by Jan Morris
This was the prodigy we now threw ourselves into, in our little Honda, and no train ever descended those loops so fast. It was pitch-black in the tunnel, except for the beams of our headlights, eerily sweeping the rock walls, and the noise of our engine was deafening, echoing all around us and reverberating, I imagine, back through all the bends behind us and up to the tunnel mouth. Neither of us spoke. Like a projectile we plunged down the inside of that mountain, with never a glimpse of daylight ahead. Once a bird, startled by the noise and the headlights’ beams, sprang from the wall with a frenzied flutter of its wings and disappeared into the gloom. Sometimes I felt we were twirling, like a bullet in a rifle barrel, and this sensation recalled to me the moment, only a day or two before, when we had suddenly been hurled upwards in Car 7 of the Myrmidon Tower.
The two experiences oddly merged in my mind. Both journeys, one in the light, one in the darkness, seemed somehow paradigmatic of a journey through Hav itself. The absolute nature of both, something gravelike about them, was like Hav’s blanketing enigma. The solitary bird of the tunnel, the myriad bright fish of the Tower, suggested impotent reminders of life. It was a bit like being buried alive. Even my companions were a little disturbing in their charm. Something about Biancheri made me feel uncomfortable. Something about Yasar was evasive. Was it Yasar in the Tower, Biancheri in the Tunnel? The bird in the aquarium, the fish coming out of the rock? It took us only five minutes or so to rush through that tunnel, but it seemed to me that all the nagging ambiguities of Hav, all the unanswered questions, swirled around my head as the car swirled through the darkness.
Suddenly the daylight burst upon us. ‘Voilà!’ cried Yasar, looking at his watch. ‘How was that? Five minutes flat!’
The rest of the ride, down the track of the old Staircase, seemed an anti-climax. Yasar relaxed, and slowed down. However, I hadn’t freed myself of those peculiar sensations in the Tunnel. It was as though I had emerged from an anaesthetic, with snatches of a dream lingering in my head.
‘Tell me something, Yasar,’ I said. ‘What was it you wanted me to remember, when we went to that séance of the Cathars?’
There was a long silence, until we came to the bottom of the track and joined the smooth road back to the city. Then he stopped the car.
‘That’s the end of the rally route,’ he said emotionlessly, as though he had suddenly lost interest. ‘And what’s that you asked me?’
‘I asked what it was you wanted me to remember, when you took me to the séance with George that time.’
‘I don’t know any George, and believe me, Jan, I never took you to any séance. You must believe that. Whatever you say about it, I will deny. No George, no séance. You’re talking about twenty years ago, and your memory must be at fault. And I’d be much obliged if you didn’t raise the matter with Fatima, either. Okay? Okay?’
‘Okay of course. Just as you say. I won’t ask any more — and thanks very much for the rally ride — it was marvellous.’
‘Thank you, Jan. I’m sorry the matter arose. If you feel you want to know more about such things, I suggest you talk to the Caliph. I believe you know him, don’t you? He’s your best bet. Mention me if you like.’
So it was with slightly awkward politesse that we parted at the waterfront, where he dropped me at the Lazaretto buggy stand. Damn Hav, I thought to myself. Damn this two-faced, double-dealing, lying, cheating, deceptive old fox of a place.
The buggy-driver knew me, and greeted me kindly. ‘Welcome home dirleddy,’ he said.
‘Home’, I replied, ‘is where the heart is.’
‘Is that really true?’ he earnestly enquired, as we drove sedately into the lesser tunnel.
SATURDAY
Aleykum salaam!
6
Over my Havflakes — to the Caliph’s — a fact-finding mission? — The Wazir slid in — an aerial view — ‘M’ for what?
‘Welcome home!’ the Ponsonbys cried, when I went to The Salt Trade for my breakfast in the morning. ‘Long time no see!’
‘Yes, Jan dear, what have you been up to? We’ve missed you.’
‘Hush, Vera,’ said Arthur. ‘Remember the Official Secrets Act.’
‘Oh pooh, you old fool. Come on, Jan, tell all.’
So I told them about the Escarpment rally adventure, as I ate my Havflakes, and they were much amused. ‘What a scream,’ thought Vera. ‘Sounds a winner to me,’ Arthur thought, adding that he himself had been down the Cresta Run, when he was a young man, and would do it again at the drop of a hat. ‘Drop of a few hundreds pounds more like,’ Vera suggested.
‘Oh and by the way,’ Arthur said, ‘Biancheri was asking after you last night. He seemed a bit anxious. Wondered if everything was all right with you.’
‘If you ask me, Jan,’ Vera winked, ‘that man’s got a bit of a crush on you. Lucky you, at your age!’
I must have run through half a dozen address books since I was last in Hav, but to the travelling writer they are never altogether outdated. I had brought with me my 1980s version, and when I got back to my room I found the number I wanted, and spoke it into the teledado: Hav 001.
I was not surprised to hear that the number had been changed to 0082321, so I asked for that instead and heard an elderly, exquisite, faintly sacerdotal voice announce: ‘His Holiness the Caliph’s Residence.’
‘May I speak to the Caliph, please?’
‘To his Holiness? His Holiness does not normally accept unsolicited calls. May I enquire who is telephoning?’
I told him, and there was a pause. ‘Then am I not correct in thinking that we have previously made your acquaintance? I am the Caliph’s Wazir. Be so good as to wait for a moment or two, dirleddy, and I will consult His Holiness.’
It seemed to me that the 125th Caliph had acquired extra dignity during my absence. His Holiness indeed: I thought that was only the Pope! But when the Wazir came back on the line he sounded much more informal.
‘The Caliph says yes, of course, he’ll be most interested to see you again — as indeed, dear Ms Morris, so will I. Shall we send the car promptly at about four this afternoon, to pick you up at the Lazaretto buggy station?’
‘That would be fine, Wazir,’ said I, ‘but last time you named a date the car came three days late.’
‘Oh dear oh dear, did it really? — forgive us. As you know, the Caliph’s situation is such that we must keep the tightest security for his protection. But now we know you, dirleddy, and believe me, the car will be there at four o’clock sharp, or I’m not the Caliph’s Wazir — and I shall be in it!’
I spent the day puzzling. I wandered the wayward paths of Lazaretto, and felt myself truly inside a labyrinth. I sat in the shade at the Maze Bar, and tried to reduce my responses to the place into diagrammatic form — one factor linked with another, one experience blending (or more often not blending) with the next. I remembered the stroke-like spasm in Car 7, the confusions of the tunnel. I had lunch on the bar’s terrace, looking towards the Tower and thinking about these mysteries, and in a kind of reverie over my coffee I heard a voice behind my back, and the scrape of a chair being pulled beside mine.
‘I was told I would find you here’, said the British Legate, rather greasily I thought. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Delighted’, I lied, and waited.
‘It’s like this’, he said. ‘I feel we somehow got off on the wrong feet, so to speak, when we met the other day. I feel I was abrupt with you — I didn’t quite realize the — well, the position.’
‘Oh not at all’, said I. ‘I can well understand what a nuisance transient Britons must be to you, especially if they happen to be Welsh.’
‘Yes, well, that slipped out. I shouldn’t have said that. But the thing is, I wonder if I could possibly ask a favour of you?’ I waited. He blew his nose.
‘The thing is, I gather that this evening you’re going to see the Caliph. The thing is, the Caliph is absolutely persona non grata with HMG. It’s out of the question for me ever
to meet him. I’ve never set eyes on the fellow. We Brits have no contact, although there’s a lot we could learn from him about one thing and another.’
‘So?’
‘So, the thing is, I wondered, entre nous of course — I’m speaking absolutely confidentially — I was wondering, if anything that might be of interest to HM Government emerged from your meeting, would it be too much to ask if you would pass it on to me? In particular anything concerning, well, no doubt you can guess the sort of thing, the sort of person . . .’
His voice trailed away. I considered the matter. He shifted in his chair.
‘I think not’, said I. ‘I am a private citizen, and it seems to me that if you already know of my appointment with the Caliph this evening you’ve been keeping some sort of surveillance over me. Whatever passed between the Caliph and me is my private business, and I will do with it whatever seems best.’
The Legate oozed no longer. ‘Meaning I suppose that if it’s juicy enough you’ll flog it to some sleazy tabloid instead of doing your patriotic duty and reporting it to me.’
I said I was sorry. He left without a hand-shake, tucking his handkerchief into his sleeve. I walked up to the base of the Tower, to stare at the bulk and the dazzle of it, until a guard politely requested me not to linger.
So I picked up a passing buggy, and at four o’clock sharp the car arrived for me on the waterfront. As the Caliph seemed to have got grander since 1985, so had the Caliph’s car. Then it was a venerable Cadillac, now it was a very new black Mercedes with tinted windows, looking to me decidedly bullet-proof. Two swarthy uniformed men sprang from the front seat. One stood shot-gun on the pavement, so to speak; the other with a practised flourish opened the back door, and out stepped the Wazir.
‘What style,’ said I.
‘They’re Assyrians.’
But the style I meant was the man himself. He was now in his late sixties, I suppose, but looked more elegant than ever. No tarboosh (‘Alas no, our suppliers in Alexandria no longer fulfil our requirements’), but a beautifully cut black suit, tan gloves and shoes and Hollywood sunglasses. He was slim as a rake, and as he sat down beside me in the car I caught a snatch of musky scent. The Assyrians slipped into their seats, there was a distant purr, and the great car glided away from the waterfront.
‘Yes we are so lucky’, the Wazir said conversationally, ‘to have these excellent fellows. These two are among the third generation in the Caliph’s employ. We lost a couple during a slight fracas soon after your last visit—’
‘During the Intervention, you mean?’
‘Well yes, round about then. But fortunately new recruits constantly reach us, and we still feel well looked after.’
Despite all the changes along the road, much seemed the same at the Caliph’s house. The gates were freshly painted, the gravel yard was well rolled, the building looked in fine condition and two Assyrians in khaki saluted us at the entrance. And who should be there to greet us at the front door but His Holiness the 125th Caliph humself!
‘Aha,’ he cried, ‘so you two old friends meet again, el ham dillah! Off you go now, you wicked Wazir, and leave Ms Morris to me. We have much to talk about, I’m sure.’ The Wazir bowed low, kissed my hand and disappeared. The Caliph led me indoors.
‘I suppose’, he said, ‘that you are here on what they used to call a fact-finding mission.’ Age had not withered him, since I last set eyes on him. On the contrary, it had made him a great deal fatter. If the Wazir had become more delicate, more attenuated, his master had grown visibly more consequential. He was a heavy man now, dressed in a heavy brown cassock, carrying a lumpish string of prayer-beads. ‘If so, I must ask you to tread very delicately with your questions and surmises. I spoke very frankly to you last time, and my people tell me that in your book (which unfortunately I have not had a chance to read) you recorded your impressions with commendable circumspection. Thank you. My situation in Hav is, as you know, always fragile, and recent developments have made it even more necessary than before to be careful in what I say.
‘However, Ms Morris, my people tell me that the Government is hoping to make use of your talents during your visit here, and I too would like to let a few ideas drop into your ear. You will know, I am sure, how best to make use of them. By the way, did old Porvic wear a tarboosh when you met him the other day? What did you think of it?’
One tarboosh looks to me much like another, but when I said so the Caliph looked disappointed in me.
‘Oh no, you’re quite wrong there, quite wrong. A first-class tarboosh is a work of high art, a design icon, as they say. I thought you might be able to tell me whether the standard of work of the Nakhla people in Alex really has fallen off, as my Wazir assures me. Never mind. Let us proceed.’
But he was plunged in silence then, so to cheer things up I asked what had happened to the picture of the lovely dancer which, as I remembered it, used to hang on the walls of the room.
‘Naratlova? You mean Kolshok’s Naratlova? Some people did not think she was suitable, for several reasons. One, she was a woman. Two, she was a Russian. Three, she was a Christian. Four, she was beautiful. Five, she was a Christian. You understand me? Two out of five?’
I took him to mean that Islamic sentiment had expelled the lady, but before I could say anything he continued: ‘I’m not sure how much you know about the relationship between the Caliphate and the Cathars.’
‘Not much, but Yasar Yeğen said you might perhaps be willing to tell me more.’
‘Oh yes, Yeğen. I suppose he took you on his rally route? Rather an unreliable man. One day he is going to kill himself, by one means or another. He nearly did, you know, in the former times.
‘Well, then, perhaps you don’t know about the Holy Compact concluded between the Caliphate and the Cathar Séance, long before our separation from the Sultanate, back in the fifteenth century in fact, when the Ottomans first took this place. The Compact was maintained when the Caliphate was officially abolished, and upheld by all my predecessors until the present day. In fact it is why I am here at all — I remember telling you that my own relationship with Ankara has always been, shall we say, precarious.
‘The Holy Compact was of course highly secret from the first — I am talking now in strictest confidence, you realize. The Turkish Governorate in Hav would have considered it highly seditious, and so would our late Government here, before the Intervention. It is only because of our new arrangements that I am able to say anything about it now. And I am still governed, Miss Jan — I may call you Miss Jan? Thank you — I am still restricted in what I tell you by the Holy Oath which was part of the Compact from the very beginning.’
Surely, said I, an alliance between a heretical Christian sect and the descendants of the Prophet’s own family was not terribly popular among Muslims?
‘You are right. The secret leaked out long ago, and that is one reason why my situation here has been so dangerous, and why I need all these bodyguards — Assyrian Christians, you must surely have noticed, every one. There are several factions in the Arab world who would happily see me eliminated purely on religious grounds. On the other hand . . .’ He interrupted himself to cross the room and pull a tasselled cord. ‘Would you care to join me in a coffee?’
Almost at once a burly servant in a gallabiyeh came to take the order.
‘Tough-looking person,’ said I.
‘Of course,’ said the Caliph. ‘They perform many kinds of services for me.’
‘But you were about to tell me—’
‘Yes, yes, but let’s wait for our coffee. Yes, Miss Jan, I was sorry to have to remove that painting of the lovely Naratlova, because I have always cherished the old story that this house was Kolchock’s love-nest long ago. The place has a very romantic air, don’t you think so? I like to think of the old reprobate here in the garden with his paramour, like people in a Persian miniature. We Arabs are true romantics, you know, despite the austerities of our faith and art.
‘Ah, Love! cou
ld thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
‘A bad translation, in my view — “shatter it to bits” is surely poor English, is it not? And of course I cannot approve of most of the Rubáiyát’s sentiments. But still when I wander around my garden remembering Kolchock and his heart’s desire, I often quote the verse to myself.’
The servant returned, soundlessly, and poured our coffee into exquisitely chased cups of brass, out of a tall long-spouted jug. It was thick Arabian coffee, flavoured with camomile. The Caliph watched me sipping it. ‘Better, I dare say, than the stuff they give you at Lazaretto?’
‘Most certainly better,’ said I, ‘and a thousand times better than the tea.’
‘Oh the tea,’ he laughed. ‘Be careful what you say about the tea. They’ve only just invented it — like that Aqua Hav, equally appalling I am told.’
But he was about to tell me more, I reminded him, about relations with the Arab world.
‘Yes, yes, something more I can say. But remember my Oath! Also I regret we must soon cut our conversation short; I have an unavoidable engagement this evening.’ He looked at his watch. ‘This I can tell you: that whereas I am persona non grata with some of the Arab factions, I am able to play a useful role in relations with others. I am a link, so to speak, outside the sphere of diplomacy, between them and this Republic. I cannot be more specific. Suffice it to say that the people at your Legation would like to know more. There are certain aspects of trade and economics which can best be facilitated by unofficial channels, certain commodities outside more normal consignments — certain people too who can entrust their whereabouts with confidence to me. Some indeed, whose names or at least cognomens, may be familiar to you, who advocate the revival of the Caliphate itself! If you follow me, Miss Jan, if you can read me between the lines, as I believe you say, please keep your conclusions to yourself.’
