Blue Damask (21 page)

     “Did he tell you who to give it to?”

     He took off the fedora and shook the dust from it before smoothing it back over his head.  His eyes were troubled.

     She was starting to get annoyed.  One would think this was a war zone rife with military secrets, troop movements and spies.  The war was over.  Had been over for three years.  Over.

     “
Monsieur
Descartes.  Who were you supposed to deliver my case to in El Zor?”

     “I am not at liberty to say,
mademoiselle
.  However, it does seem to be your case.  You say you are Sonnenby’s nurse, and his medical files and some women’s clothing is inside.  Your name is not on it, however.”

     “No.  I never intended to be separated from it.”  She never put her name on it because the traditional gift from colleagues and friends after delivering a successful dissertation at the College of Physicians was a personalized briefcase.  She set her teeth and tried not to hiss when she said, “But it is here and I wish it returned to me.”

     He shook his head.  “I have two beautiful bottles of Talisker that I accepted in good faith for services rendered.  I must render them.  I cannot give you the case.  However,” he held up a hand to stop her from interrupting, “I will permit you to accompany me when I do deliver it. Then it will be between you and him.   If that man is dead, I will give it to you.”

     Elsa agreed that this was reasonable, but disconcerting that he was so calm about the possibility of the recipient’s demise.

     When they crested the top of the basin, leading both horses, they were met by the same men who had brought Elsa out of El Zor.  Descartes and the men exchanged the expected Arab pleasantries.  Serious conversation followed and was accompanied by gestures and arm-waving. Then they looked up at the sky toward Deir El Zor.

     “Tell me, Monsieur,” she whispered.  “Do they know what happened?”

     “Later.  It is important that we get indoors.”

     He turned the horse around her as though he would put her in the saddle, but she stopped him.  “You should ride.  You need to rest that leg.”
     “I cannot ride while a woman walks,” he made a face.

     She waved that notion away by pushing him toward the stirrup.  “Tell me what happened in Deir El Zor,” she said.  “I will lead while you ride.”

     The two men helped Descartes mount his horse.  She adjusted his injured leg in the stirrup for him and walked beside the horse’s head.  The other two men lead the way with the pack horse.  The sun was touched the horizon as they turned their backs on the river and followed a hard clay path toward a small group of mud brick houses.

     “They say there was some shooting and that the plane killed many goats.”

     “Goats.”

     “The British told them that they would send more planes and would poison them with gas if they did not stop the revolt.”

     “There is a revolt?”  Elsa turned her head to look up at him.  “All the violence I have seen so far has come from the British…” but then she remembered the headless ministry men from her car and she swallowed the next words she had planned to say.  Obviously not.

     He agreed, “It is true the infernal British started it with their abominable politics.”  His voice was bitter.

     “And El Zor?”

     “The logical halfway point between Mosul and Damascus, on the river.  All travelers must stop here before the last push through the desert to Damascus and then to the sea.”

     “Why do the British want Deir El Zor?”

     “They do not want Deir El Zor.  They want the oil and land to build their pipeline to the sea.  They have given France a mere twenty five percent--”

     “Of the oil?”  Elsa thought about what Sonnenby had told her.  There were no derricks here.  She had not seen a single one since arriving in the Levant.  What oil?

     Descartes clamped his mouth shut and scanned the horizon.  “Mehmet lives here.”  The horses stopped and he dismounted in front of a sizeable brick house with a flat roof.  Stunted trees swayed in the evening breeze along all four sides of the house, and a solid-looking well stood proudly to the side, shaded by two more small trees. The other men released the horses, called to whomever was inside the house, then walked off to the south.

     Elsa watched Descartes begin to unbuckle the girth on his horse.  She started to unload the pack horse and they both worked in silence for a few minutes before three small boys ran out from the house and began to help.  One of them, the elder, pushed her fingers away from the leather and started on the buckles.  Elsa took the hint and backed away and let them work.  A woman came to the door and said something.  Descartes stood up from inspecting a hoof and said, “She invites you in,
Fraulein
Schluss.  Please go.  Have some coffee.  I will join you soon.”

     Elsa realized how tired she was.  She smiled at the woman and followed her into the darkened house.  She was seated by her hostess near the corner on a beautiful rug and handed a brass cup of water.  She drank it all gratefully, and when the cup came down she was surprised to see a little girl sitting in front of her, looking up at her face with eyes wide with wonder.

     “Hello,” she said in German, then French.  The little girl just smiled and extended a little hand toward the empty cup.  Elsa gave it to her and she trotted away for more.  The woman who had invited her in stood over a small brazier upon which stood a kettle.  She was young and pretty and wore the traditional red and blue embroidered Turkish dress with a colorful headpiece.  An older woman sat in the corner nursing a baby under her veil.  She was dressed differently, like the Bedouin women.  Elsa was brought another cup of water and the young woman said something that she interpreted to mean that the coffee would be ready soon.

     The little girl returned with a paper package in one hand, and in the other she held a small silver frame.  The Bedouin woman said something, then repeated it.  The little girl extended her arms toward Elsa with a shy smile, offering the two items.

     Elsa took them, puzzled.  The Bedouin woman said something, whether to Elsa or the the child and then Elsa heard Descartes’ voice outside.

     “She says she has been instructed to give these items to you,
fraulein
.  Mehmet told her to give them to you.”

     “Thank you,
monsieur
,” she answered.  She smiled her thanks to the child and then to each of the women.  As she expected, the silver frame was most likely the photograph stolen from Lord Sonnenby’s luggage.  It was a professional portrait of a young blonde woman in a formal ball gown.  She stood very erect with her hands in front of her holding a folded fan.  Her hair was swept up behind her in an impressive chignon, and she wore a comb in the back and twined ropes of pearls in her hair.

     She smiled coyly at the camera and Elsa guessed the image must be at least thirty five years old, judging from the style of the dress and the nature of the photograph. Lady Sonnenby had been very beautiful.  She imagined her with the Sonnenby’s father.  Then with Mehmet’s.  She felt her face get hot and looked over the frame at the little girl. “Thank you,” she said.

     The little package seemed to be a stack of envelopes tied with a ribbon.  She turned it around so she could see the address.  It was written in two languages, English and Arabic.  The English address was written in a clear feminine hand.  The envelopes were addressed to Medjel al-Fadl and the address simply, Deir El Zor, Mesopotamia.  Elsa had the urge to open these letters and read them right away, but that would have been very rude.  She held them in her lap with the frame and smiled politely.

     Descartes spoke through the doorway.  “Madam.  The horses are put away, and my supplies secured.  Please come out and sit on the step.”  His voice had changed and now he was calling her ‘madam’ instead of Nurse Schluss or
fraulein
.  Elsa bowed to the two women and smiled at the little girl before stepping through the open doorway and into the night.

     The moon was rising now and the sun was a soft glow below the horizon.  Descartes sat near the steps and made a sign that she should sit near him, against the house.  The little girl brought both of them coffee.  “Madam,” he said seriously, “I have just been informed that you are, in fact, Lady Sonnenby”

     “I must inform you,
monsieur
, that I am not Lady Sonnenby.”

     “Indeed.”  He seemed relieved. “Why would the boys tell me that you are?”

     “You tell me,” she answered, “how I would explain to the natives that I am Lord Sonnenby’s psychotherapist.”

     There was silence and the darkness took his face from her.  After a few moments she heard him laugh softly.  “You are his nurse, then, but a different kind of nurse.”

     “You could say that, I suppose.  He is my patient, and I am treating him.  He sent me away from Deir El Zor just before the violence began.  I am keenly interested in his welfare.  If you have learned where he is or if he still lives, I need to hear it from you.”  She tried to sound professional, but her voice cracked when she said, ‘still lives’.

     “The men who just came through here tell me he is alive, but that he was struck by a ricochet.  It is a minor wound and does not trouble him.  He is asking after you.”

     “And Mr. Mehmet?”

     “The answer to that is more troubling.  Mehmet has disappeared and it is feared he has gone to the bush.”

     “I see.  That is troubling how?”

     “He will not come back alone.”  Descartes said.

     “
Monsieur
Descartes,” she began in a carefully controlled voice, “I am rapidly losing patience with all this cloak and dagger nonsense.  Must you be so secretive?  Tell me clearly what is happening here so that I may make the appropriate decisions that concern my welfare and that of my patient.”

     He looked at her with pity.  This disturbed her more than if he had been angry.  She calmed her breath so he would not see how upset she was.  It would not be seemly to lose her temper, nor professional to express any emotion whatsoever.  It took some effort.  He answered her softly.

     “You are aware of what happened here?”

     “No.  I am afraid I am woefully ignorant of local politics.”

     “It was not local politics, madam.  As a result of the Great War, Britain and France carved up what had been the Ottoman Empire.”

     She nodded.  “Well, yes, I did know about that.”  Details were in the papers all over Europe.   Heated discussions marred the polite conversations at dinners she attended since the war ended three years ago.

     “They have…” Descartes paused as his voice broke.  He could not finish.  He was silent so long Elsa moved closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder, worried he had fallen unconscious like Sonnenby.   She saw his eyes blink and his lips move.

     “What have they done, Monsieur?”

     He rubbed his cheek before answering.  “They have done nothing that hasn’t been done before by victorious governments.”  He met her eyes. “They have divided the spoils between them.”

     That made sense.  She knew there had been virtual anarchy in the near east since the fall of the Empire.  She had read about the murders of a million Armenians in Anatolia.  “We are in Syria, though.”  She frowned, trying to construct a map in her head.

     Descartes sighed.  “Meaningless to the locals.  They do not need maps.  There are no lines drawn on their lands.  The oil doesn’t stop at the borders drawn by politicians in London or Paris.”

     Elsa took her hand from his shoulder and picked up her coffee.  It was strong and had been sweetened.  She sipped it, lukewarm now.  “This is a generous gesture,” she said waving the cup.  “If Europeans are so despised why am I given coffee?  How is it you have not been murdered in your sleep?”

     “I would have been, last year.  It wasn’t safe anywhere in the Levant for a man in trousers.  Hundreds of soldiers were killed.  Even machine guns could not stop the bloodshed.”

     “Something did.”  Elsa finished her coffee and set the cup beside her.  “We are both here receiving Turkish hospitality.”  She looked at her cup.  Or Shammar or Ruwallah or Taghlib,” she finished thoughtfully.

     “Mehmet is my friend,” he said simply.  There was a short pause before he continued. “There was a terrible battle outside Damascus last July.  Men on horses with swords, outnumbered two to one, charged a well-trained infantry and tanks and cannon and machine guns.”

     Elsa sat in the dark.  “A slaughter,” she said, imagining such an encounter.

     She heard him take a breath to respond, but no sound came from his throat.  She waited, thinking he would go on but he leaned back against the bricks of the house instead.

     She prompted him.  “And afterwards?”

     “I was sent to the field.”

     Elsa sighed deeply.  She felt that every man between twenty and thirty must be marked with this war.  “So you were a soldier in that battle.”

     “Not a soldier,” he said, “an official observer.   The locals here in El Zor took over the garrison and the barracks and barges have been taken and sunk on the river.  It has not been quiet here except for the last few months.  I suspect that has more to do with the fact that the tribesmen have run out of bullets, not resolve.  British planes have taken their toll.”