Behind her Descartes and Sonnenby were stripping the three dead Bedouin of their clothing and possessions. Sonnenby had told her it was necessary. She looked over her shoulder at them. Necessary. The camels were couched a meter away, waiting as she was, but uninterested in the macabre activities.
Descartes tugged at a dead man’s boot, making the corpse shake with a disgusting quiver.
“Must you do that?” she asked.
“We have to, fraulein. We want anyone who finds the bodies to think raiders killed them. Only Europeans leave the bodies untouched.”
She nodded reluctantly and adjusted her veil. “If it must be done.”
“It must be done. Get on your camel,” Sonnenby said.
She put Marshall’s silver watch inside her briefcase and then tied the handle to the wooden saddle frame across from her water skin. She finished packing and climbed onto the kneeling camel, adjusted her dress and veil to cover her as much as possible from the sun, and used the prod to encourage the animal to stand. Descartes and Sonnenby were gathering the other camels into a line head to tail. She waited impatiently, swatting at the flies, always looking to the west.
“Come,” Descartes said. Her camel responded to his voice. Sonnenby brought up the rear with the dead guards’ camels. No one spoke. After an hour the dark outcropping of stone was a small blot on the yellow sands behind them.
They were heading east. To Elsa it all looked the same. Yellow sands, hardpan, and distant shimmering mountains obscured not by mist, but by mirage. Descartes had his compass out and was looking at it as he swayed side to side on his camel. Sonnenby followed behind, his head cloth obscured his face from view. Her camel bellowed and began to trot without being prodded. Elsa held on to the saddle frame until the animal caught up with Sonnenby’s and greeted the other animal with a snort and a grumble.
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
“Baghdad.”
“How far?”
“One day. We will be there at midnight.”
“And Descartes knows how to get there?”
Descartes tucked his compass into his chest pocket and turned his head. “Oui, cherie.” He gave her a smile of confidence. “I lived there many years ago.”
She relaxed. Baghdad was a large city. As large as Damascus. There would be real beds in a real hotel. Hot food and plenty of water. Tea and coffee. Electricity. Telephones. A bath. Perhaps a train. She started to feel better. The horror of the battle at the rocks started to feel more like a dream than an event that happened just that morning, but her ache for Marshall did not fade. Thinking of him made her hurt all over. If she had been with him she could have stopped his attacker. She knew it.
She looked at her hands then looked away. Now I am a murderer…or a soldier, she told herself. Neither was satisfactory. She took no pride in taking a life. Even an enemy’s. She had lost complete control of herself. It was frightening. What else might she do if she lost control again? She thought about this while the sun moved steadily upward.
Her experience was not a failure of control. Possibly it was a defense mechanism the brain used to preserve the body in times of crisis. If she had thought too long about the situation, she would not have attacked the Bedouin. Her mind would have told her it was impossible for an untrained woman to kill an experienced warrior in hand-to-hand combat. Yet it had happened. It had happened because the experienced warrior had no experience with a furious Austrian woman, and because she had not waited to listen to what her brain had to say. She had listened to her heart, which was telling her that she had two seconds to keep that knife out of Sonnenby’s neck.
Sonnenby was riding beside her, but now her camel decided it wanted to follow Descartes’ animal and kept making an attempt to pass. Sonnenby gave her a sideways look as the two camels had a vocal exchange about the proper alignment. He told her, “We are on the wrong camels.”
“Apparently,” she answered. “I don’t know how people get used to spending days on them.”
Her attempt at light conversation fell flat. All words seemed inappropriate. But silence was painful to her. She craved the sound of a voice, any voice. Talking kept her from thinking too deeply about what she had done, what she had seen. And from the memory of Marshall’s gaping neck. She knew if she started talking about it she would babble like a child. This is shock, she told herself. You are experiencing the aftermath of trauma.
Sonnenby did not appear to want to talk. It occurred to her that he probably had never had anyone to talk to. Ever. He was not used to the idea of comforting conversation. In his world one remained silent in the face of pain. This was the world of the boarding school, the military man, the aristocrat. Man’s world.
Women wanted to talk about events. There was something soothing in the sharing of a common experience. In the nurses’ lodging house there was never silence. They would sit knee to knee in their hard wooden chairs with a cup of coffee cradled in their hands or on their laps and talk about the day, the men who had been saved and the ones who had died. The men they had put on trains to go home, and the men they had put in the earth. Elsa wanted to tell him how she felt. She wanted to hear his words in response.
But he looked terrible under the bloody head cloth. He did not look like he wanted to talk. His face was scuffed and scabbed and his beard was rough. His thobe was torn, the hem dark with mud and blood. The brown and black spatters on the white cloth suggested that the various spatters occurred some time apart. Beneath the thobe he was wearing the same clothing she had seen him in when they were in the tent in El Zor. At least the trousers were the same. He had lost the shirt somewhere. Fresh blood soaked one side of his head cloth from the blow he had taken from the Bedouin. His boots were scuffed.
She looked quickly at Descartes for similar damage, but the Frenchman’s back was straight, his pocketed khakis had no stains and he swayed on his camel without obvious discomfort.
She had to try. “Tell me what happened in El Zor.” The silence was becoming a force of its own, bearing down on her.
He made a sound in his throat, and then said, “I tried to talk to Mehmet. He would not listen to me.”
He said nothing else. Elsa gave him time to continue but after a long while it appeared he wasn’t going to elaborate. She prodded gently, “I will assume, then, that we cannot go back.”
He turned his head to look at her and that was her answer.
She changed the subject. “Mr. Marshall,” she murmured. She had meant to say more, but her throat tightened. She needed to say more. She wanted to talk about him to ease the twisted feeling inside her.
But Sonnenby winced. He turned away from her. The edges of his head cloth flapped in the wind and hid his face. His camel prod waved and his animal lengthened her stride and took him out of range for conversation. Elsa would have to grieve alone and in silence.
Midnight brought the lights of the city. It could be seen from miles away. Elsa’s camel seemed as eager to get there as she did. The three of them travelled down empty streets between two and three story buildings built right up against the road. Telegraph wires welcomed them with the promise of civilization and Elsa felt hungry for the first time in days.
Descartes knew where he was going. He led them down first one side street and then another until he stopped in front of a low mud-brick building. The camels knelt and they dismounted. A light was on inside. Descartes didn’t have a chance to knock before a man opened the door. The light behind him made a long stripe on the road.
The conversation was muted and short. Another man joined the first and Elsa could see that this one knew Descartes as a friend. The two men embraced and their greetings were fast and loud. A third and fourth man pushed the door wide and the strip of light became a rectangle. Elsa unfastened her briefcase and clutched it to her chest before the men could take her camel away. Sonnenby was limping again. He had nothing in his hands when he relinquished his animal. Descartes introduced them with a wave and French-accented Arabic. El
sa nodded, and Sonnenby ran a hand over his head and slid the filthy head cloth off with a polite nod to their host.
Descartes’ friend looked them both over carefully. He said something to Descartes before came out of the house and led them to the building next door. Inside, the single room was dark until a kerosene lantern was lit and hung on a chain that dangled from the ceiling. Elsa was ushered in and the men followed.
She looked around while the pleasantries were concluded. This was a simple room with a hard packed dirt floor, level and cleanly swept. High openings in the walls near the ceiling were designed to let in light and air, but not much else. Now she saw the glimmer of the stars through them, and a cool cross draft blew in from the open door. A minute later another man carried in some small carpets under his arms and unrolled them on the floor. Water jugs and bowls were set on the low brick bench that was part of one wall from corner to corner. Descartes was still talking, but Sonnenby had already paced the space, examined the ventilation and poured water into one of the bowls. He brought it to her and she drank gratefully. He took it from her and finished it.
The door closed and Descartes said, “This is the room he rents to travelers. I have stayed here many times.” To Sonnenby he said, “She is your wife, my friend.”
Sonnenby nodded and handed Descartes the bowl. “Understood.”
Elsa shrugged. She had been playing this charade for days now.
Descartes took a long drink and refilled the bowl. “You could have been my wife, if you prefer.” He smiled at her. “But my friend here,” he nodded toward Sonnenby, “might punch me in the mouth if I try to kiss you.” He drank again. “I like my teeth.”
Sonnenby smiled briefly. “There will be no kissing. There will be no more punching.” He looked at his swollen knuckles and shook out his right hand. “Not for a while.”
Descartes continued, “The lie is for your protection, cherie. I do not want them to think you are a prostitute. They would drop by later, expecting to claim you for their pleasure in turn.”
Sonnenby gave a short laugh and touched his neck. “She would rip their throats out.”
Descartes nodded. “Like I said, we don’t want more trouble. She is your wife.”
But the morning brought bigger problems. Elsa was jolted awake from her sleeping spot on the brick bench as the door banged open and the doorway darkened with men. Three men in uniforms. Sonnenby and Descartes leaped up from the floor where they had been lying. She quickly covered herself with her veil.
The men looked from Descartes to Sonnenby. They decided Sonnenby was the one they wanted. A pistol was drawn and pointed. One of the men said, “Lord Sonnenby, I presume. Sir, you will come with us.”
“The hell I will,” he answered. He threw an uppercut with his left fist. The pistol flew up and hit the low ceiling then bounced to the floor in the corner. Sonnenby kicked and the man holding the pistol had his legs knocked out from beneath him. He hit the ground on his back.
Descartes was frantically speaking in mixed French and English, waving his hands for emphasis. The other soldier now had his weapon drawn and pressed against Sonnenby’s temple. He took Sonnenby’s pistol from his holster and tucked it in his belt. No one moved. Descartes stopped explaining. No one noticed Elsa at all. The man on the floor got to his knees, then his feet. He straightened his jacket and retrieved his weapon, glaring at Sonnenby who knelt, fuming, before the other man’s pistol.
It had all happened very fast. Elsa had been holding her breath, for now she let it out in a loud sigh. The third soldier was on her in one stride and had her by the arm. He dragged her up and when he saw that she stood taller than he was, used his other hand to whip off her veil.
“Good God,” he said. “Who is this?”
Sonnenby mumbled, “Valkyrie.”
“What?”
Elsa jerked her arm, trying to get loose, but the soldier’s grip tightened. “You are all coming to headquarters.”
Headquarters was another nondescript two-story brick building a short walk from their lodging. Elsa was separated from the men and marched down a tiled hallway between whitewashed walls and placed alone in a room with metal chairs and a single table. There were no windows in this room, but a wooden shutter over the door was open to provide ventilation. She waited for her interrogator.
The door opened and he entered, tentatively, as though he didn’t know what would be inside. His step and the way he kept his hand on the door reminded her of the story, “The Lady or the Tiger?”
He saw it was the lady and relaxed with a smile the British wore when being introduced at a boring but necessary reception. Elsa remained seated, knees together, hands in her lap. She composed her face into an expressionless mask.
He closed the door behind him slowly, and then turned. He was a short slender man. Her eyes darted over him quickly, taking his measure and readying herself for battle. A different kind of battle. A battle of minds. He had clear ice-blue eyes and fair hair, cut and combed in military fashion, though he was not in uniform. His skin was sunburned in places, and he wore a suit that fitted him ill. She raised her eyes from his body and met his gaze full on. She was surprised to see him flinch.
He did not offer his hand, but clicked his heels in a mocking way and gave a stiff bow. He said, “Fraulein Schluss,” with an exaggerated emphasis on the guttural consonants. In school-book German he said, “I am Mr. Thompson, and I have been asked to speak to you this morning.”
“Mister Thompson,” she answered smoothly in English, rounding her vowels and accenting each syllable so that he could see that her English was impeccable. “I cannot say I am pleased to meet you as I am not here of my own accord.” That should take some of the snap out of his heels. It did. He widened his eyes and his smile became a bit more sincere.
He put his hands behind his back and took a few steps around the room, keeping her at the center, glancing at her with each turn he had to make to avoid a wall. When he passed close, she stood and unfolded herself slowly and deliberately to her full height. This made him stop, as she knew it would. She was a full head taller than he and outweighed him by fifteen kilos. His eyes travelled up her body to the top of her head and he said, “Miss Schluss, I see you are a woman in full Teutonic glory, though your dress looks quite out of place.”
But he wasn’t looking at her breasts, though they were nearly at his eye level. He looked instead at her hands. Her hands? Elsa moved them gracefully in a casual way and the icy eyes followed them.
“Miss Schluss, I have been told you were found in the company of a known traitor.”
She interrupted, “What has happened to Lord Sonnenby?”
He was still watching her hands as he answered, “He is currently in the infirmary. I do not know his condition.” Just at that moment she heard an earsplitting howl from far down the corridor. Thompson tilted his head and averted his eyes. He cleared his voice pretending not to hear. “You are travelling companions?”
Elsa tried not to imagine Sonnenby’s interrogation. It sounded less civilized than her own and served only to make her angry. If she became angry enough she would lose the ability to think. That much she had learned. It was important to think in this situation. Throttling Mr. Thompson was not a viable option.
Thompson had called her ‘Elsa Schluss’. He must have her passport. Why was he alone? Standard operating procedure for an official interrogation would have included a stenographer and a guard.
“How is it that you are my interrogator, Mr. Thompson, instead of one of the men from the post? I was expecting a great burly sergeant and an insufferable lieutenant.”
This question caught him by surprise, for he raised an eyebrow and his lips parted with a little intake of air. “Your English is excellent. Have you studied in London?”
“No. I have never been to England.”
“Family then? How is it you learned it so well?”
“Shakespeare.” She told him honestly. Her father had hired an English tutor for
her when she had begged him for lessons.
This explanation seemed to please Mr. Thomas. The smile on his face was more than sincere. Now he was genuinely interested in her. That had not been her intent, but his curiosity was now a useful piece of artillery in her arsenal.
“Fascinating. Romeo and Juliet, I presume, in secondary school.”
She shook her head slightly. “Hamlet,” she corrected. Did she appear to be a school girl mooning over poor Romeo? The prince of Denmark had been her first true love, and her first imaginary patient. She had been unable to save Hamlet from his tormented mind, and at least once a year mourned him by weeping unashamedly after the final curtain in the playhouse.
He said slowly, “The greatest play, of course. Quite a bit of play-acting in that one.” He was shrewd.
She demurred, “Hamlet had everything right, and everything wrong at the same time. He was forced to act upon custom and upon honor, yet knew the harsh truths beneath the façade of royal status. He knew he was a fraud.” She gave him an academic smile.
Thompson looked at her with new eyes now. She watched him reevaluate her and enjoyed his discomfiture. He took a step away from her, warily now, as though she were the tiger and not the lady anymore.
“What are you doing in Mesopotamia?” he asked softly, the icy eyes fixed on hers.
“Vacationing with my gentleman friend.” This was true enough to show in her face. She was on vacation from her real work in Vienna.
His cheek twitched. “Please, Miss Schluss, do not take me for a fool. No one vacations in Baghdad.”
“I have come to enjoy the delightful weather and indulge in the exotic food and drink.”
He was annoyed now, and guarded. “They say you are a spy for the Germans and are examining the railroad.”
Blue Damask Page 27
