The desert wasteland was beautiful. She had water and two handfuls of dried dates and some pistachios Farmadi had purchased from a local farmer. She waited for Farmadi to finish adjusting something under the hood. She watched the shadows of the small shrubs move with the sun. Small lizards and large ravens moved across the landscape in intervals. The air was dry and warm, but not uncomfortable. Elsa took the time to open her bundle and put on the clothing she found inside. A simple brown dress made of wool tied around her waist with a blue sash. Her white scarf kept the sun off her face and covered her tangled hair. Her feet were more comfortable in the leather slippers than in the heeled pumps that Mr. Marshall had given her what seemed like ages ago. She blinked. Only two days ago.
Elsa scanned the landscape. She welcomed the chance to finish reading Sonnenby’s file without interruption.
The neatly typed pages informed her that Henry Sinclair had been an exemplary student in school until his fifteenth year. The autumn of his sixteenth was fraught with disciplinary problems and mention of emotional instability. She counted six documented instances of fighting with other boys that resulted in injury to both parties. He was expelled from his school.
She turned the page over and set it with the paper she had already read. The file contained a handwritten note by the former Lord Sonnenby requesting a private tutor for his son. She studied the elegant script, searching for something in the father’s hand that might explain his son’s behavior. The loops and slants were perfect, like copperplate engraving. There was nothing there about the man, except the idea of perfection. She ran her finger over the script. Even the ink was distributed evenly along the lines. The old gentleman knew exactly when to dip his pen and when to blot and when to press the nib to paper. And this sample was just a note. Not even a formal letter.
Her own handwriting was not so beautiful, and she made serious effort to make it so. Elsa turned the note over and picked up the next sheet. This paper was a typewritten letter acknowledging the younger Sinclair’s entrance into a military school.
There was nothing personal of Henry’s in the file. No letters, notes or cards. She found copies of citations as well as commendations, however. His tendency to solve his problems with his fists continued in the army, though now it was more acceptable than in school. There was a threatened lawsuit from the son of an MP who had been humiliated in a fight by Sinclair’s fists. There was, however, no record that the threat was realized. Another letter between government officials suggested the injured party had been compensated for damages. She found three similar instances and then nothing more. Perhaps Mr. Sinclair had developed a reputation. She turned a page. No one challenged him anymore. There must have been no more taunts.
She frowned, realizing she had made an assumption. Perhaps the fighting was not caused by taunts. What else? She searched for something in the correspondence that might answer her question. It seemed most of the writers were concerned with propriety. There was a great deal said about the social positions of the victims and the responses from their families and the reputations of those involved. But very little if anything was said about the causes of the fights.
She tapped her lip. Either the cause was already known to both parties, or the cause did not matter. She had seen Sonnenby fight. He was tall and his chest was broad. His shoulders promised some serious power behind a jab or a punch. It would be a foolish man or boy who would taunt him to his face.
She closed her eyes. But second hand. Yes. That must be it. She flipped through the file looking for more letters about violence. One letter suggested Sonnenby started the fight, and another that he strode into the mess hall and laid out another soldier, stone cold, without a word. One punch and the meal was disrupted for everyone. He had turned and walked away. No one had tried to stop him. Later the military police came and took him from his bunk and put him in solitary.
Elsa tried to see this man in the Sonnenby she knew. He had seemed uncomfortable talking about his parentage. Granted, perhaps it had taken him years to come to grips with the truth of his mother’s infidelity. He may have accepted it, or put it aside. She remembered the twinkle in his eyes and the curve of his mouth when he told her about the young ladies and their mothers. He had not seemed bitter or angry, only amused that he was not an acceptable suitor.
She closed the file. The other papers detailed his treatment in the asylum, miserable memos and disgusting documentation of experimental treatments. She did not want to study them now. She was familiar with most of the procedures. Where was Sonnenby now? Mr. Marshall?
The hood unfolded and clanged shut. Farmadi slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. There was a loud bang, some shaking of the whole car, and then the welcome purr of a healthy engine. She adjusted her scarf.
“Fraulein, you are well?” Farmadi spoke before putting the car in gear.
“I am. Thank you.” She thought about the expense of this journey and wondered how she could repay Farmadi if Sonnenby were not found. Mr. Marshall might compensate him for his trouble. What if Marshall were not found in Deir El Zor either? She rubbed her fingers. It was awkward. Farmadi had not intimated that he was working for hire, but the sound of the empty gas can and the quality of the nuts and dates he had given her spoke of her debt.
“I have enough fuel to get there and back if there are no more detours. We will be there tomorrow.”
Elsa cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Farmadi, for all your trouble. I am truly grateful for your help.”
“It is nothing.”
But it was. Elsa welcomed the breeze from the open window. “Is there a hotel there?” She worried. She had no money with her.
Farmadi laughed. “You have never been to Syria before?”
“No. I am afraid I have not.”
“There is a hotel in Deir El Zor, Fraulein. And shops. But Lord Sonnenby is not going to be in the city. I will be taking you somewhere just outside the city where there are no buildings or shops or hotels.”
“Then how will you know when you have arrived?”
Farmadi laughed loudly, but Elsa thought it had been a reasonable question. Outside her window the low colorless landscape streamed by with regularity. Distant mountains that were merely a dark line on the horizon seemed to never end. Close to the dirt road wiry bushes and yellow gravel stretched out for miles. She had assumed a cluster of low whitewashed houses, perhaps a hotel and a marketplace would appear as they crested one of the low hills and they would be there. Water and food and a soft bed. Like in Damascus.
“You will see, fraulein. We will certainly know when we have arrived.”
She did not like the tone of his voice. It was not threatening, but the amusement was there. Her ignorance was funny to him. She set her lips in a line and put her hand on Sonnenby’s file. She imagined both Marshall and Sonnenby in Deir El Zor greeting her and offering her a cool drink. That is what she wanted. They would be surprised to see her. She would be all business. She would tap the file and tell them she had been studying. They would see that she knew what she was doing, and that she could handle herself alone in a strange country.
Farmadi stopped the car at dusk for his prayers, and then opened the boot to get out more water and some flat bread. “We sleep a few hours, fraulein. Then we can go on some more.”
She did sleep, but fitfully, and her dreams were full of murderous Turks with sharp knives and British Enfield rifles in the boots of automobiles. Farmadi started the engine at midnight and the little car motored bravely across the hardpan clay at fifteen miles each hour.
Elsa resumed reading through the thick files as soon as there was enough sun to see the type. She went over all the reports, no matter whether they concerned Lord Sonnenby’s condition or not. Most were standard government memos concerning his postings and regular furloughs. Some discussed his linguistic skills. She was surprised to see that he spoke Turkish as well as Arabic and some Kurdish. He had been very valuable during and after the war, spending most of hi
s time translating at meetings and transcribing documents.
Perhaps he is needed by his government to translate for a little while longer, until they have the Ottoman Territories settled among the victors. Perhaps that is all.
The back of her neck reminded her that she was lying to herself. Ahead of them on the road, the dust rose in a tall column, twisting as it ascended higher into the clear sky.
Farmadi pointed at it. “There, fraulein. That is how we know we have arrived.”
“What is it?”
“The real government of El Zor.”
As the dust cleared, Elsa could see several horsemen in the road ahead of them. The horses stood still as stone and the only movement was the flapping of their riders’ robes in the wind.
Chapter Ten
Elsa wrapped her scarf tighter around her head as Farmadi opened his door and climbed out of the car. He shut the door with a satisfying thump that rocked the vehicle and made Elsa feel a little more secure. Just a little. She crouched behind the seat backs with her hands on the leather and peeked over the top.
The men on horseback did not seem threatening unless she looked at their eyes. Then she ducked even lower. Farmadi was carrying on a spirited conversation with the leader, waving his hands and occasionally gesturing toward the car. Elsa told herself to remain calm. She told herself to relax. She took three deep breaths and flexed and relaxed her hands.
“I am not in any danger,” she mumbled, as if hearing the words made them more true. “People travel here every day.” She squeezed her knees together and relaxed her legs. She tilted her head to one side and then the other to try to get rid of that feeling on the back of her neck. Farmadi’s tone of voice had changed. He sounded a bit more desperate. His hands waved even more energetically. She looked at each of the tribesmen through the windscreen.
They looked back at her. There were six of them. All wore the familiar robes of the desert people, though these men wore headdresses different from the men in the village where she had gotten her water. Their horses’ bridles had large colorful tassels hanging from the straps and headpieces as though the horses were dressed like their riders. The horses appeared friendly, their riders less so. She realized she was cringing and took another deep breath. “I am not afraid.” She said it again, a little louder. She dared herself to be brave. She hated that feeling of panic that rolled over her chest and made her heart pound. She dared herself again. Open the door and get out.
She set her teeth and reached for the door handle. One click and it opened. The dry wind tried to take her scarf and blew her dress. She pushed herself out of the back seat and onto her feet on the road. Farmadi spun around and the look on his face told her she may have acted prematurely.
“Fraulein. Please get back in the automobile.”
“Are we in El Zor? Do these men know Lord Sonnenby?” She blinked at him, aware that her words did not sound as confident as she had tried to make them sound.
The leader of the tribesmen cued his horse to move forward. He wore a black turban instead of the white keffiyahs of the other men. Elsa moved closer to the solid metal of the car. Farmadi took a step backward, facing the leader.
Farmadi said something and spread his hands in defeat. She heard him say “Sonnenby”. He pressed closer to her as the leader advanced until his back was nearly touching her and they both were pressed against the side of the car. The small desert horse blew at her as he stepped closer and when the wind whipped the ends of her scarf around her, he tossed his head and took a step back. His rider jerked the reins and turned the animal sideways.
He said something that sounded very authoritative. Farmadi cleared his voice.
“He asks that you remove your scarf so that he may see you.”
“I will.” She pulled the scarf down from her forehead until all of the soft cloth rested on her shoulders.
The tribesmen murmured and then she saw them make gestures toward her with their hands until the leader raised his to silence them.
“What are they saying?” she asked.
Farmadi did not turn around. “Lady Sonnenby was a fair woman. They remember her. Your hair is the same color. It is bad luck to have fair hair. They worry about the evil eye, but they are more inclined to believe me now that they have seen you.”
“Believe you?”
“Believe that you are Sonnenby’s woman.”
“I see. Why wouldn’t they believe you?”
Farmadi turned to face her. “Because there have been many lies told to them by foreigners.” His eyes suggested that many lies had been told to him as well.
“Yes. Well.” Elsa could not refute that. She remembered the old saying, ‘In war the first casualty is truth’. She glanced up at the leader, whose eyes burned her. She said to Farmadi, “Do they know the war is over? Do they know who won?”
“They have been told. They do not care.”
“Will they let us pass? Is Mr. Sinclair here?”
“Lord Sonnenby is not here. Yet. They will let us pass. But not the automobile.”
Elsa did not know what to say to that. The obvious question, ‘why not?’ was unspoken and understood. She cleared her throat. “I see.”
Farmadi was grim. “I cannot abandon the automobile. It belongs to my father. If I lose it I had better not return, either.”
Elsa could not tell from his voice if he was serious. “Are we prisoners?” She asked softly.
“I am not,” he said, as if there were more to the sentence.
Elsa swallowed. “What…what do we do now?”
“I have been told to leave the car and follow them. I will not. We could turn around and go back to Damascus.”
“Really?” That sounded like a good idea now. Elsa shuffled her feet in the leather shoes, thinking of a warm bath and a hot meal. But she would hate herself forever if she gave up. “Do they expect Lord Sonnenby soon?” It may be just as likely that he would turn up in Damascus as well. Or maybe Mr. Marshall was there right now. At the hotel.
“A messenger arrived this morning with news that Lord Sonnenby would be ‘visiting his relatives’.”
“Excellent.” She glanced up at the leader of the horsemen. He was staring at her and not in a nice way.
“Yet he is not here and may not be here for days.”
“You said that ‘everyone knew where he was’,” she knew she sounded like a petulant child and regretted it.
Farmadi could not face her without turning his back on the riders. Instead he turned his shoulders just enough so she could see his face. “We know where he is,” he insisted. “Do you think the foreigners move about this country without a thousand eyes upon them every second?”
Elsa realized what he meant now. The problem had been with the word “we”. She had taken him too literally. The people of this land knew every movement of the British and the French. Their network of communication might be different from that of the Europeans, but no less precise. The “we” was inclusive. No one person would know anything exactly, but collectively no one travelled through the tribal lands unnoticed. Not Lord Sonnenby, not Farmadi. Not her.
“I see.” And she did.
Farmadi agreed. “Yes. I cannot leave the car, and I cannot leave you alone here.
They say they will take you to their tents and keep you until he comes. It is logical to them that Sonnenby has a woman. Every man has a woman.” As he said that one of the riders dismounted and led his horse closer to the car.
“They intend to put me on this horse?”
Farmadi cleared his throat. “It appears so.”
“And you?” Her voice sounded small. She tried to stand as tall as possible to compensate. She had never been on a horse. This one didn’t have a saddle, just blankets and leather strapped around it. Some kind of looped leather for stirrups. No place to put her files and papers. She looked around the horizon, which was becoming blurred as the wind picked up the finer grains of sand and seemed to rub the sharp edges of everything and make
them dull. Damascus seemed far away, and Vienna seemed like the other side of the world.
“They say the road ends here, and the wheels would sink in the sand. There is uneven rock further along, but no road. The axles would break, they say.” Farmadi leaned against the car as a gust of wind unsteadied him. I promised to bring you to Lord Sonnenby, fraulein, and I have failed.”
“If we return to Damascus?”
“I will take you back to the hotel.”
She thought about that and it seemed like the reasonable thing to do. Except that she could no longer trust that Marshall’s Foreign Office would take care of her travel arrangements, unless it was to take her out into the desert again. She stood there and the wind blew her veil against her neck until it felt like a noose. Then sand blew into her eyes and mouth and made her cough.
No one really expected her to succeed. Her colleagues in Vienna would welcome her back with relief and ask about her health and if she had seen a camel or not. Glasses would clink at the table and the women would murmur, “Have another pastry” and “Is the coffee too hot?” The men would lean back in their chairs and puff on their cigars and nod at each other. Of course Elsa Schluss had failed. No one could expect a woman to…
“I’ll go.” Elsa ducked back into the car and snatched up the file and the small bundle of things Farmadi had given her.
“Fraulein…” Farmadi put a hand on the car door.
“I’ll go,” she insisted. She would not return to Vienna until this was done. “Please tell them that I will go with them. They say Lord Sonnenby is on his way here?” She needed as much information as possible. Once she got on that horse there would be no more talking. The tribesmen did not look to be multilingual.
Blue Damask Page 14
