Come, Tell Me How You Live

by Agatha Christie Mallowan

  Dimitri pads gently away, displaying his flower-patterned muslin trousers. His gentle, meditative face beats the maternity of the Chagar Madonna to a frazzle. He loves puppies, kittens and children. He alone of the servants never quarrels. He doesn’t even own a knife except for culinary purposes.

  All is over! The Division has taken place. M. and Madame Dunand have examined, handled, reflected. We have stood looking on in the usual agony. It takes M. Dunand about an hour to make up his mind. Then he flings a hand out in a quick Gallic gesture.

  ‘Eh bien, I will take this one.’

  True to human nature, whichever half is chosen, we immediately wish it had been the other.

  However, the suspense over, the atmosphere lifts. We are gay and the thing becomes a party. We go over the dig, examine the architect’s plans and drawings, drive over to Brak, discuss work to be done the next season, and so on. Max and M. Dunand argue as to exact dates and sequences. Madame Dunand amuses us all by her dry, witty remarks. We talk in French, though I fancy that she speaks English quite well. She is intensely amused by Mac and his stubborn limitation of conversation to ‘Oui’ and ‘Non’.

  ‘Ah, votre petit architecte, il ne sait pas parler? Il a tout de même l’air intelligent!’

  We repeat this to Mac, who is unperturbed.

  On the next day the Dunands prepare for departure. Not that there is much preparation; they refuse food or drink to take with them.

  ‘Surely you’ll take water!’ Max exclaims, brought up in the principle never to travel in these parts with no water.

  They shake their heads carelessly.

  ‘Suppose you had a breakdown?’

  M. Dunand laughs and shakes his head.

  ‘Oh, that will not happen!’

  He lets in the clutch, and the car departs in the usual French desert style. Sixty miles an hour!

  We no longer wonder at the high death rate for overturned archaeologists in these parts!

  And now, packing up once more – days of it! Crate after crate filled and fastened down and stencilled.

  Then come the preparations for our own departure. We are going from Hasetshe by a little-used track through complete wilderness to the city of Raqqa on the Euphrates, and crossing the Euphrates there.

  ‘And we shall be able,’ says Max, ‘to have a look at the Balikh!’

  He says the word Balikh in the way he used to say Jaghjagha, and I perceive that he is forming plans to have just a little fun in the Balikh region before he finally leaves off digging in Syria.

  ‘The Balikh?’ I say innocently.

  ‘Whacking great Tells all along it,’ says Max reverently.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Trail to Raqqa

  HERE WE GO! We are off!

  The house is all boarded up, and Serkis is nailing the last planks across the windows and doors. The Sheikh stands by swelling with importance. All shall be secure until we return! The most trusted man of the village is to be our watchman! He shall guard it, says the Sheikh, night and day!

  ‘Have no fear, brother!’ he cries. ‘Even should I have to pay the man out of my own pocket, the house shall be guarded.’

  Max smiles, knowing quite well that the handsome remuneration already arranged with the watchman will probably go mostly into the Sheikh’s pocket by way of rake-off.

  ‘Everything will, indeed, be safe under your eye, we know,’ he replies. ‘The contents of the house will not easily deteriorate; and as for the outside, what pleasure it will be for us to hand it over to you in good condition when the day comes.’

  ‘May that day be long distant!’ says the Sheikh. ‘For when it comes, you will return no more, and that will be a sadness to me. You will perhaps dig only one more season?’ he adds hopefully.

  ‘One or two – who knows? It depends upon the work.’

  ‘It is regrettable that you have found no gold – only stones and pots,’ says the Sheikh.

  ‘These things are of equal interest to us.’

  ‘Yet gold is always gold.’ The Sheikh’s eyes glitter covetously. ‘In the days of El Baron –’

  Max deftly interrupts:

  ‘And when we return next season, what personal gift may I bring you from the city of London?’

  ‘Nothing – nothing at all. I want nothing. A watch of gold is a pleasant thing to have.’

  ‘I shall remember.’

  ‘Let there be no talk of gifts between brothers! My only wish is to serve you and the Government. If I am out of pocket by so doing – well, to lose money in such a way is honourable.’

  ‘We should know no peace of heart unless we were quite sure that gain and not loss will be the result to you of our work here.’

  Michel comes up at this moment from where he has been nagging at everybody and shouting orders to say that all is in order and we can start.

  Max checks up on the petrol and oil, and makes sure that Michel has with him the spare cans he has been told to have, and that no sudden qualms of economia have triumphed. Provisions, a supply of water, our luggage, the servants’ luggage – yes, everything is there. Mary is loaded to bulging point both on the roof and inside, and perched amidst all are Mansur, Ali and Dimitri. Subri and Ferhid return to Kamichlie, which is their home, and the foremen are going by train to Jerablus.

  ‘Farewell, brother,’ cries the Sheikh, suddenly clasping the Colonel in his arms and embracing him on both cheeks.

  Enormous joy of the whole Expedition!

  The Colonel turns plum colour.

  The Sheikh repeats his salutation to Max and shakes the ‘Engineers’ warmly by the hand.

  Max, the Colonel, Mac and myself get into Poilu. Bumps goes with Michel in Mary to curb any ‘good idea’ Michel might have en route. Max reiterates his instructions to Michel. He is to follow us, but not at a distance of only three feet. If Michel tries to run down any parties of donkeys and old women on the road, half his salary will be stopped.

  Michel murmurs ‘Mohammedans!’ under his breath, but salutes and says in French: ‘Très bien.’

  ‘All right, off we go. Are we all here?’

  Dimitri has two puppies with him. Hiyou is accompanying Subri.

  ‘I will have her in splendid condition for you next year,’ Subri shouts.

  ‘Where’s Mansur?’ shouts Max. ‘Where’s that damned fool? We shall start without him if he doesn’t come. Mansur!’

  ‘Present!’ cries Mansur breathlessly, running into view. He is trailing two immense and horrible-smelling sheepskins.

  ‘You can’t take those. Phew!’

  ‘They will be worth money to me in Damascus!’

  ‘What a reek!’

  ‘The sun will dry them if they are spread on the top of Mary, and then they will not smell.’

  ‘They’re disgusting. Leave ’em behind.’

  ‘He is right. They are worth money,’ says Michel. He climbs up on top of the lorry, and the skins are precariously lashed up with string.

  ‘As the lorry is behind us we shan’t smell them,’ says Max resignedly; ‘and anyway, they’ll fall off before we get to Raqqa. Mansur tied one of those knots himself!’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ laughs Subri, throwing back his head, and showing his white and gold teeth. ‘Perhaps Mansur wants to make the trip on a horse!’

  Mansur hangs his head. The staff have never stopped ragging him about his ride back from Kamichlie.

  ‘Two gold watches,’ says the Sheikh in a meditative voice, ‘are a good thing to have. One can then lend one to a friend.’

  Max hurriedly gives the signal for departure.

  We drive slowly through the cluster of houses and out on to the Kamichlie-Hasetshe track. Crowds of small boys yell and wave.

  As we drive through the next village of Hanzir, men run out from the houses and wave and shout. They are our old workmen.

  ‘Come back next year,’ they yell.

  ‘Inshallah!’ Max yells back.

  We drive along the track to Hasetshe, and loo
k back for one last look at the mound of Chagar Bazar.

  At Hasetshe we stop, buy bread and fruit, and go and wish the French officers good-bye. A young officer who has just come up from Der-ez-Zor interests himself in our journey.

  ‘You go to Raqqa then? I will tell you. Do not follow the signpost when you come to it. Instead, take the track to the right of it and then the one that forks left. So you will have a straight track easy to follow. But the other way is most confusing.’

  The Capitaine, who has been listening, cuts in to say he strongly advises us to go north to Ras-el-Ain, then to Tell Abyadh, and to take the well-frequented track from Tell Abyadh to Raqqa. Then there will be no mistake.

  ‘But it is much longer, an immense way round.’

  ‘It may come shorter in the end.’

  We thank him, but persist in our original design.

  Michel has made the necessary purchases and we start off, taking the bridge across the Habur.

  We follow the young officer’s advice when we come to a meeting-place of tracks with a signpost or two. One says Tell Abyadh, one Raqqa, and between them is one unmarked. That must be the one.

  After a little distance along it the track divides into three.

  ‘Left, I suppose,’ says Max, ‘or did he mean the middle one?’

  We take the left-hand track, and after a little way it divides into four.

  The country is now full of scrub and boulders. One has definitely to follow a track.

  Max takes the left one again. ‘We should have taken the one to the extreme right,’ says Michel.

  No one pays any attention to Michel, who has led us on more wrong tracks than we can possibly count.

  I draw a veil over the next five hours. We are lost – lost in a part of the world where there are no villages, no cultivation, no Beduin pasturing – nothing.

  The tracks deteriorate until they are hardly distinguishable. Max tries to take those leading roughly in the right direction – namely, a little west of south-west, but the tracks are perverse in the extreme. They twist and turn, and usually obstinately return due north.

  We halt for a while and eat lunch and drink tea, which Michel makes. The heat is suffocating, the going is very bad. The jolting the heat and the intense glare give me an excruciating headache. We all feel a little worried.

  ‘Well,’ says Max, ‘we’ve got plenty of water at any rate. What’s that damned fool doing?’

  We turn. Mansur – the idiotic – is happily pouring out our precious water and sluicing it over his face and hands!

  I pass over Max’s language! Mansur looks surprised and a little aggrieved. He sighs. How difficult, he seems to be thinking, these people are to please. One’s simplest action may annoy them.

  We take the road again. The tracks turn and twist worse than ever. Sometimes they peter out altogether.

  With a worried frown, Max mutters that we are going far too far north.

  When the tracks divide now, they seem to run north and north-east. Shall we turn back altogether?

  It is getting towards evening. Suddenly the quality of the ground improves, the scrub peters out, the stones are less plentiful.

  ‘We’ve got to get somewhere,’ says Max. ‘I think we can go straight across country now.’

  ‘Where are you heading for?’ asks the Colonel.

  Max says due west for the Balikh. If we once strike the Balikh we shall find the main Tell Abyadh-Raqqa track and can go down it.

  We drive on. Mary has a puncture and we lose precious time. The sun is setting.

  Suddenly we see a welcome sight – men trudging ahead. Max lets out a whoop. He draws up beside them, giving greetings, asking questions.

  The Balikh? The Balikh is just ahead of us. In ten minutes, in a machine like ours, we shall be there. Raqqa? We are nearer to Tell Abyadh than Raqqa.

  Five minutes later we see a streak of green ahead – it is the vegetation bordering the river. A vast Tell looms up.

  Max says ecstatically: ‘The Balikh – look at it! Tells everywhere!’

  The Tells are indeed imposing – large, formidable, and very solid-looking.

  ‘Whacking great Tells,’ says Max.

  I say disagreeably, because my head and eyes have reached an almost unbearable degree of pain: ‘Min Ziman er Rum.’

  ‘You’re about right,’ says Max. ‘That is the snag. That solidity means Roman masonry – a chain of forts. The right stuff farther down, I’ve no doubt, but too long and expensive to get down to it.’

  I feel completely uninterested in archaeology. I want somewhere to lie down, and a great deal of aspirin and a cup of tea.

  We come to a broad track running north and south, and turn south to Raqqa.

  We are a long way out of our way, and it takes us an hour and a half before we see the city sprawling ahead of us. It is dark now. We drive into the outskirts. It is an entirely native city – no European structures. We ask for the Services Spéciaux. The officer there is kind, but troubled for our comfort. There is no accommodation for travellers here. If we were to drive north to Tell Abyadh? In two hours, if we drove fast, there we should be really comfortable.

  But nobody, least of all my suffering self, can bear the thought of two more hours jolting and bouncing. The kindly officer says there are two rooms – very meagre, though, nothing European – but if we have our own bedding? And our servants?

  We arrive at the house in pitch-black darkness. Mansur and Ali run about with torches and light the primus and spread out blankets and get in each other’s way. I long for the quick and efficient Subri. Mansur is incredibly slow and clumsy. Presently Michel comes in and criticizes what Mansur is doing. Mansur stops and they argue. I hurl all the Arabic I know at them. Mansur looks scared and resumes operations.

  A roll of bedding and blankets is brought and I sink down. Suddenly Max is beside me with the longed-for cup of tea. He asks cheerfully if I feel bad. I say yes, seize the tea, and swallow four aspirins. The tea tastes like nectar. Never, never, never have I enjoyed anything so much! I sink back, my eyes close.

  ‘Madame Jacquot,’ I murmur.

  ‘Eh?’ Max looks startled. He bends down. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Madame Jacquot,’ I repeat.

  The association is there – I know what I mean – but the phrase has escaped me. Max has a kind of hospital nurse’s expression on his face – on no account contradict the patient!

  ‘Madame Jacquot’s not here just now,’ he says in a soothing tone.

  I throw him an exasperated glance. My eyes are gently closing. There is still a lot of bustle. A meal is being prepared. Who cares? I am going to sleep – sleep….

  Just as I am going off – the phrase comes. Of course!

  ‘`Complètement knock out!’ I say with satisfaction.

  ‘What?’ says Max.

  ‘Madame Jacquot,’ I say, and fall asleep.

  The best of going to sleep utterly weary and pain-racked is the marvellous surprise you feel when you wake up well and energetic next morning.

  I feel full of vigour and ferociously hungry.

  ‘You know, Agatha,’ says Max, ‘I think you must have had a fever last night. You were delirious. You kept talking about Madame Jacquot.’

  I throw him a scornful look and speak as soon as I can, my mouth being full of hard-fried egg.

  ‘Nonsense!’ I say at last. ‘If you’d only taken the trouble to listen you’d have known exactly what I meant! But I suppose your mind was so full of the Tells on the Balikh –’

  ‘It would be interesting, you know,’ says Max, eager at once, ‘just to run a trial trench or two in some of those Tells….’

  Mansur comes up, beaming all over his stupid, honest face, and asks how the Khatún is this morning.

  I say I am very well. Mansur, it seems, is distressed because I was so fast asleep when supper was ready that nobody liked to wake me. Will I have another egg now?

  ‘Yes,’ I say, having already eaten four. And this
time, if Mansur fries it for about five minutes, it will be quite enough!

  We start for the Euphrates about eleven. The river is very wide here, the country is pale and flat and shining, and the air is hazy. It is a kind of symphony in what Max would describe as ‘pinkish buff’, if he were describing pottery.

  To cross the Euphrates at Raqqa is a matter of a very primitive ferry. We join some other cars and settle down happily for an hour or two’s wait until the ferry comes.

  Some women come down to fill kerosene tins of water. Others are washing clothes. It is like a pattern on a frieze – the tall, black-clad figures, the lower half of the face covered, the heads very erect, the great dripping tins of water. The women move up and down, slow and unhurried.

  I reflect enviously that it must be nice to have your face veiled. It must make you feel very private, very secret…. Only your eyes look out on the world – you see it, but it does not see you….

  I take out the glass from my hand-bag and open my powder compact. ‘Yes,’ I think, ‘it would be very nice to veil your face!’

  Approaching civilization stirs within me. I begin to think of things…. A shampoo, a luxurious drier. Manicure…. A porcelain bath with taps. Bath salts. Electric light…. More shoes!

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ says Max. ‘I’ve asked you twice whether you noticed that second Tell we passed on the road down from Tell Abyadh last night.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t noticing anything last night.’

  ‘It wasn’t as solid a Tell as the others. Denudation on the east side of it. I wonder perhaps –’

  I say clearly and firmly: ‘I’m tired of Tells!’

  ‘What?’ Max looks at me with the horror a medieval inquisitor might have felt on hearing a particularly flagrant bit of blasphemy.

  He says: ‘You can’t be!’

  ‘I’m thinking of other things.’ I reel off a list of them starting with electric light, and Max passes his hand over the back of his head and says he wouldn’t mind having a decent haircut at last.

  We all agree what a pity it is one can’t go straight from Chagar to, say, the Savoy! As it is, the sharp pleasure of contrast is always lost. We go through a stage of indifferent meals and partial comfort so that the pleasure of switching on electric light or turning a tap is dulled.