by their height and massive girth. Against the dense cerulean of the evening sky, their hot colour looked almost black.

  Although there were walnut trees coming into leaf and pigeons taking flight and lizards rustling between the stones, there was a sinister atmosphere about the site. The platform had been a place of sacrifice: human sacrifice. Terror was imprinted on the atmosphere and Harriet felt afraid as she climbed up the steps and passed between the pillars on to the stretch of massive stones that now reflected the orange-gold of the sinking sun. She contemplated her own solitude and thought of the room in which she would have to spend the night. The men, however good their intentions, were strangers and she h
ad seen no sign of a woman about the café.

  Tomorrow she could go on to Beirut, but what would she do there? Without money and without future, she would be no better off than she had been in Damascus. Unnerved by her own situation, she cried out: ‘Guy, why don’t you come to look for me?’

  But no one was coming to look for her. No one knew where she was to be found. For all anyone knew, she might be dead.

  She walked to the temple at the other end of the platform. The interior was dark and, pausing at the entrance, she thought she heard a car come to a stop. She stood, listening intently, and after a few minutes heard someone coming up the steps to the platform. She felt the solace of not being alone, then she realized that she was alone and anything could happen to her.

  She watched apprehensively as a fat man limped into view. He had on a faded khaki shirt and brown corduroy trousers and only his cap, worn at a jaunty angle, showed that he was an army officer. She recognized him and laughed at her own fears. Seeing her, he lifted his stick and waving it excitedly, shouted: ‘What are you doing here?’ Astonished by her presence, he came towards her, moving as quickly as he could, his round, pink face beaming at this unlikely encounter. She felt too much relief and thankfulness to say anything.

  ‘You remember me, don’t you? Old Lister who used to take you out to lunch at Groppi’s?’

  ‘Of course I remember you. It’s just . . . I’m a bit stunned. It seems too good to be true.’

  Delighted at seeing her, Lister scarcely heard this declaration but chattered on: ‘It’s amazing, how things happen. Only yesterday I saw a friend of Guy’s, that poet fellow I met in Alex. I didn’t speak to him because he’s not alone. He’s got a bint with him. Nice-looking, dark-haired girl, not too young.’ Lister’s round pink nose and fluff of fair moustache quivered as he spoke of the girl: ‘Lucky chap, eh? Lucky chap!’

  ‘Do you know where they’re staying?’

  ‘At my hotel. That’s where I saw them.’