Come, Tell Me How You Live

by Agatha Christie Mallowan

  The sun has set by this time and night is falling.

  The Sheikh, the Lieutenant and Max drive down to the house (where we are relieved to find Dimitri placidly cooking dinner and Serkis grinning).

  Consultations proceed for about an hour. The incident is regrettable. The Lieutenant says that the men have families, and although there is no obligation, doubtless a donation would be appreciated. The Sheikh says that generosity is the hallmark of a noble nature, and will much enhance our reputation in the countryside.

  Max says that he would like to make a gift to the families, if it is clearly understood that it is a gift, and not in any sense compensation. The Sheikh grunts earnest agreement. That shall be set down in writing by the French officer, he says. Moreover, he will himself make it known on his word. The question remains of how much. When that has been adjusted and refreshments have been served, the Sheikh and the Lieutenant depart. Two soldiers are left on the mound to guard the fatal spot.

  ‘And mind,’ says Max as we go very tired to bed, ‘someone’s got to watch that spot tomorrow at lunch-time or we’ll have the same thing happening again.’

  Guilford is incredulous.

  ‘Not after they know the danger and have seen what happened!’

  Max says grimly: ‘Wait and see!’

  On the next day he himself waits inconspicuously behind a mud-brick wall. Sure enough, whilst lunch is in progress, three men come stealing round the slope of the mound and start furious scrabbling at the adjoining portion of the excavation not two feet from where their comrades were killed!

  Max strides forth and delivers a terrific harangue. Do they not realize that what they are doing will bring death?

  One of the men murmurs: ‘Inshallah!’

  They are then formally sacked for attempting to steal from their companions.

  After that the spot is guarded after Fidos until the moment when, on the following afternoon, the top levels have been cut down.

  Guilford says in a horrified voice:

  ‘These fellows don’t seem to have any care for their lives at all. And they are extraordinarily callous. They were laughing about the deaths and making dumb show of the whole thing this morning during the work!’

  Max says death isn’t really important out here.

  The foremen’s whistle blows for Fidos, and the men run down the mound past us singing: ‘Yusuf Daoud was with us yesterday – today he is dead! He will not fill his belly any more. Ha, ha, ha!’

  Guilford is profoundly shocked.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ’Ain el ’Arus

  HOUSE-MOVING from Brak to the Balikh.

  We walk down to the Jaghjagha on our last evening and feel a gentle melancholy. I have come to have a great affection for the Jaghjagha, that narrow stream of muddy brown water.

  Still, Brak has never had the hold on my affections that Chagar has. The village of Brak is melancholy, half deserted, and tumbling down, and the Armenians in their seedy European clothes look out of tune with the surroundings. Their voices rise scoldingly, and there is none of the rich Kurdish and Arabic joy of life. I miss the Kurdish women strolling across the countryside – those great gay flowers, with their white teeth and their laughing faces, and their proud, handsome carriage.

  We have hired a ramshackle lorry to take what furniture we shall need. It is the kind of lorry where everything has to be tied on with string! I have an idea that nearly everything will have dropped off by the time we get to Ras-el-Ain.

  All is loaded up at last and we start off, Max, Guilford and I in Mary, and Michel and the servants in Poilu with Hiyou.

  Halfway to Ras-el-Ain we halt for a picnic lunch, and find Subri and Dimitri in roars of laughter. ‘Hiyou,’ they say, ‘has been sick all the way, and Subri has been holding her head!’ The inside of Poilu bears eloquent testimony to this story! It is fortunate, I reflect, that it strikes them as funny.

  Hiyou, for the first time I have known her, looks defeated. ‘I can face,’ she seems to say, ‘a hostile world to dogs, the enmity of the Moslem people, death by drowning, semi-starvation, blows, kicks, stones. I fear nothing. I am friendly to all but love nobody. But what is this strange new affliction that takes from me all my self-respect?’ Her amber eyes go mournfully from one to the other of us. Her faith in her ability to meet the worst the world can do is shattered.

  Happily, five minutes later, Hiyou is restored to her normal self, and is devouring immense quantities of Subri’s and Dimitri’s lunch. I ask if this is really wise, pointing out that the car journey will soon be resumed.

  ‘Ha,’ cries Subri, ‘then Hiyou will be sick a great deal more!’

  Well, if it amuses them….

  We arrive at our house early in the afternoon. It is in one of the main streets of Tell Abyadh. It is an almost urban dwelling; what the Bank Manager calls a construction en pierre. There are trees all down the street, and their leaves are brilliant now in autumn colouring. The house, alas, is very damp, being below street level, and the village has streams everywhere. In the morning one’s top blanket is quite wet, and everything you touch feels damp and clammy. I get so stiff I can hardly move.

  There is a pleasant little garden behind the house, and it is much more sophisticated than anywhere we have lived for a long time.

  We have lost three chairs, a table and my lavatory seat from the lorry when it arrives! A good deal less than I thought we should!

  Tell Jidle itself is set by a big pool of azure-blue water formed by the spring which feeds the Balikh. It has trees round the pool and is really a lovely spot and is the traditional meeting-place of Isaac and Rebecca. This is all very different from where we have been before. It has a lovely but melancholy charm, but none of the untouched freshness of Chagar and the rolling country round it.

  There is a lot of prosperity here, well-dressed Armenians and others walk along the streets, and there are houses and gardens.

  We have been there a week when Hiyou disgraces us. All the dogs of ’Ain el ’Arus arrive to woo her, and since none of the doors shuts properly it is impossible to keep them out or her shut up! There is howling, barking, and fighting. Hiyou, a pensive amber-eyed belle, does everything to encourage the pandemonium!

  The scene is exactly like that of an old-fashioned pantomime when demons pop out from windows and trap-doors. As we sit at supper a window flies open and a large dog leaps in, another leaps after it in pursuit – crash! The bedroom door flies open and another dog appears. All three rush madly round the table, charge Guilford’s door, burst it open, and disappear, to reappear like magic through the door from the kitchen with a frying-pan hurled after them by Subri.

  Guilford spends a sleepless night, with dogs bursting in at the door, over his bed, and out through the window. At intervals Guilford gets up and flings things after them. There are howls, yelps, and general dog saturnalia!

  Hiyou, herself, we discover, is a snob. She favours the only dog in ’Ain el ’Arus who wears a collar! ‘Here,’ she seems to say, ‘is real class!’ He is a black dog, snub-nosed, and with an immense tail rather like a funeral horse.

  Subri, after spending sleepless nights with toothache, demands leave of absence to go to Aleppo by train and visit the dentist. He returns two days later beaming.

  His account of the proceedings is as follows:

  ‘I go to the dentist. I sit in his chair. I show him the tooth. Yes, he says, it must come out. How much, I say? Twenty francs, he says. It is absurd, I say, and I leave the house. I come again in the afternoon. How much? Eighteen francs. Again I say absurd. All the time the pain is increasing, but one cannot allow oneself to be robbed. I come the next morning. How much? Still eighteen francs. Again at midday. Eighteen francs. He thinks that the pain will beat me, but I continue to bargain! In the end, Khwaja, I win.’

  ‘He comes down?’

  Subri shakes his head.

  ‘No, he will not come down, but I make a very good bargain. Very well, I say. Eighteen francs. But for t
hat you must take out not one tooth but four!’

  Subri laughs with enormous gusto, displaying sundry gaps.

  ‘But did the other teeth ache?’

  ‘No, of course not. But they will begin to some day. Now they cannot. They have been taken out, and for the price of one.’

  Michel, who has been standing in the doorway listening, now nods his head approvingly. ‘Beaucoup economia,’ he says.

  Subri has kindly brought back a string of red beads, which he ties round Hiyou’s neck. ‘It is what the girls put on to show they are married,’ he says. ‘And Hiyou, she has lately been married.’

  She certainly has! To every dog in ’Ain el ’Arus, I should say!

  This morning, which is a Sunday and our day off, I am sitting labelling finds, and Max is writing up the pay-book, when a woman is shown in by Ali. She is a most respectable-looking woman, dressed neatly in black, with an enormous gold cross on her bosom. Her lips are tightly pressed together and she looks very upset.

  Max greets her politely, and she begins at once to pour out a long tale, evidently of woe. Now and then Subri’s name enters the narrative. Max frowns and looks grave. The tale goes on, getting even more impassioned.

  I surmise that this is the old and well-known tale of betrayal of the village maiden. This woman is the mother, and our gay Subri is the base deceiver.

  The woman’s voice rises in righteous indignation. She clasps the cross on her breast with one hand and holds it up, and appears to be swearing something on it.

  Max calls for Subri to be sent in. I think that perhaps it would be more delicate if I withdrew, and I am just about to edge out unobtrusively when Max tells me to stay where I am. I sit down again, and since I am presumably required to give the effect of a witness, look as though I understand what it is all about.

  The woman, a grave, dignified figure, stands silent until Subri appears. Then she flings out a hand of denunciation, and evidently repeats her accusation against him.

  Subri does not defend himself with any vigour. He shrugs his shoulders, raises his hands, appears to admit the truth of the indictment.

  The drama goes on – argument, recrimination, the adoption of a more and more judicial attitude by Max. Subri is being defeated. Very well, he seems to be saying, do as you like!

  Suddenly Max pulls a sheet of paper towards him and writes. He puts the written words in front of the woman. She puts a mark – a cross – on the paper, and, holding up the gold cross once more, swears some solemn oath. Max then signs, and Subri also makes his mark, and swears apparently some oath of his own. Max then counts out some money and gives it to the woman. She takes it, thanks Max with a dignified inclination of the head, and goes out. Max addresses some biting reproaches to Subri, who goes out looking very much deflated.

  Max leans back in his chair, passes a handkerchief over his face, and says: ‘Whoof!’

  I burst into speech.

  ‘What was it all about? A girl? Was it the woman’s daughter?’

  ‘Not exactly. That was the local brothel-keeper.’

  ‘What?’

  Max gives me as nearly as possible the woman’s own words.

  She has come to him, she says, so that he can redress a grievous wrong done to her by his servant Subri.

  ‘What has Subri done?’ Max asks.

  ‘I am a woman of character and honour. I am respected throughout the district! All speak well of me. My house is conducted in a God-fearing manner. Now comes this fellow, this Subri, and he finds in my house a girl whom he has known in Kamichlie. Does he renew his acquaintance with her in a pleasant and decorous manner? No, he acts lawlessly, violently – in a way to bring disrepute on me! He flings down the stairs and out of the house a Turkish gentleman – a rich Turkish gentleman, one of my best patrons. All this he does violently and in an unseemly fashion! Moreover, he persuades the girl, who owes me money and has received much kindness from me, to leave my house. He buys a ticket for her and sends her away on the train. Moreover, she takes with her one hundred and ten francs that belong to me, which is robbery! Now, Khwaja, it is not right that such abuses should be done. I have been an upright and virtuous woman always, a God-fearing widow, against whom none can speak. I have struggled long and hard against poverty, and have raised myself in the world by my own honest efforts. It cannot be that you will take the side of violence and wrong. I ask for retribution, and I swear to you (this was the point where the gold cross came into play) that all I have said is true, and I will repeat it to your servant Subri’s face. You can ask of the Magistrate, of the Priest, of the French officers of the garrison – all will tell you that I am an honest and a respectable woman!’

  Subri, summoned, denies nothing. Yes, he had known the girl in Kamichlie. She was a friend of his. He had got annoyed with the Turk and pushed him downstairs. And he had suggested to the girl that she should go back to Kamichlie. She preferred Kamichlie to ’Ain el ’Arus. The girl had borrowed a little money to take with her, but doubtless all would be repaid some day.

  It was then left to Max to pronounce judgement.

  ‘Really, the things one has to do in this country. You never know what is coming next,’ he groans.

  I ask him what his judgement has been.

  Max clears his throat and goes on with his recital.

  ‘I am surprised and displeased that a servant of mine should have entered your house, for that does not accord with our honour, the honour of the Expedition, and it is my command that none of my servants shall enter your house in future, so let this be clearly understood!’

  Subri says gloomily it is understood.

  ‘As to the matter of the girl leaving your house, I will take no action, for it is not any concern of mine. For the money that she took with her – that, I consider, should be repaid to you, and I will repay it to you now, for the honour of the servants of the Expedition. The sum shall be stopped out of Subri’s wages. I will write a paper, which I will read you, acknowledging the payment of this money and repudiating any other claim upon us. You shall make your mark upon it, and you shall wear that this is the end of the matter.’

  I recall the dignity and Biblical fervour with which the woman had held up the cross.

  ‘Did she say anything more?’

  ‘I thank you, Khwaja. Justice and truth have prevailed as they always do, and evil has not been allowed to triumph.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, rather overcome. ‘Well….’

  I hear light footsteps tripping past the window.

  It is our late guest. She carries a large missal or prayer-book and is just going to church. Her face is grave and decorous. The large cross bobs up and down on her breast.

  Presently I get up, take the Bible from the shelf, and turn to the story of Rahab the harlot. I feel I know – a little – what Rahab the harlot was like. I can see this woman playing that part – zealous, fanatical, courageous; deeply religious, and nevertheless – Rahab the harlot.

  December is upon us; the end of the season has come. Perhaps because it is autumn and we are used to spring, perhaps because already rumours and warnings of European unrest are in the air, there has been a touch of sadness. There is the feeling, this time, that we may not come back….

  Yet the Brak house is still rented – our furniture will be stored there, and there is still plenty to be found in the mound. Our lease runs for two more years. Surely we shall come back….

  Mary and Poilu take the road through Jerablus to Alep. From Alep we go to Ras Shamra, and spend Christmas with our friends Professor and Madame Schaeffer, and their very delightful children. There is no spot in the world more charming than Ras Shamra, a lovely little bay of deep-blue water framed in white sand and low white rocks. They give us a wonderful Christmas. We talk of next year – some year. But the feeling of uncertainty grows. We say good-bye to them. ‘We shall meet again in Paris.’

  Alas, Paris!

  We leave Beyrout by boat this time.

  I stand looking over the rai
l. How lovely it is, this coast with the mountains of the Lebanon standing up dim and blue against the sky! There is nothing to mar the romance of the scene. One feels poetical, almost sentimental….

  A familiar hubbub breaks out – excited cries from a cargo boat we are passing. The crane has dropped a load into the sea, the crate has burst open….

  The surface of the sea is dotted with lavatory seats….

  Max comes up and asks what the row is about? I point, and explain that my mood of romantic farewell to Syria is now quite shattered!

  Max says he had no idea we exported them in such quantities! And he wouldn’t have thought there was enough plumbing in the country to connect them up to!

  I fall silent, and he asks me what I am thinking of.

  I am remembering how the carpenter at Amuda set up my lavatory seat proudly by the front door when the nuns and the French Lieutenant came to tea. I am remembering my towel-horse with its ‘beautiful feet’! And the professional cat! And Mac walking up and down the roof at sunset with a happy remote face….

  I am remembering the Kurdish women at Chagar like gay, striped tulips. And the vast henna-red beard of the Sheikh. I am remembering the Colonel, kneeling with his little black bag to attend at the uncovering of a burial, and a wag among the workmen saying: ‘Here is the doctor come to attend the case,’ so that ever afterwards ‘M. le docteur’ becomes the Colonel’s nickname. I am remembering Bumps and his recalcitrant topee, and Michel crying ‘Forca’ as he pulls on the straps. I am remembering a little hill all covered with golden marigolds where we had a picnic lunch on one of our holidays; and closing my eyes, I can smell, all round me, the lovely scent of flowers and of the fertile steppe….

  ‘I am thinking,’ I say to Max, ‘that it was a very happy way to live….’

  EPILOGUE

  THIS INCONSEQUENT CHRONICLE was begun before the war, and was started for the reasons I have stated.