Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  Of course, he knew he was an object of fascination among the dark-suited men of serious mien and somber countenance. His Arabic clothes and mysterious demeanor ensured him of celebrity status, even though in terms of the pecking order he was one of the least important dignitaries there. And in certain circles, his exoticness made him and Lawrence the butt of facetious comments. He’d been told Clemenceau had recently described them as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, tilting at the windmills of fantasy by imagining the Arabic people had done something to make them worthy of nationhood, but since Faisal had addressed the powers he knew he had David Lloyd George on his side, as well as the American President Woodrow Wilson. And he had privately promised he would rally the Arabs to support this new League of Nations which Wilson was so keen on initiating.

  But it hadn’t been a smooth ride. On the day some three weeks earlier when he had addressed the meeting of Great Powers, Faisal had been confirmed in his belief that Clemenceau and the Italian Prime Minister Vittorio Orlando were still vehemently opposed to giving up their stake in the ground of Arabia. “Greater Syria is French,” Clemenceau had shouted at him. “It is today, it will be tomorrow, and when Jesus Christ returns to Earth, he will be met by men wishing him bon jour.”

  This had caused Faisal to lose his temper for the first time, shouting back at Clemenceau, “I, and my Arab army, rode with Allenby at the head of a huge column of British and Australian soldiers into Palestine and Syria. Indian soldiers died by the thousands to free my people from the Turks. Yet somehow, Monsieur Prime Minister, I didn’t notice any French troops had risked their lives for any of our territory. Tell me, M. Clemenceau, are you prepared to risk the fury of fifty million Arabs and the certainty of another war for land in order to claim land which you didn’t fight for?”

  Faisal had seen Lloyd George blanch at the prospect of a war with the Arabs, and the Briton had been forced to calm the meeting down, but Clemenceau, wearing his morning suit and gray gloves, sitting like a descendant of the Bourbon dynasty with his back to the roaring fire, imperiously slammed his hand onto the baize tablecloth, and hissed, “Continue with the next agenda item of this meeting. This discussion is ended.”

  The incident had lasted no more than a few minutes, yet for the past three weeks it had been the major topic of discussion at the conferences and huddles of diplomats. Would the Arabs go to war against Britain and France should the Great Powers insist on retaining their sovereignty in the area? What about the oil? If there were a war with the Western powers, would the Arabs sell it to Russia or Japan? How would the Balfour Declaration, which promised a homeland for the Jews, affect the balance of power in the area? Did the Arabs have the willpower for another war, this time not against the Turks, but against the British and the French? And did the British and the French, devastated by the loss of millions of their finest young men, have the stomach for another war so soon?

  These were the sorts of titanic questions which floated around Faisal’s mind as he relaxed in his hotel suite, smoking on his cigarette, musing over the events of the day, comfortable in Lawrence’s presence. The two men were now so close they could sit in complete silence in each other’s company, lost in their own thoughts, and it was as though they were having a spirited conversation.

  Lawrence! Now there was a dilemma in the body of an enigma, thought the king. How did one explain Mr. Lawrence? When they were in London, especially in the fleshpots, Faisal had partaken of what was on offer, but Lawrence had always drawn back, unable to commit himself, unwilling to lose himself to his bodily needs.

  Something had happened to Lawrence in the desert, something which the Englishman wouldn’t discuss, yet which had had a profound influence on him. He’d been captured for a short while by the Turks in Deraa three years earlier, and they must have tortured him. But whatever happened, Lawrence wouldn’t unburden himself, even to Faisal. Something in his personality had changed. He was still jovial, facetious, and mischievous, but he had returned from the desert seeming older, as though a darkness had stolen the light of his youth. Some event, some incident had caused him to metamorphose from a boy to a man. Perhaps it was too much killing, too much death, or the effects of a Turkish prison. But one day, no doubt, Lawrence would tell him. When he was ready. Insh’allah.

  Faisal had discovered more about Lawrence from those who knew him than he had been told by the man himself. He’d been reticent in offering anything more than cursory information about his past. Faisal knew he was illegitimate by birth, but that his natural father had not abandoned his mother, and they had moved in and co-habited together to the shame of the family. He knew from Gertrude Bell that Lawrence was a good student at Oxford, having studied medieval pottery, or some such subject. And he knew his limp had been the result of a childhood accident. But that was just about all he knew of the young man’s private life.

  Gertrude wouldn’t discuss Lawrence’s sexual proclivities, even though it was the subject of unspoken humor between them. However, the man’s comfort with mature women and with young—even very young—men told Faisal all he needed to know.

  He knew Lawrence had always been a strange young man, brilliant and mercurial, but since the end of the war, and since his growing notoriety, he’d become more outwardly showy, yet more inwardly introspective, as though mind and body were rapidly drifting apart.

  “Where are your thoughts taking you, my friend?” asked Faisal.

  As though in a trance, and without even looking down from the ceiling, Lawrence said softly, “The Nejd.”

  Faisal frowned. “You dream about the most inhospitable desert on the face of the Earth?”

  “Yes, I do,” Lawrence said, looking down from the ceiling to where the king was seated. “It’s odd, isn’t it, Faisal? The Nejd is such a fierce desert, with leathery-skinned nomads the only people who can wander through and live in it, with goats and sheep whose hide is tough enough to withstand the burning sun, and with camels which stink, yet can go for days without drinking. It’s a land without water, without life, without hope. Yet within that desert grows one of the most exquisite and valuable plants in the world, more valuable than gold and diamonds, and smelling more beautiful than a thousand virgins in a harem.”

  Faisal smiled and nodded. “Lubban.”

  “Yes,” said Lawrence. “What the Jews call Levona, after the oil of Lebanon, and what we call Frankinsence, because it was the incense which the Frankish crusaders brought back from their assault on your nation. You see, Faisal, that’s the whole mystery, the whole point of why I love the desert so very much. Because just as you crawl through the utter futility of it all, just as you struggle to stay alive with all the elements trying to kill you through heat or thirst or hunger, you suddenly come across the ugliest bush, the most gnarled tree you’ve ever seen . . . but when a branch is broken by a passing animal, the tree bleeds a resin which hardens in the hottest sun on Earth, and which, when burnt, gives off an aroma which makes a man into a god. Once you’ve smelled the perfume of frankincense, any other perfume smells gaudy and cheap.

  “I first smelled it at a wedding I attended in Mesopotamia. It was given by the local chieftain, and his daughter was marrying one of the young men of the tribe. Frankincense was burned in the tent to perfume the air. I remember breathing deeply as I entered the tent, but from then on things became a blur, except for the smell of the frankincense. And I’ve never forgotten the aroma. It’s like opium for the senses, mysterious, vision-filled and eternal. Yet the most glorious scent in the whole world comes from an ugly piece of resin which exudes from an unsightly scar on a repulsive tree in a dreadful desert. And that, my dearest friend, is why I love the desert—because of all the contrasts which I find so utterly fascinating.”

  Faisal began to speak, but Lawrence wasn’t in the mood to listen, only to reflect. “And the people. Hard and insular and dark and as leathery as a camel’s skin, yet beneath that exterior they are the softest and gentlest and most generous I’ve ever known. Some are bra
ve in external appearance, yet inwardly the bravest warrior can be the most immeasurable coward—vicious evil brutes. They’ll follow anybody who has the patina of authority, yet everyone sees himself as a desert chieftain, a fearless leader of men. And the women . . .” Faisal looked at Lawrence in surprise. “Hidden in veils and scarves so no man can look at them, ugly mounds of artifice like Lot’s wife, yet voluptuous and sensuous and lithe and overwhelmingly sexual because of their mystique, the object and the result of every man’s desire.”

  Faisal looked closely at his friend. He really didn’t need to be in the room. Lawrence’s conversation was of himself and within himself. After a few further moments of introspection, Lawrence turned and stared at Faisal. “Tell me, have you ever read a book called Heart of Darkness by a man called Joseph Conrad?”

  The king shook his head.

  “It’s a wonderful book about an Englishman who goes native in Africa. The book is about the contrast of civilization and primitiveness, of light and dark, of appearance and reality. Although it’s about the deepest jungles of Africa, it’s as though Conrad was writing about my experiences in Arabia, about the life I led in the desert. You know, six years ago, I began work on a book about my time in Arabia, but I want to update what I’ve written since I was leading the Arab revolt. I’ve decided to call it The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.”

  Faisal frowned, and said, “My friend, there are five pillars of wisdom that one must live by if one is to lead the life of a Muslim—the declaration of faith that there is no God but Allah, to pray five times a day, charity, the pilgrimage to Mecca, and the observation of Ramadan.”

  “I’m not referring to the life of a Muslim, Faisal. The title comes from the Christian Bible’s Book of Proverbs in which wisdom is seen as a good woman enlightening mankind. ‘Wisdom has built a house and has hewn out her seven pillars. Give instruction to the wise man, and he will be wiser; teach a just man, and he will increase in learning’.”

  “You will confuse the entire Muslim world if you publish a book with that title,” the king said softly.

  “It’s not written for the Muslim world, Highness, it’s for the Christian world of the west, to enable them to open their eyes to the wonders of Arabia and the small and insignificant part which I played in the great drama.”

  As he was speaking, a noise came from the outer suite. The sound of voices and the tread of feet, though muted by the carpets, could be heard in distant rooms. Both men looked towards the door. It was opened by Faisal’s huge bodyguard, who said simply, “The woman, Bell.”

  ~

  Gertrude walked in. Beneath her thick Angora coat, she was dressed in a knee-length black skirt, and a scarlet blouse, her gray hair hidden by an ostrich-feather hat.

  “What on Earth are you two doing in your dressing gowns? I thought we were going out to dinner.”

  “We were,” said Lawrence, “but we’re both feeling bruised and languid and spent, and so we rather hoped we could simply order from room service and have an early night. If that’s alright with you.”

  She smiled. It was precisely what she wanted. She had been dining out virtually every night for the past two months, entertaining this delegation or being entertained by those diplomats. She had gained some weight, though her increase in smoking had dampened her appetite so apart from breakfast, she only really ate one meal during the day and even at these sumptuous banquets she only ever ate a first and a main course, and then she left half of the plate of food.

  The thought of a night in, with good and amusing company, spent in informal talk, and not having to consider every word she spoke, was appealing.

  “Good!” she said, taking off her coat and tossing it to the bodyguard. “Let’s order because suddenly I’m starving.”

  Thirty minutes later, they were drinking onion soup made with Amontillado sherry accompanied by a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, eaten with the freshest baguettes she’d ever tasted. As though by some miracle, waiters appeared as they finished the last mouthful of soup, and cleared their plates. They then brought in trays full of Cailles en Caisses, each quail served in an individual ramekin and dusted with shavings of truffle. They talked and ate, and as Gertrude finished the last of her wine, once more the doors of the suite opened at the precise moment of climax and the waiters entered with trays of filet de boeuf en croute. This they served with a mouth-wateringly full-bodied fifteen-year-old Saint-Emilion Grand Cru.

  Their conversation had meandered from the appalling weather to the fashions worn by the women accompanying the delegates, from the state of Europe months after the end of the war to end all wars to the way in which the Great Powers were manipulating the world for their own ends.

  As they attacked their dessert, a deliciously light-headed chocolat mousse au champagne, Lawrence asked Faisal, “This book—?”

  “What book?” interrupted Gertrude as she ate another mouthful of the dark aromatic chocolate.

  “Thomas is writing a book about wisdom,” said Faisal.

  “And what do you know about wisdom, my dear boy?” asked Gertrude. “I’ll happily accept that you have knowledge, but do you have wisdom?”

  “It isn’t about wisdom. It’s called the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. I’ve been writing it for years. It’s about my time in Arabia, and I’m bringing it up to date with the true story of the Arab uprising.”

  “Oh Thomas, my lovely boy, you can’t write about wisdom. You’ll be laughed out of Great Britain. Everybody knows you know a lot, but they also know you’re not the wisest of men.”

  Hurt by her words, Lawrence said, “But King Faisal called me his genius only yesterday.”

  “What an overused word. Jonathan Swift said that when a true genius appears in the world, he will be known by all the dunces in confederacy against him. Dear boy, the people in this conference are the very opposite of dunces. There have been comments about your dress and your manner. I’m afraid, Thomas, that you’re going to have to behave like a Colonel if you want to look wise as His Majesty’s advisor.”

  “Are you not impressed that Lawrence will be writing his book about his time in Arabia, Gertrude?” asked the King.

  “Have you asked Lowell Thomas whether that’s a good or a bad move?” she asked Lawrence pointedly.

  “Lowell Thomas doesn’t own me or any part of me,” he said, the words sounding angrier than he’d intended.

  “Maybe not, but from what he’s writing about you, you’d think the entire Arab uprising was brought to us by Lawrence of Arabia Enterprises. He’s turning you into the equivalent of one of those cinema idols, Thomas. Your picture’s on the front of the magazines, speaking engagements being arranged, magic lantern shows are mooted in England and the United States. My friends in the American delegation even tell me your exploits are becoming so famous in their country that somebody called George Melford is going around to all and sundry raising money to make a film called The Sheik, in which some desert dweller in Mesopotamia or Arabia or somewhere, living his life in a tent, decides to abduct an English woman of high birth. She, naturally, being a silly female, falls madly in love and goes native. I sincerely hope there are no references to me in this film,” she snorted, “or I shall sue the producers.

  “Frankly, my dear,” she continued, “Lowell Thomas might not own the man, but he’s certainly in charge of the image. Is that why you’re writing this book . . . to offer balance to the real events of history?”

  Lawrence remained silent for a moment, wondering how to respond. “I want to tell the world what really happened. Whatever you think, Gertie, it was a momentous time in the history of a hideous war, and the implications of what I did out there will have repercussions for the rest of the world for years, maybe even centuries, to come.”

  “What you did, Thomas? Weren’t there a couple of hundred thousand Arabs involved in the fighting as well? Wasn’t King Faisal a part of the grand scheme? And wasn’t it me, dear boy, who was supplying you with the information and background you needed
on Turkish troop movements which enabled you to be in the right place at the right time to play around with your gunpowder? You really will have to be very careful with your pronouns when you’re on your lecture tour.”

  Stung, Lawrence flushed red. “I didn’t mean to infer—”

  “Perhaps not, but it certainly sounded as though the entire war had rested on your shoulders. One day, Thomas, you’ll acknowledge the role that money played in your campaign. Had it not been for Allenby handing out £200,000 to the Arabic tribes to persuade them to join you, largely on my advice I might add, you’d have been dynamiting those Turkish trains on your own.”

  The two men looked at her in surprise at her vehemence. This was unusually straight talk to which they weren’t accustomed. She’d obviously been drinking before she arrived at their hotel room, and the wine she’d drunk during dinner was loosening her tongue.

  “And another thing, Thomas. I think it was marvellous that you led the Arab army and did all that derring-do stuff to the Turks, but what’s happened since? What have you done since then? I had such great hopes for you, my love. I wanted you to rise up and for the Arabs to follow you, like Saladin, but you disappeared. You left the battlefield just when you should have been there to receive the loyalty of all and sundry, just when you should have made a great speech and everybody would have followed you into the sunset and you could have become a leader of a great nation, but you didn’t, did you Thomas? You left Arabia to follow the image which this Lowell Thomas person was creating for you, so instead of you being the reality, you became the reflection. Well, it’s too bad . . .”

  She lapsed into silence, and realized both men were looking at her in shock. She sipped her wine, and looked at the floor.