Come, Tell Me How You Live

by Agatha Christie Mallowan

  Turkish delight and some delicious preserved fruits from Damascus are then placed on the table, and at this moment the Sheikh arrives to pay us an evening call. Our decision to dig at Chagar has changed his position from one of hopeless bankruptcy to that of a man on whom a shower of gold may descend at any minute. According to the foremen, he has acquired a new and handsome Yezidi wife on the strength of this, and has increased his debts enormously as a result of enlarged credit! He is certainly in very good spirits. As always, he is armed to the teeth. Carelessly casting off his rifle and slinging it into a corner, he expatiates on the merits of an automatic pistol he has just acquired.

  ‘See,’ he says, pointing it full at the Colonel. ‘The mechanism is like this – excellent and simple. You place your finger on the trigger – so – and bullet after bullet comes out.’

  In an agonized voice the Colonel asks if the pistol is loaded.

  Naturally it is loaded, the Sheikh replies in a surprised voice. What would be the good of a pistol that was not loaded?

  The Colonel, who has a proper military horror of loaded weapons being pointed at him, promptly changes his seat, and Max distracts the Sheikh from his new toy by offering him Turkish delight. The Sheikh helps himself lavishly, sucks his fingers in appreciation, and beams round at us all.

  ‘Ah,’ he says – noting that I am engaged on The Times crossword puzzle – ‘so your Khatún reads? Does she also write?’

  Max says that such is the case.

  ‘A very learned Khatún,’ says the Sheikh appreciatively. ‘And does she give medicine to women? If so, my wives shall come one evening and explain to her all that ails them.’

  Max replies that the Sheikh’s wives will be welcome, but that his Khatún, unfortunately, does not understand much Arabic.

  ‘We shall manage – we shall manage,’ says the Sheikh cheerfully.

  Max inquires about the Sheikh’s journey to Baghdad.

  ‘It is not yet arranged,’ says the Sheikh. ‘There are difficulties – formalities.’

  We all have a shrewd suspicion that the difficulties are financial. Rumour has it that the Sheikh has already spent all the money he has received from us, in addition to the rake-off he has obtained from the workmen of his village.

  ‘In the days of El Baron…’ he begins.

  But before an advance in gold can be mentioned, Max quickly circumvents him by asking where is the official receipt for the sixty Syrian pounds that the Sheikh has already received. ‘The Government will require it.’

  The Sheikh quickly gives up the idea of a touch, and explains that he has a dear friend and relation outside who has a bad eye. Will we come out and look at it and advise?

  We go out into the night and look at the eye by the aid of a torch. It is certainly beyond us, being a mere gory mess. Such an eye must be seen by a doctor, says Max. As soon as possible, he adds.

  The Sheikh nods. His friend is going into Alep. Will we give him a letter to Dr. Altounyan there? Max agrees, and starts upon it then and there, looking up to ask: ‘This man is a relation of yours, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his name?’ says Max, still writing.

  ‘His name?’ The Sheikh is a little taken aback. ‘I do not know. I must ask him.’

  The Sheikh departs into the night once more, returning with the information that his relation’s name is Mahmoud Hassan.

  ‘Mahmoud Hassan,’ says Max, writing it down.

  ‘Or is it,’ asks the Sheikh, ‘his passport name that you require? His passport name is Daoud Suliman.’

  Max looks puzzled, and asks what the man’s name really is.

  ‘Call him what you like,’ says the Sheikh generously.

  The letter is handed over, the Sheikh resumes his war-like accoutrements, blesses us cheerfully, and departs with his mysterious follower into the night.

  The Colonel and Bumps start an argument re King Edward the Eighth and Mrs. Simpson. This is followed by one on the subject of matrimony generally, which seems to lead quite naturally to the subject of suicide!

  At this point I leave them to it and go to bed.

  A high wind this morning. It rises, until about midday there is practically a dust-storm. Bumps, who has come up to the mound in a topee, has a good deal of trouble with it in the howling wind, and it finally gets entangled round his neck. Michel, always helpful, comes to the rescue.

  ‘Forca,’ he says, pulling hard upon a strap.

  Bumps turns purple in the face as he is slowly being strangled.

  ‘Beaucoup forca,’ says Michel cheerfully, pulling harder, and Bumps goes black. He is rescued just in time!

  A violent quarrel breaks out after the work between the hot-tempered Alawi and Serkis, our carpenter. It arises, as usual, out of nothing at all, but reaches murderous heights.

  Max perforce has to administer one of what he calls his ‘Prep, school talks’. Every day, he says, he becomes more and more fitted to be a headmaster, so easily do nauseatingly moral sentiments pour from him!

  The harangue is very impressive.

  ‘Do you imagine,’ demands Max, ‘that I and the Khwaja Colonel, and the Khwaja of the Pole, always have but a single thought in our minds? That we never wish to disagree? But do we raise our voices, shout, draw knives? No! All these things we put behind us until we go back to London! Here we put the Work first. Always the Work! We exercise control!’

  Alawi and Serkis are deeply affected, the quarrel is made up, and their touching politeness to each other as to who should pass out of the door first is really beautiful to behold!

  Purchase has been made of a bicycle – an extremely cheap Japanese bicycle. This is to be the proud possession of the boy Ali, and on it he is to ride into Kamichlie two days a week and collect the post.

  He sets out, full of importance and happiness, at day-break, returning about tea-time.

  I say doubtfully to Max that it is a long way to go. Kamichlie is forty kilometres away. I do rather sketchy sums in my head, and murmur: ‘Twenty-five miles, and twenty-four miles back,’ and add in consternation: ‘The boy can’t possibly do that. It’s far too much for him.’

  Max says (callously in my opinion): ‘Oh, I don’t think so!’

  ‘He must be exhausted,’ I murmur. I leave the room, and go in search of the overworked Ali. No sign of him.

  Dimitri at last understands what I am talking about.

  ‘Ali? Ali has come back from Kamichlie half an hour ago. Where is he now? He has bicycled to the village of Germayir, eight kilometres away, where he has a friend.’

  My solicitude on Ali’s behalf is abruptly damped, especially when he assists with waiting at table at dinner-time with a radiant face and no signs of fatigue.

  Max jeers and murmurs cryptically: ‘Remember Swiss Miss?’

  I fall to thinking of Swiss Miss and her times.

  Swiss Miss was one of five mongrel puppies on our first dig at Arpachiyah, near Mosul. They rejoiced (or acquiesced) in the names of Woolly Boy, Boujy, Whitefang, Tomboy, and Swiss Miss. Boujy died young of a surfeit of klechah, which is a form of exceptionally heavy pastry eaten by Christian sects at Easter. Some was brought to us by our Christian foremen and became somewhat of an embarrassment. Having suffered from its effects ourselves and seriously upset the digestion of an innocent girl guest who partook of it heartily for tea, we surreptitiously fed the remainder of it to Boujy. Boujy, unbelievingly crawling out into the sun, gulped this rich nourishment and promptly died! It was a death in ecstasy – and much to be envied! Of the remaining dogs, Swiss Miss was chief, since she was the Master’s Favourite. She would come to Max at sunset when the work was finished, and he would industriously detick her. After that the dogs would line up by the cookhouse, Swiss Miss at their head, and when their names were called they would advance one by one to receive dinner.

  Then, in some adventure, Swiss Miss broke a leg and came limping back a very sick dog. She did not die, however. When the time came for us to leave, the
fate of Swiss Miss weighed heavily upon me. Lame as she was, how would she survive once we had gone away? The only thing to do, I argued, was to have her put away. We could not leave her to die of starvation. Max, however, would not hear of this. He assured me optimistically that Swiss Miss would be all right. The others – yes, possibly, I said, they could fend for themselves, but Swiss Miss was a cripple.

  The argument went on, getting more impassioned on either side. In the end, Max won and we left, pressing money into the old gardener’s hand and bidding him ‘look after the dogs, especially Swiss Miss,’ but without much hope that he would do so. Fears as to Swiss Miss’s fate haunted me off and on for the next two years, and I constantly reproached myself for not standing firm. When we next passed through Mosul we went out to our old house to look round. It was empty – there was no sign of life anywhere. I murmured softly to Max: ‘I wonder what became of Swiss Miss?’

  And then we heard a growl. Sitting on the steps was a dog – a very hideous dog (even as a puppy Swiss Miss had been no beauty). It got up, and I saw that it walked lame. We called Swiss Miss, and its tail wagged faintly, although it continued to growl under its breath. And then, from the bushes, came a small puppy that ran to its mother. Swiss Miss must have found a handsome husband, for the puppy was a most attractive little dog. Mother and child regarded us placidly, though without real recognition.

  ‘You see,’ said Max triumphantly, ‘I told you she’d be all right. Why, she’s quite fat. Swiss Miss has brains, so, of course, she’s survived. Think what a good time she’d have missed if we’d had her put away!’

  Since then, when I start indulging in anxieties, the words Swiss Miss are used to quell my objections!

  The mule has not been purchased after all. Instead, a horse – a real horse, not an old woman, but a grand horse, a prince among horses – has been purchased. And with the horse, inseparable from it, apparently, has come a Circassian.

  ‘What a man!’ says Michel, his voice rising in a high whine of admiration. ‘The Circassians know all about horses. They live for horses. And what care, what forethought this man has for his horse! He worries unceasingly about its comfort. And how polite he is! What good manners he has – to Me!’

  Max remains unimpressed, remarking that time will show whether the man is any good. He is presented to us. He has a gay air and high boots, and reminds me of something out of a Russian ballet.

  Today we have a visit from a French colleague – from Mari. With him came his architect. Like many French architects, he looks rather like an inferior saint. He has one of those weak nondescript beards. He says nothing but ‘Merci, Madame,’ in polite negatives when offered anything. M. Parrot explains that he is suffering with his stomach.

  After a pleasant visit they go off again. We admire their car. M. Parrot says sadly: ‘Oui, c’est une bonne machine, mais elle va trap vite. Beaucoup trop vite.’ He adds: ‘L’année dernière elle a tué deux de mes architectes!’

  They then get in, the saintlike architect takes the wheel, and they suddenly depart in a whirl of dust at sixty miles an hour – through potholes, over bumps, twisting through the Kurdish village. It seems quite likely that yet another architect, undeterred by his predessor’s fate, will fall a victim to the determined speed of the machine. Clearly the automobile is always to blame! Never the man whose foot is on the accelerator.

  The French army is now on manoeuvres. This is thrilling for the Colonel, whose martial interest is at once awakened. His eager overtures are, however, received extremely coldly by the officers to whom they are addressed. They regard him with suspicion.

  I tell him that they think he is a spy.

  ‘A spy? Me?’ demands the Colonel, highly indignant. ‘How could they think such a thing?’

  ‘Well, obviously they do.’

  ‘I was just asking them a few simple questions. These things are interesting technically. But their replies are so vague.’

  It is all very disappointing for the poor Colonel, yearning to talk shop and being firmly rebuffed.

  The manoeuvres worry our workmen in quite another way. One grave, bearded man comes up to Max.

  ‘Khwaja, will the ‘asker interfere with my trade?’

  ‘No, certainly not; they won’t interfere with the dig at all.’

  ‘I do not mean the work, Khwaja, but with my own trade.’

  Max asks him what his trade is, and he replies proudly that it is smuggling cigarettes!

  The smuggling of cigarettes over the Iraq border appears to be almost an exact science. The Customs’ car arrives at a village one day – and on the next the smugglers…. Max asks if the Customs never turn back and visit a village a second time. The man looks reproachful, and says of course not. If they did, everything would go wrong. As it is, the workmen happily smoke cigarettes that have cost them twopence a hundred!

  Max questions some of the men as to what exactly it costs them to live. Most of them bring a sack of flour with them if they have come from a distant village. This lasts them about ten days. Someone in the village makes their bread for them, as apparently it is below their dignity to bake their own. They have onions occasionally, sometimes some rice, and they probably get sour milk. After working prices out, we find that it costs each man about twopence a week!

  Two workmen who are Turks now come up, and in their turn ask anxiously about the ‘asker.

  Will they make trouble for us, Khwaja?’

  ‘Why should they make trouble for you?’

  Apparently the Turks have no business to be across the border. One of our pickmen reassures them, however. ‘It will be all right,’ he says; ‘you wear the kefiyaed.’

  A cap on the head is only worn uneasily in this part of the world, and yells of derision come from the kefiyaed Arabs and Kurds as they point a scornful finger and yell ‘Turki! Turki!’ at the unfortunate man, who, by order of Mustapha Kemal, is wearing European headgear. ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a cap’ in these parts.

  Tonight, as we finish dinner, the anxious Ferhid comes in, and in tones of despair announces that the Sheikh has brought his wives to ask advice of the Khatún.

  I feel slightly nervous. Apparently I have gained quite a reputation for medical wisdom. This is singularly undeserved. Although the Kurdish women make no bones about describing their ailments in detail to Max to pass on to me, the more modest Arab women will only come to me when I am alone. The scene that ensues is mostly pantomime. Headaches are fairly easily indicated, and an aspirin accepted with reverent awe. Bad and inflamed eyes can be seen, though to explain the uses of boracic is more difficult.

  ‘Mai harr,’ I say (Hot water).

  ‘Mai harr,’ they repeat.

  Then I demonstrate with a pinch of boracic – ‘Mithl hadha.’

  Final pantomime of the bathing of eyes.

  The patient then responds by a pantomime of drinking a copious draught. I shake my head. Outward application – to the eyes. The patient is a little disappointed. However, we hear next day from the foreman that the wife of Abu Suleiman has been greatly benefited by the Khatún’s medicine. She bathed her eyes with it, and then drank it all, every drop!

  The commonest gesture is an expressive rubbing of the abdomen.

  This has one of two meanings – (a) acute indigestion; (b) a complaint of sterility.

  Bicarbonate of soda does excellent work in the first case and has attained a somewhat surprising reputation in the second.

  ‘Your Khatún’s white powder was a worker of marvels last season! I now have two strong sons – twins!’

  Reviewing these past triumphs, I nevertheless shrink a little from the ordeal in front of me. Max encourages me with his usual optimism. The Sheikh has told him that his wife suffers from her eyes. It will be a straightforward case of boracic.

  The Sheikh’s wives, of course, unlike the village women, are veiled. Therefore, a lamp is taken to a little empty storehouse, where I am to see the patient.

  The Colonel and Bumps mak
e several ribald remarks, and do their best to rattle me as I go apprehensively to the consulting-room.

  Outside in the night about eighteen people are standing. The Sheikh greets Max with a cheerful roar, and waves his hand towards a tall, veiled figure.

  I utter the conventional greetings, and lead the way into the little storehouse. Not one woman, but five, follow me in. They are all very excited, laughing and talking.

  The door is shut upon us. Max and the Sheikh remain outside the door to do what interpretation shall be necessary.

  I am a little dazed by seeing so many women. Are they all wives? And do they all need medical attention?

  Off come the veils. One woman is young and tall – very handsome. I imagine that she is the new Yezidi wife just acquired with the advance rent for the land. The principal wife is much older; she looks about forty-five and is probably thirty. All the women are wearing jewellery, and all are the gay handsome Kurdish type.

  The middle-aged woman points to her eyes and clasps her face. Alas, it is not a case for boracic! She is suffering, I should say, from some virulent form of blood-poisoning.

  I raise my voice and speak to Max. It is a poisoning, I say, of the blood, and she should go to a doctor or a hospital in Der-ez-Zor or Alep, where she would have proper injections.

  Max passes this on to the Sheikh, who appears much struck by the diagnosis. Presently Max calls out:

  ‘He is much impressed by your cleverness. This is exactly what he has already been told by a doctor in Baghdad. He, too, said that she should have “des piqûres”. Now that you, too, say so, the Sheikh is going seriously to consider it. By and by he will certainly take his wife to Alep.’

  I say that it would be a good thing if he took her soon.

  This summer, says the Sheikh, or at any rate in the autumn. There is no hurry. All will be as Allah directs.

  The lesser wives or whatnots are now examining my clothing in an ecstasy of delighted merriment. I give the patient some aspirin tablets to relieve pain, and recommend applications of hot water, etc. She is far more interested, however, in my appearance than in her own condition. I offer Turkish delight and we all laugh and smile and pat each other’s clothes.