Arms for Adonis

by Charlotte Jay

  It must be admitted that the two were not without their differences. Ishmael, although he had spent six years in London, was an Arab and had his own way of doing things. There was something about Alan’s methodical ways, his scrupulous respect for the law, his efficiency—even the neatness of his account books and the symmetrical arrangement of files upon his desk—that irked Ishmael and aroused in him all manner of perverse desires. He was like a child who, when confronted with a still, clear pool of water, cannot resist plunging in its hand and stirring up the mud on the bottom. Alan made rules—Ishmael broke them. If an opportunity presented itself to bribe a frontier policemen, to cheat the customs, to put something over the airways companies—even if it brought him no profit—he clutched it eagerly. He could not bear not to be almost in trouble.

  So it was that Anglo-Lebanese Travels Ltd operated rather like a Middle Eastern state under mandate to a western power—with Alan doggedly building up an organisation of the most scrupulous legality and orderliness whose foundations Ishmael was quietly undermining. Such as well-proportioned and solidly-built edifice was a challenge to his native ingenuity.

  Yet this is not the full picture, for Ishmael was revolting against tyranny. Alan, though recognising his qualities—his good humour, his generosity, his openness of heart—was impatient with his faults and tended to brush aside his opinions as unworthy of notice. Ishmael’s devotion to his partner had not diminished. He felt irrevocably indebted to him and was not resentful of this debt as it was a source of intense happiness to him; but he also sensed, with alarm, a lessening, a sinking as it were, of his own identity and was constantly feeling about him for some means of reasserting it. He possessed, as the circumstances of his meeting with Alan will have illustrated, a great deal of pride, towards which the young Englishman was not always sufficiently tender. It was a pride, moreover, that had received some hard knocks over the past few years. For Ishmael was a refugee and there hung over him at all times the refugee’s bitter sense of deprivation.

  When, in 1948, the Egyptian radio exhorted its Arab brethren in Palestine to flee the country or stand the risk of being killed in a war that was about to be launched against the Jews, Ishmael, his mother and sister left their home in Jaffa and fled to Damascus. The loss of his home and livelihood was rendered all the more bitter by the fact that his two elder brothers, sceptical of Egyptian promises to liberate their country and passionately attached to their lands, had stayed behind and prospered.

  ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather Mr Crawe.’ (Ishmael’s feelings towards Alan were such that he could never bring himself to address his friend by his Christian name.) ‘The nerve of that fellow! He didn’t even bother to hide them properly. Guns galore: there under the seat and just covered by a few old sacks. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

  Alan thrust his fingers into the mouth of a jar and clutched a handful of black olives; shaking the oil from his fingers, he began to slip them into his mouth. ‘It’s your own damn fault, Ishy. I told you that man was no good. I told you to get rid of him. Would you listen to me? He drove like a maniac and looked like a gangster.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Crawe. Everyone you meet these days looks like a gangster, particularly Syrians.’ He let out a feeble laugh.

  ‘I told you not to take on a Syrian. If one of our drivers is going to get into trouble, let him be Lebanese, then his own people can deal with him.’ He bit an olive in two and let it lie on his tongue, stewing deliciously in a mouthful of arak. The agreeable sensation that filtered through his body as a result of these combined flavours softened his temper. ‘Of course, that’s the end of the Damascus trips for the moment,’ he said more mildly.

  ‘Oh, Mr Crawe!’ cried Ishmael. ‘I promised Mother I’d be in Damascus next weekend.’ His mother lived in Damascus with relatives, and Ishmael always worked hard to keep the Syria–Beirut trips well booked so that he could spend a few days every month with her—he was a devoted son.

  ‘You should have thought of that before you hired that Damascene thug. I told you to take on a Lebanese.’

  ‘Oh, you’re perfectly right! Why didn’t I take your advice? Why didn’t I? I could kick myself. The trouble with me is I’m as soft as butter. He spun such a yarn. You should have heard it. You can’t trust anyone these days. Everyone breaks the law, murdering people, and betraying their friends. It’s awful. Sometimes I feel I’d just like to get right away and start afresh. To London or somewhere.’ He stopped, a look of utter dejection on his face.

  It was a round, unlined, well-padded face. A happy face, though when his features were in repose his dark eyes were surprisingly melancholy. Alan felt sorry for him.

  ‘Cheer up, Ishy! It’s all over! Here’s to freedom!’

  Ishmael raised his glass of arak and drank, but the toast only depressed him further. ‘You know, this whole thing has thoroughly upset me. I don’t mean being nabbed by the police, although you can’t trust those fellows to be fair with you once they start throwing their weight around. If they don’t want you to be innocent, then you just aren’t. I know. But suppose they catch the fellow, suppose he puts the blame on me.’ The very thought of such an eventuality put him into a panic and he dropped his head in his hands with a little moan.

  ‘Be your age!’ said Alan kindly and patted his friend’s wide shoulder.

  It was at this point that the doorbell rang, and Ishmael, whose imagination had evidently been embroidering on the idea of the driver’s perfidy, looked up with a little cry of terror.

  Alan went to the door and opened it, to find Sarah standing on the threshold. Her large blue eyes looked up at him with their customary expression of truculent appeal. ‘May I come in?’

  Sarah shook hands with Ishmael but did not catch his name, which was drowned in the blast of a wireless set from across the courtyard. She sat down on a couch facing the verandah. She felt rather light-headed with excitement and hunger, for she had had nothing to eat since noon. And now that she was in this comfortably untidy room with its framed drawings, quantities of books, and tumbled cushions, she felt happy.

  She took it for granted that Alan would help her. After all, he was English and a man. And there was a reassuringly firm and determined look about him—a quickness of movement and decisiveness of feature.

  She came straight to the point. ‘Mr Crawe, that man, this morning. Do you know that his name is Colonel Raschid Ahmed?’

  He nodded. ‘I heard it over the news.’

  ‘I’ve just had a letter from him.’

  ‘But he’s dead.’

  The shine died out of her face and she stared at him dully. His words shocked her like a deliberate cruelty. The dead cannot communicate, yet Colonel Ahmed had sent a message to her, and in doing so, had lived again.

  ‘I’m telling you what happened,’ she said coldly. ‘Will you read it, please?’

  She took the letter from her bag, handed it to him and sat watching his face while he began to read.

  Colonel Ahmed had written to her in English.

  Dear lady

  You have told me that you are distressed for the need of money. I too am distressed for need of help and I turn to you in my need.

  This morning, before we met, I had been trying to find a man, Emile Khalife, for whom I have important news of the gravest nature. But too late, I have discovered that this man has left Beirut and is residing for the moment in a village in the mountains. I am afraid, indeed I am certain, that I will not be able to reach him. I have therefore written him a letter, and I earnestly beseech you to deliver it to him. It will take you no more than three hours to reach this place which is called Chakra and which you will get to by going first to Baalbek. I think it better for you to join a tour, for if you go alone you will be conspicuous and may be followed. Also, do not go to the police for they can be bribed. If you fail or feel yourself to be in danger, go to your embassy, but only as a last resort. In Baalbek hire a taxi to take you on the road to Chakra which is sign-posted and
begins at the Jupiter temple. When the land begins to rise you will come upon a fork in the road and a sign post. Take the right-hand road that will bring you to Chakra. On no account take the left-hand road and watch for yourself and your safety. I should die of self-reproach if any harm should come to you.

  As I write this I look up and see you sitting opposite me and all the words that you have spoken to me go once more through my mind. I know you will not humiliate me by refusing to take the money that will be given to you. It is not payment, as there is no way of arriving at a price to be put upon this task. You can call it a gift in return. You have told me that you need money and I know of no other thing to give you.

  Now as I write this the thought comes to me that perhaps you would prefer to do this for me without reward. I cannot tell for I have not had sufficient time to study your mind.

  Yet I am tormented by doubt, for you have told me that you have a great deal of pride and this leads me to examine the question carefully and distresses and confuses me. So you must forgive me if I blunder. The important point is that I do not wish to be under an obligation to you, for obligation is a barrier and when we meet again I would like it to be without debts on either side.

  And now, gracious lady, goodbye, and may Allah protect you.

  With respectful compliments

  Raschid Ahmed

  Alan read the letter through and put it down on the table, from where it was taken up again and read by Ishmael. Sarah paid no heed to this; in fact she did not even notice. She watched Alan, eager to catch every sign of the letter’s effect upon him. She felt that something momentous hung in the balance, and that Alan was about to arbitrate in a matter of great importance. It was not just a question of whether or not she should do what Colonel Ahmed had asked her—this was of secondary importance, and she had long ago made up her mind about that.

  Alan, though he did not fully understand the letter, was angered by it.

  ‘What’s this money he’s talking about?’ he asked brusquely.

  Sarah told him what had happened. She spoke in a deliberately flat, calm voice for she saw that Alan disliked the letter and she did her best to suppress her excitement. She told him again of the telephone call in the café when Colonel Ahmed had allowed her to think that he was talking to the police, and of the man who had brought her the money in the university garden. ‘I think it must have been a brother. There was a strong likeness. He has a brother, I know. His name’s Tawfik and he has a business in the Avenue des Francais.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘About … five thousand Lebanese pounds.’

  Double that, thought Alan. At least she has the grace to feel ashamed. ‘What an underhand trick,’ he broke out furiously. ‘Getting you mixed up in a sordid political quarrel, bribing you to run his errands for him. What is this letter he wants you to deliver? Who is Emile Khalife?’

  ‘The people I’m staying with say that someone of that name has an important position in the Lebanese security police.’

  ‘Someone of that name! You must know that Khalife is an old Lebanese family. There are Khalifes scattered all over Lebanon and Syria. You chose a convenient profession for your Khalife. He’s much more likely to be some Lebanese bandit the Syrians are financing. Before you know where you are you’ll be shot or jailed for treason. This, what’s his name, Ahmed, you can see the sort of man he is, bribing you with a small fortune and then getting himself killed before you can refuse it.’

  Sarah’s face grew tight and obstinate. ‘He wasn’t bribing me. He didn’t have any choice. There was no one else to turn to.’

  ‘You’re not going to do this idiotic thing?’

  ‘Of course I am. How can I refuse? Besides, I need this money. It’s a godsend. You wouldn’t want me to take the money and not deliver the letter would you? That’s what his brother thought I was going to do. He despised me. I don’t blame him.’

  Alan stood up and was pacing about. ‘I’ll give you the money,’ he shouted at her rudely. ‘Give that back. How much do you want?’

  But she felt absolutely committed, not by the subtle machinations of Colonel Ahmed, but her own romantic nature. Colonel Ahmed’s letter had filled her with pride. He had called out to her, from the very grave; there was something miraculous in this. She had been set alight. It was unthinkable to extinguish happiness with cold doses of caution and commonsense.

  ‘I can’t take your money. This is different. It’s a debt. You read what he said. But if you’ll help—I’ve got to get to Chakra tomorrow. It’s about fifteen miles from Baalbek. I looked it up in the Guide Bleu. There’s a Roman temple there—I expect people go quite often to look at that. I thought if I went as a tourist, in one of your cars, so as not to look conspicuous, in case the men in the taxi saw me with Colonel Ahmed this morning … it’s possible someone might be watching me.’

  ‘I’m glad you can at least see the need for caution, Miss Lane.’ He leaned over her. ‘Don’t get mixed up in this! Don’t you understand? A man’s been murdered. You were with him. Have you listened to the broadcasts from Cairo today? Do you suppose these political manoeuvres are some kind of game?’

  This was more or less what Sarah did think, and with good reason, for almost everyone else thought so too. Violent and bloody though the Middle East might be, it was also richly fantastic; and for those with a turn of sardonic humour, even comical. How could one take seriously rulers who one moment were advocating the assassination of neighbouring monarchs, colonels and presidents and in the next embracing with fervent vows of friendship their prospective victims? The world of The Arabian Nights, where a queen escaped death by story-telling, might have put on modern dress but clung to its accustomed ways, and the Arab people, for all their striving towards nationhood, remained imprisoned in their own fantasies. Even violence, by following antique patterns, was for her not as shocking as it ought to have been, and when it was learned that the male members of a mountain village had swung the scales of vendetta by killing a dozen of their traditional enemies from the village in the next valley, the news came to foreigners in Beirut from afar—from two hundred years ago, or even further. It was hard to realise that real people were actually at that moment suffering as the result of such unnecessary, uncontemporary crimes.

  ‘Mr Crawe.’ It was now Ishmael who spoke. ‘I think we ought to help Miss Lane. She’s in a spot, you know. You’re perfectly right in a way. I don’t think she ought to go off on her own. It would be much better if one of us took her.’

  ‘Shut up, Ishmael!’

  ‘Please go on, Mr Ishmael,’ cried Sarah. ‘You’re very kind. Will you take me to Chakra?’

  ‘Why not, Mr Crawe? I’m taking those people to Baalbek tomorrow. I could easily go a bit further.’

  ‘Do you want to be shot?’

  ‘Oh pouf! We’re much more likely to be shot in the suks. Or run over by a taxi.’

  ‘This is a sudden attack of courage,’ said Alan sarcastically. ‘Two hours ago you were in jail weeping with terror.’ But seeing Ishmael’s round face fall forlornly, he turned away, ashamed of himself. No man likes to be reminded of such moments—Ishmael, who longed to be brave, least of any.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Miss Lane,’ cried Ishmael. ‘I don’t care two pins for those bullies! As for being scared of taking you to Chakra, well, you can count on me. This is just between us, Mr Crawe. You don’t need to have anything to do with it.’

  ‘If you go to Chakra tomorrow, I’ll report this conversation to Inspector Malouf and have you both arrested.’

  Sarah could only gasp with dismay and Ishmael cried, ‘Oh! no, Mr Crawe, you couldn’t do that! Miss Lane came to you for help. She trusted you. It would be absolutely rotten to give her away.’

  Alan knew he was behaving badly—shouting, losing his temper, insulting Ishmael—but he felt desperately, illogically, against this enterprise. He made an effort to control himself, sat down opposite Sarah and addressed her earnestly. ‘Miss Lane—Sarah—
if there’s nothing wrong with this man, if he’s not asking you to do something dangerous and subversive, then there’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t give those letters to Inspector Malouf.’

  ‘Inspector Malouf!’ cried Sarah. ‘All he wants to know is how many men I’ve slept with. And you read what Colonel Ahmed wrote about them. How do I know he’s not just as dangerous? Did they catch the men in the taxi? They didn’t even ask questions about them. That’s the whole trouble here unless you know who you can trust.’

  ‘Why trust this Syrian?’

  She leaned back on the divan, shrinking a little into its cushions. My blood trusts him, my heart trusts him. ‘I trust my own judgement—we talked—I found out a lot about him.’

  ‘What’s a Syrian doing in Lebanon getting himself shot at?’

  ‘Please don’t shout at me. I don’t see why you dislike a man you don’t even know. It’s obvious what happened and they want something to set it off. They don’t like Colonel Ahmed. He’s always wanted Syria to be friendly with Lebanon, and he’s very popular with the army. They wanted him out of the way so they killed two birds with one stone. But he knew what they were up to and got in first. I bet you, if we opened this letter …’

  ‘Then why don’t we? Let’s put your improbable theory to the test. Let’s open this letter and see what it says.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. He’d think I didn’t trust him.’

  ‘Good God, woman! He’s dead!’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Sarah calmly. ‘I’ve spoken to two people this afternoon and both of them said he is alive. I hope he isn’t dead. It’s lucky he isn’t dependent on you for his life.’