Come, Tell Me How You Live

by Agatha Christie Mallowan

  There has been a good deal of rain falling during our latest spell at Brak, and Serkis’ roof has not quite stood up to the strain. Moreover, the window boards swing open, and gusts of wind and rain sweep through the room. Fortunately the worst rain falls on our ‘day off’, so that the work is not held up, though our projected excursion to the Kawkab volcano is.

  Incidentally, we nearly have a riot over this, as the ten-day period ends on Saturday, and Abd es Salaam, told to announce to the men that there will be no work the next day, like the complete old bungler he is, bleats out: ‘Tomorrow is Sunday – therefore no work!’

  Immediately there is an uproar! What! Are all the good Moslem gentlemen to be insulted and sacrificed to a miserable twenty Armenian Christians? A fiery gentleman called Abbas ’Id tries to organize a strike. Max then makes an oration, stating that if he wants a holiday on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or Saturday, a holiday there will be. As for Abbas ’Id, he is never to show his face on the mound again! The Armenians, who are courting assassination by chuckling in triumph, are told to hold their tongues, after which pay-day begins. Max ensconces himself in Mary, Michel staggers out of the house with sacks of money (no longer mejidis, thank heaven! – they have been made illegal, and Syrian currency is now de rigueur), which he disposes in the lorry. Max’s face appears at the window the driving-seat (looking rather like a booking-clerk at a railway station), Michel takes a chair into the lorry and assumes control of the cash, forming the coins up in piles, and sighing deeply as he contemplates how much money is going into Moslem hands!

  Max opens an immense ledger and the fun starts. Gang after gang parade as their names are called, and come up and draw what is owing to them. Terrific feats of arithmetic have been performed well into the small hours the night before, as the daily bakshish of each man is checked up and added to his wages.

  The inequality of Fate is very marked on pay-day. Some men draw a heavy bonus, some hardly anything. There are a lot of jokes and quips, and everyone, even those passed over by Fortune, is very gay. A tall, handsome Kurdish woman rushes up to her husband, who is counting over what he has received.

  ‘What have you got? Show it to me?’ Without scruple she seizes the whole amount and goes off with it.

  Two refined-looking Arabs turn their faces gently aside, shocked by such a spectacle of unwomanly (and unmanly) behaviour!

  The Kurdish woman reappears from her mud-hut and screams abuse at her husband for the way he is untethering a donkey. The Kurd, a big handsome man, sighs sadly. Who would be a Kurdish husband?

  There is a saying that if an Arab robs you in the desert, he will beat you but leave you to live, but if a Kurd robs you he will kill you just for the pleasure of it!

  Perhaps being henpecked at home stimulates fierceness abroad!

  At last, after two hours, everyone is paid. A little misunderstanding between Daoud Suleiman and Daoud Suleiman Mohammed has been adjusted, to everyone’s satisfaction. Abdullah has returned smiling, to explain that ten francs fifty has been allotted to him in error. Little Mahmoud expostulates shrilly over forty-five centimes – ‘two beads, a rim of pottery, and a bit of obsidian, Khwaja, and the day was last Thursday!’ All claims, counter-claims, etc., have been examined and adjusted. Information is sought as to who continues work and who is going to leave. Nearly everybody leaves. ‘But after the next period – who knows, Khwaja?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Max, ‘when your money is spent!’

  ‘As you say, Khwaja.’

  Friendly greetings and farewells are said. That night there is singing and dancing in the courtyard.

  Back at Chagar and a lovely hot day. The Colonel has been spluttering with rage over the behaviour of Poilu, who has let him down every single day at Brak lately. On each occasion Ferhid has arrived, given assurances that the car is quite all right, nothing wrong with it, and on his demonstration of this fact it immediately starts. The Colonel feels this an additional insult.

  Michel comes up and explains in his high voice that all that is needed is to clear the carburettor – it is very simple, he will show the Colonel. Michel then proceeds to do his favourite trick of sucking petrol up into his mouth, gargling freely with it, and finally drinking it. The Colonel looks on with a face of cold disgust. Michel nods his head, smiles happily, says persuasively to the Colonel: ‘Sawi proba?’ and proceeds to light a cigarette. We hold our breath, waiting to see Michel’s throat go up in flames, but nothing happens.

  Various minor complications occur. Four men are sacked for persistent fighting. Alawi and Yahya have a quarrel and will not speak to each other. One of our house-rugs has been stolen. The Sheikh is very indignant, and is holding a court of inquiry into the matter. This we have the pleasure of observing from afar – a circle of white-clad, bearded men are sitting out in the plain with their heads together. ‘They hold it there,’ explains Mansur, ‘so that none can overhear the secret things they say.’

  The subsequent proceedings are very Eastern. The Sheikh comes to us, assures us that the malefactors are now known to him, that all shall be dealt with, and our rug restored.

  What actually happens is that the Sheikh beats up six of his particular enemies and possibly blackmails a few more. The rug does not materialize, but the Sheikh is in high good humour and seems quite flush of cash again.

  Abd es Salaam comes secretively to Max. ‘I will tell you who stole your rug. It is the Sheikh’s brother-in-law, the Yezidi Sheikh. He is a very evil man, but his sister is handsome.’

  Hope of a little pleasant persecution of Yezidis shows in Abd es Salaam’s eye, but Max declares that the rug is to be written off as a loss and no more done about it. ‘In future,’ says Max, looking severely at Mansur and Subri, ‘better care is to be taken, and the rugs are not to be left to lie about in the sun outside.’

  The next sad incident is that the Customs men arrive and pinch two of our workmen for smoking smuggled Iraqi cigarettes. This is very bad luck on the particular two, as in actual fact two hundred and eighty men (our present payroll) are all smoking smuggled Iraqi cigarettes! The Customs official seeks an interview with Max. ‘This is a serious offence,’ he says. ‘Out of courtesy to you, Khwaja, we have refrained from arresting these men on your dig. It might not be to your honour.’

  ‘I thank you for your kindness and delicacy,’ Max replies.

  ‘We suggest, however, that you should sack them without pay, Khwaja.’

  ‘That may hardly be. It is not for me to enforce the laws of this country. I am a foreigner. These men have contracted to work for me and I have contracted to pay them. I cannot withhold pay due to them.’

  The matter is settled at last (with the assent of the guilty parties) by two fines being stopped out of the men’s pay and handed to the Customs officer.

  ‘Inshallah!’ say the men, shrugging their shoulders, as they return to work. The soft-hearted Max is a little over-generous with the bakshish that week to the two culprits, and pay-day finds them cheerful. They do not suspect Max of beneficence, but ascribe their good fortune to the infinite compassion of Allah.

  We have made another excursion to Kamichlie. By now it has all the excitement of a visit to Paris or London. The procedure has been much the same – Harrods, desultory conversation with M. Yannakos, lengthy sessions in the Bank, but enlivened this time by the presence of a supreme dignitary of the Maronite Church, complete with jewelled cross, luxuriant hair, and robes of purple. Max nudges me to offer ‘Monseigneur’ my chair, which I do reluctantly, and feeling rather fiercely Protestant. (Note – would I, in similar circumstances, offer the only chair to the Archbishop of York if I happened to be sitting in it? I decide that if I did, he wouldn’t take it!) The Archimandrite, or the Grand Mufti or whatever he is, does, sinking down with a sigh of satisfaction and giving me a benignant glance.

  Michel, it need hardly be said, tries our tempers to the utmost! He makes ridiculous purchases of a highly economical order. He also goes with Mansur to see about
the purchase of a second horse, and Mansur, fired with equine passion, rides the said horse right into the local barber’s shop, where Max is having his hair cut!

  ‘Get out, you fool!’ yells Max.

  ‘It is a fine horse,’ shouts Mansur, ‘and quiet!’

  At this moment the horse rears up, and threatened by two immense front hoofs, everyone in the barber’s shop ducks for cover.

  Mansur and the horse are ejected, Max returns to finish his haircut, and postpones all that he wishes to say to Mansur until later.

  We have a very delicious and recherché lunch with the French Commandant at the Barracks, invite some of the French officers to come out and see us, and return to Harrods to see what Michel’s latest economies are. It is looking like rain, so we decide to start back at once.

  The horse has been purchased, and Mansur pleads that he may be allowed to ride it home.

  Max says if so he’ll never get home.

  I say it is an excellent idea, and please do let Mansur ride the horse home.

  ‘You’ll be so stiff you won’t be able to move,’ says Max.

  Mansur says he is never stiff when riding a horse.

  It is arranged that Mansur is to return on the horse the following day. The mail is a day late, so he will be able to bring that with him.

  Rain falls as we drive back (accompanied by the usual uncomfortable hens and derelict humans). We have fantastic skids, but we just get home before the track becomes impassable.

  The Colonel has just got back from Brak and has had a lot more trouble with bats. Luring them with an electric torch to the basin has been very successful, only, as he has spent all night doing this, he hasn’t had much sleep. We say coldly that we never see any bats!

  Among our workmen is one who is able to read and write! His name is Yusuf Hassan, and he is quite one of the laziest men on the dig. I never once arrive on the mound to find Yusuf actually working. He has always just finished digging his patch, or is about to begin, or has paused to light a cigarette. He is somewhat proud of his literacy, and one day amuses himself and his friends by writing on an empty cigarette packet: ‘Saleh Birro has been drowned in the Jaghjagha.’ Everybody is much amused by this piece of erudition and wit!

  The empty packet gets caught up with an empty bread-bag, is crammed into a flour sack, and in due course the sack gets returned to its place of origin – the village of Hanzir. Here somebody notices the inscription. It is taken to a learned man; he reads it. Forthwith the news is sent on to the village of Germayir, Saleh Birro’s home-town. Result: on the following Wednesday a great cavalcade of mourners – men, weeping women, wailing children – arrive at Tell Brak.

  ‘Alas, alas!’ they cry, ‘Saleh Birro, our loved one, has been drowned in the Jaghjagha! We come for his body!’

  The first thing they then see is Saleh Birro himself, happily digging and spitting in his appointed pit of earth. Stupefaction, explanations, and forthwith Saleh Birro, mad with rage, attempts to brain Yusuf Hassan with his pick. A friend on each side joins in, the Colonel comes up and orders them to stop (vain hope!), and tries to find out what it is all about.

  Court of inquiry then held by Max and sentence pronounced.

  Saleh Birro is sacked for one day – (a) for fighting, (b) for not stopping fighting when told. Yusuf Hassan is commanded to walk to Germayir (forty kilometres), and there explain and apologize for his singularly ill-omened idea. Also to be fined two days’ pay.

  And the real moral is – Max points out afterwards to his own select circle – what very dangerous things reading and writing are!

  Mansur, having been marooned for three days owing to the weather in Kamichlie, suddenly arrives more dead than alive on the horse. Not only is he unable to stand, but he has had the added woe of having purchased a large and delectable fish in Kamichlie, and in the enforced wait it has gone bad on him. For some unappreciated reason he has brought it with him! It is hastily buried, and Mansur retires groaning to his bed, and is not seen for three days. We meanwhile enjoy the intelligent ministrations of Subri a good deal.

  At last the expedition to the Kawkab takes place. Ferhid, his air of concentration greater than ever, volunteers to act as our guide, since he ‘knows the country’. We cross the Jaghjagha by a rather precarious-looking bridge, and abandon ourselves to Ferhid’s sad leadership.

  Apart from the fact that Ferhid nearly dies of anxiety on the way, we do not do too badly. The Kawkab is always in sight, which is helpful, but the stony ground we have to cross is quite appalling, especially as we draw nearer to the extinct volcano.

  Matters in the household were very strained before starting, a passionate quarrel about a small cake of soap having inflamed the whole staff. The foremen say coldly that they prefer not to come on the expedition, but the Colonel forces them to do so. They get into Mary from opposite sides and sit with their backs to each other! Serkis squats down like a hen in the back, and will speak to no one. Exactly who has quarrelled with whom it is difficult to find out. However, by the time the ascension of the Kawkab is over all is forgotten. We were expecting a gentle sloping walk up to the top over ground carpeted with flowers, but, when we actually reach the place, the ascent is like the side of a house, and the ground is all slippery black cinders. Michel and Ferhid refuse firmly even to start, but the rest of us make the attempt. I give up soon, and settle down to enjoy the spectacle of the others slipping and panting and scrambling. Abd es Salaam goes up mostly on all fours!

  There is a smaller crater, and on the lip of this we have lunch. There are flowers here in quantity, and it is a lovely moment. A marvellous view all round, with the hills of the Jebel Sinjar not far away. The utter peace is wonderful. A great wave of happiness surges over me, and I realize how much I love this country, and how complete and satisfying this life is….

  CHAPTER NINE

  Arrival of Mac

  THE SEASON is drawing to a close. The time has come for Mac to join us, and we are looking forward to seeing him. Bumps asks many questions about Mac, and displays incredulity at some of my statements. An extra pillow is needed, and we buy one in Kamichlie, the best we can find, but it is indubitably as hard as lead.

  ‘The poor fellow can’t sleep on that,’ says Bumps.

  I assure him that Mac won’t mind what he sleeps on.

  ‘Fleas and bugs don’t bite him; he never seems to have any luggage or any personal possessions shed about.’ I add reminiscently: ‘Just his plaid rug and his diary.’

  Bumps looks more incredulous than ever.

  The day of Mac’s arrival comes. It coincides with our day off and we plan a complicated expedition. The Colonel starts for Kamichlie at five-thirty a.m. in Poilu, and will combine meeting Mac with getting his hair cut. (This has to be done very often, as the Colonel insists on a closely military cut!)

  We breakfast at seven and start at eight for Amuda, where we are to rendezvous with the others, and all go on to Ras-el-Ain, the idea being to examine a few mounds in that vicinity. (Our holidays are always busmen’s holidays!) Subri and the gentle Dimitri also come on this expedition. They are exquisitely dressed, with shining boots and Homburg hats, and are wearing purple suits much too tight for them. Michel, warned by bitter experience, is wearing his working clothes, but he has put on white spats to mark his sense of holiday.

  Amuda is as foul as ever, with even more carcases of decaying sheep displayed than I remember before. Mac and the Colonel have not yet turned up, and I hazard the opinion that Poilu has, as usual, let the Colonel down.

  However, they soon arrive, and after greetings and a few purchases (mainly bread; the Amuda bread is very good) we prepare to start, only to find that Poilu has lapsed from his good behaviour, and has got a flat tyre. Michel and Subri attend quickly to this, whilst a crowd gathers round, pressing in closer and closer – always a habit of the Amudaites.

  We get under way at last, but after about an hour Poilu repeats his bad behaviour, and yet another tyre goes. More repairs, and it
now appears that none of Poilu’s toilet apparatus is any good. His jack is defective and his pump a complete fiasco. Subri and Michel perform miracles by holding on to portions of tubing with their teeth and nails.

  Having now lost an hour of valuable time we set off again. We next come to a wadi which is unexpectedly full of water – unusual so early in the season. We halt, and a discussion ensues as to whether we can rush it and get through.

  Michel, Subri and Dimitri are of the opinion that of course we can, if God is willing and merciful. Taking into consideration that if the Almighty is unwilling and disinclined to raise the chassis of Poilu by a miracle, we shall be stuck and probably not get out, we regretfully decide for discretion.

  The local village is so much disappointed by our decision that we suspect that they derive a livelihood from pulling out submerged cars. Michel wades in to test the depth of the water, and we are all fascinated by the revelation of his underclothing! Strange white cotton garments tied with tapes round the ankles make their appearance – something like a Victorian Miss’s pantalets!

  We decide to lunch here by the wadi. After lunch, Max and I paddle our feet in it – delicious, till a snake suddenly darts out and quite puts us off paddling.

  An old man comes and sits down beside us. There is the usual long silence after greetings have been given.

  Then he inquires courteously if we are French. German? English?

  English!

  He nods his head. ‘Is it the English this country belongs to now? I cannot remember. I know it is no longer the Turks.’

  ‘No,’ we say; ‘the Turks have not been here since the war.’

  ‘A war?’ says the old man, puzzled.

  ‘The war that was fought twenty years ago.’