Finally we go into Kamichlie and have a consultation with the French authorities. They obviously consider that we are mad!
Unexpectedly, this stiffens Max’s determination. It is, he agrees, doubtless foolish, but is it possible?
The doctor shrugs his shoulders. But yes, it is possible! There will be forms – a lot of forms. ‘Et des timbres, beaucoup de timbres.’ ‘Naturally,’ says Max, ‘that is inevitable!’
Things are set under way. A taxi-driver, shortly making the return journey to Jerablus, enthusiastically accepts the task of conveying the (suitably disinfected) dead body. A workman, cousin of the dead man, will go in charge. All is arranged.
First, disinterment; then the signing of many forms and the attaching of stamps; the attendance of the military doctor armed with a large formalin spray; the bestowing of the body in the coffin; more formalin; the coffin is sealed up, the taxi-driver hoists it cheerfully into position.
‘Hola!’ he cries. ‘We shall have a gay journey! We must be careful our brother does not fall off on the way!’
The whole proceedings are now taking on that intense jocularity that can only be paralleled by the spirit of an Irish wake. The taxi drives off, with the driver and the cousin singing songs at the top of their voices. This, you feel, is a wonderful occasion for both of them! They are thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Max breathes a sigh of relief. He has affixed the last stamp and paid the final fees. The necessary forms (a voluminous sheaf) have been entrusted to the taxi-driver.
‘Ah, well,’ says Max, ‘that is the end of that!’
He is wrong. The journey of the dead man, Abdullah Hamid, could be made into a poetical saga. There seems a moment when his body shall never know repose.
The body duly arrives at Jerablus. It is received with the proper lamentations, and with, we gather, a certain pride, so splendid has been its journey. There is a big celebration – a feast, in fact. The taxi-man, calling upon Allah, proceeds on his journey to Alep. It is realized, after he has gone, that the all-important ‘forms’ have gone with him.
Chaos ensues. Without the necessary forms the dead man cannot be buried. Is it necessary, then, that he shall be returned to Kamichlie? Hot disputes arise on these points. Messages are dispatched – to the French authorities at Kamichlie, to us, to the very problematical address of the taxi-driver in Alep. Everything is done in a leisurely Arab fashion – and in the meantime Abdullah Hamid remains unburied.
How long, I ask Max anxiously, does the effect of formalin last? A fresh set of forms (complete with les timbres) are obtained and sent to Jerablus. Word comes that the corpse is about to be sent back by rail to Kamichlie. Urgent wires fly to and fro.
Suddenly all ends well. The taxi-man reappears in Jerablus, flourishing the forms.
‘What an oversight!’ he exclaims. The funeral proceeds in order and decency. Our reputation, Alawi assures us, is safe! The French authorities still consider we are mad. Our workmen gravely approve. Michel is outraged – what absence of economia! To relieve his feelings he hammers tutti loudly under the windows in the early hours of the morning until told forcefully to stop.
Tutti is the general name for all construction and usages of petrol tins. What Syria would do without the petrol tin one cannot imagine! Women fetch water from the well in petrol tins. Petrol tins are cut and hammered in strips on roofs and to mend houses.
It is Michel’s ambition, he tells us in a burst of confidence, to have a house completely made of tutti.
‘It will be beautiful,’ he says wistfully, ‘very beautiful.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Fin de Saison
CHAGAR BAZAR is turning out well, and B. comes out from London as additional help for the last month.
It is interesting to watch B. and Mac together – they are such a complete contrast. B. is definitely a social animal, Mac an unsocial one. They get on very well together, but look at each other in puzzled wonderment.
On a day when we are going into Kamichlie, B. suddenly expresses concern.
‘Seems rather bad luck leaving old Mac alone all day? Perhaps I’d better stay with him.’
‘Mac likes being alone,’ I assure him.
B. looks incredulous. He goes off to the drawing-office.
‘Look here, Mac, like me to stay behind? Rather boring being left alone all day.’
A look of consternation crosses Mac’s face.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘Queer chap he is,’ says B. as we bounce from rut to rut on the way to Kamichlie. ‘You know that sunset last night? Beautiful! I was up on the roof looking at it. Found Mac there. I was a bit enthusiastic, I admit, but old Mac, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t even answer. Yet I suppose he went up there to look at it?’
‘Yes, he usually goes up there in the evenings.’
‘It seems so odd he doesn’t say anything, then.’
I picture Mac on the roof, aloof and silent, B. buzzing enthusiastically beside him.
Later, no doubt, Mac in his scrupulously neat room will sit upon the plaid rug and write in his diary….
‘I mean, you’d think, wouldn’t you…’ B. goes on perseveringly, but is interrupted as Michel, swerving across the road with diabolical intentions, steps heavily on the accelerator and charges a party of Arabs – two old women and a man with a donkey.
They scatter, screaming, and Max surpasses himself in swearing angrily at Michel. What the hell does he think he’s doing? He might have killed them!
That, apparently, was more or less Michel’s intention.
‘What would it have mattered?’ he asks, flinging both hands in the air and allowing the car to take its own course. ‘They are Mohammedans, are they not?’
After enunciating this, according to his views, highly Christian sentiment, he relapses into the martyred silence of one misunderstood. What kind of Christians are these, he seems to be saying to himself, weak and irresolute in the faith!
Max lays it down as a positive rule that no attempted murder of Mohammedans is to be permitted.
Michel murmurs sadly under his breath:
‘It would be better if all Mohammedans were dead!’
Apart from our usual business in Kamichlie of visits to the Bank, shopping at M. Yannakos’, and a polite call on the French, B. has business of his own – namely, to collect a parcel sent after him from England and consisting of two pairs of pyjamas.
An official notification has been received by us that the parcel in question is waiting at the Post Office, and so to the Post Office we go.
The Postmaster is not in evidence, but is summoned to the post of duty by a wall-eyed underling. He arrives yawning, heavily dressed in lurid striped pyjamas. Although obviously aroused from heavy slumber, he is polite and amiable, shakes hands all round, inquires as to the progress of our excavations: Have we found any gold? Will we drink a cup of coffee with him? And thus courtesy having been satisfied, we drift to the subject of mail. Our letters now come to the Post Office at Amuda – not a very happy plan, as the elderly Postmaster in Amuda regards them as so precious and valuable that he frequently locks them away in the safe deposit for valuables and forgets to hand them out.
B.’s parcel, however, has been detained in Kamichlie, and we now start negotiations for its delivery.
‘Yes, certainly there is such a parcel,’ says the Postmaster. ‘It has come from London, England. Ah, what a great city that must be! How much I would like to see it! It is addressed to a Monsieur B.’ Ah, this is Monsieur B., our new colleague? He shakes hands with B. again and utters some polite compliments. B. replies socially and politely in Arabic.
After this interlude we return to the question of the parcel. Yes, says the Postmaster, it has been here – actually here in the office! But it is here no longer. It has been removed to the custody of the Customs. Monsieur B. must realize that parcels are subject to Customs dues.
B. says that it is personal wearing apparel.
The Postmaster says: ‘No doubt, no doubt; but that is the affair of the Customs.’
‘We must, then, go to the Customs office?’
‘That will be the proper procedure,’ agrees the Postmaster. ‘Not that it will be any use going today. Today is Wednesday, and on Wednesdays the Customs are closed.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, tomorrow the Customs will be open.’
‘Sorry,’ says B. to Max. ‘I suppose it means I shall have to come in again tomorrow to get my parcel.’
The Postmaster says that certainly Monsieur B. will have to come in tomorrow, but that even tomorrow he will not be able to get his parcel.
‘Why not?’ demands B.
‘Because, after the formalities of the Customs have been settled, the parcel must then go through the Post Office.’
‘You mean, I shall have to come on here?’
‘Precisely. And that will not be possible tomorrow, for tomorrow the Post Office will be closed,’ says the Postmaster triumphantly.
We go into the subject in detail, but officialdom triumphs at every turn. On no day of the week, apparently, are both the Customs and the Post Office open!
We immediately turn and upbraid poor B. and ask him why on earth he can’t bring his beastly pyjamas with him instead of having them sent on by post!
‘Because,’ says B., defending himself, ‘they are very special pyjamas.’
‘They should be,’ says Max, ‘considering all the trouble they are going to cause! This lorry goes to and from the dig every day; not into Kamichlie as a postal service!’
We try to persuade the Postmaster to let B. sign the P.O. forms now, but he is adamant. P.O. formalities are always undertaken after the Customs. Defeated, we go sadly out of the Post Office, and the Postmaster, presumably, returns to bed.
Michel comes up excitedly and says he has made a most advantageous bargain in oranges. He has bought two hundred oranges at a most economical price. As usual, he is sworn at. How does he think we are going to get through two hundred oranges before they go bad – that is to say, if they are not bad already?
Some of them, Michel admits, are perhaps a trifle on the stale side, but they are very cheap, and there is a great reduction for taking the two hundred. Max agrees to inspect them, and on doing so immediately turns them down. Most of them are already covered with green mould!
Michel murmurs sadly: ‘Economia!’ After all, they are oranges. He departs, and returns with some economical hens, carried, as is usual, upside down, with their legs tied together. Other economical and uneconomical purchases having been made, we set off for home.
I ask Mac if he has had a nice day, and he says: ‘Splendid!’ with unmistakable enthusiasm.
Gazing uncomprehendingly at Mac, B. sits down on a chair that isn’t there, and Mac’s perfect day is brought to a delightful finish. I have never seen anyone laugh so much! At intervals during dinner he breaks out again. If we had known just what tickled Mac’s sense of humour, we could have arranged to give him quite a lot of quiet fun!
B. continues with his uphill task of being sociable. On the days when Max is at the dig and the three of us are in the house, B. roams around like a lost soul. He goes into the drawing-office and talks to Mac, but, meeting with no response, he comes sadly into the office, where I am busy on the typewriter getting down to the gory details of a murder.
‘Oh,’ says B., ‘you’re busy?’
I say: ‘Yes’ shortly.
‘Writing?’ asks B.
‘Yes’ (more shortly).
‘I thought, perhaps,’ says B. wistfully, ‘I might bring the labels and the objects in here. I shouldn’t be disturbing you, should I?’
I have to be firm. I explain clearly that it is quite impossible for me to get on with my dead body if a live body is moving, breathing, and in all probability talking, in the near vicinity!
Poor B. goes sadly away, condemned to work in loneliness and silence. I feel convinced that, if B. ever writes a book, he will do so most easily with a wireless and a gramophone turned on close at hand and a few conversations going on in the same room!
But when visitors arrive, either at the mound or at the house, then B. comes into his own.
Nuns, French officers, visiting archaeologists, tourists – B. is willing and competent to deal with them all.
‘Here’s a car stopping and some people. Shall I go down and see who they are?’
‘Oh, please do!’
And presently the party arrives, ably shepherded, with B. chatting away in any necessary language. On these occasions, as we tell him, B. is worth his weight in gold.
‘Mac’s not much good, is he?’ says B., grinning at Mac.
‘Mac,’ I say severely, ‘is no good at all. He won’t even try.’
Mac gives his gentle remote smile….
Mac, we discover, has a weakness. That weakness is The Horse.
The problem of B.’s pyjamas is dealt with by his dropping Mac at the mound and continuing to Kamichlie in the car. Mac wants to come home midday, and Alawi suggests that he should ride home. The Sheikh has several horses. At once Mac’s face lights up. That gentle aloofness disappears. Eagerness takes its place.
From thence on, whenever there is the least excuse, Mac comes home on horseback.
‘The Khwaja Mac,’ says Alawi, ‘he never speaks; he whistles. When he wants the pole-boy to go to the left, he whistles; when he wants the mason to come, he whistles; now it is for a horse he whistles!’
The matter of B.’s pyjamas is still unsettled. The Customs demand the exorbitant sum of eight pounds! B. points out that the pyjamas only cost two pounds a pair and refuses to pay. A most difficult situation is then created. What, the Customs demand, are they to do with the parcel? They return it to the Postmaster. He is not to give it to B., and he is not to let it leave the country! We spend several wasted days and hours going into Kamichlie and arguing the matter. The Bank Manager is called in, and the officers of the Services Spéciaux. Even a high dignitary of the Maronite Church who is visiting the Bank Manager takes a hand, looking very impressive in purple robes, an immense cross, and a large bun of hair! The wretched Postmaster, though still in pyjamas, gets hardly any sleep at all! The business is rapidly becoming an International incident.
Suddenly all is settled. The douanier of Amuda arrives at our house with the parcel. The complications have been resolved: thirty shillings for the duty, ‘douze francs cinquante pour les timbres, et des cigarettes, n’est ce pas?’ (Packets of cigarettes are pushed into his hand.) ‘Voilà, Monsieur!’ He beams, B. beams, everybody beams. We all stand round and watch B. open his parcel.
He holds the contents up proudly, explaining, like the White Knight, that this is a special invention of his own.
‘Mosquitoes,’ he explains. ‘Does away with mosquito nets.’
Max says he’s never seen a mosquito in these parts.
‘Of course there are mosquitoes,’ B. says. ‘It is well known. Stagnant water!’
My eyes go immediately to Mac.
‘There’s no stagnant water here,’ I say. ‘If so, Mac would have seen it!’
B. says triumphantly that there is a pond of stagnant water just to the north of Amuda.
Max and I repeat that we have never heard or seen any mosquito. B. pays no attention, but enlarges on his invention.
The pyjamas are of white washing silk. They are all in one, with a hood that comes up over the head, and the sleeves end in fingerless gloves. A zip closes up the front, so that the only parts of the wearer exposed to mosquito attack are the eyes and nose.
‘And you breathe in and out through your nose, which keeps off the mosquitoes,’ says B. triumphantly.
Max repeats chillingly that there are no mosquitoes.
B. gives us to understand that when we are all aching and shivering with malaria we shall wish we had adopted his idea.
Mac suddenly begins to laugh. We look at him inquiringly.
&
nbsp; ‘I’m thinking of that time you sat down when the chair wasn’t there,’ says Mac, and goes away happily chuckling.
We are fast asleep that night when a terrific hullabaloo breaks out. We spring up, thinking for the moment that we are being attacked by robbers. We all rush out into the dining-room. A white figure is rushing wildly up and down, yelping and jumping about.
‘Good heavens, B., what’s the matter?’ cries Max.
For a moment we think that B. has gone mad.
But enlightenment comes.
By some means or other a mouse has insinuated itself into the mosquito-proof pyjamas! The zip has jammed.
It is daylight before we stop laughing.
Only B. is not really amused….
The weather is growing hotter. All sorts of new flowers come out. I am no botanist, and do not know their names, and, frankly, do not want to know them. (What pleasure does it give you knowing what things are called?) But there are blue and mauve ones, like tiny lupins and little wild tulips; and golden ones, like marigolds, and puce-coloured delicate spikes of bloom. All the mounds are a riot of colour. This is, indeed, the ‘fertile steppe’. I visit the antika-room and borrow some suitably shaped pots. Mac, wishing to draw them, looks for them in vain. They are full of flowers.
Our house is rising now rapidly. The wooden centering is erected and mud-brick is being plastered on it. The effect is going to be very good. I congratulate Mac, standing beside him on the mound.
‘This is a great deal better than my lavatory,’ I say.
The successful architect agrees. He complains, however, bitterly of his workmen, who have no idea at all, he says, of accuracy. I say I’m sure they haven’t. Mac says bitterly that they just laugh and think it doesn’t matter. I turn the talk to horses, and Mac cheers up.
With the hotter weather, our workmen’s tempers grow hotter also. Max increases fines for broken heads, and at last comes to a desperate decision. Every morning the men are to hand in their weapons before they start work. It is an unpopular decision, but reluctantly the men agree. Under Max’s eye, bludgeons, maces and long murderous-looking knives are handed over to Michel, who locks them away inside Mary. At sunset they are returned to the owners. It wastes time and is tedious, but at least the workmen escape more serious damage.
Come, Tell Me How You Live Page 10
