The Mule on the Minaret (34 page)

He set off without enthusiasm. Though he was drawing the pay and allowances of a major, he still had three pips upon his shoulder and he suspected that this major would try to pull rank on him. His Second War service experience had warned him that majors in back-areas tended to be touchy. They were often reservists who had found themselves out of date when they were recalled to the colours, or they were men with long service who had been promoted when Hore-Belisha had introduced his army reforms in 1938, who had grown indolent during the long years when the army had been neglected, had been unable to meet the sudden pressure placed on them in the campaign that had preceded the evacuation from Dunkirk and had been by-passed when the army was reformed in England. There were also quite a few younger officers who had been on active service with their regiments when war had broken out, had been wounded in the Western Desert, were not fit to rejoin their units and had failed to play their cards cleverly in the Cairo rat-race; there were also a number of elderly warrant officers who had recently been commissioned, had a sense of social inferiority and were on the look-out for affronts. Altogether majors in back-areas after three years of war tended to present a tricky problem.

It was a considerable relief therefore to Reid to find that the major in question was his old fellow missionary, Johnson. Johnson seemed as relieved that the visiting catalyst should be an old companion. Figuratively he fell upon Reid's neck.

‘My oath, this is a relief. I was expecting one of those bright young know-alls from Whitehall who've never been on a parade ground. Have you seen the objects that they've been putting into uniform? Consuls with red flannel, vice-consuls with crowns; makes an old soldier like myself want to vomit; I guess it does you, too. Thank God, you're Sandhurst; you'll understand this muddle.'

‘What is the muddle?'

Johnson's account of it was far from explicit but Reid could read between the lines. Johnson had been in too much of a hurry. He had wanted quick decisions and that was not the way in which a
Quimaquam
was used to doing business. He had bridled, had made difficulties, had imposed delays. Johnson had got angry, a fatal thing to do with an Arab. With a Frenchman it might work, on the right occasion. If an Englishman threw his hat on the floor and stamped on it, a Frenchman might be delighted because it was so un-English. But with the French officer he had been studiedly polite, addressing him as ‘Mon capitaine' and thereby possibly stressing the difference of rank. He had assumed that the Frenchman would take his side, but to his indignation the Frenchman had appeared to be siding with the Syrian.

At that point Reid interrupted. ‘He's worked in this area for eight years. He knows how to treat these people.'

‘That's just the trouble. He knows how to humour them in peacetime, how to jolly them along. But this is wartime; we need that wheat in a hurry.'

‘It's wartime to us; it isn't to the Arabs. Their wheat's their capital. They'd be just as happy selling it to the Germans as they would to us.'

‘But we can't afford to humour them at a time like this.'

‘We've got to if we want their wheat. Do you mind if I hunt up that Frenchman?'

‘Naturally not. Oil on troubled waters, that's what you're here for.'

The Frenchman was petulantly indignant. ‘I have been living and working with these people for seven years. I have learnt to love and trust them; as they have, I hope, learnt to love and trust me in return. They are proud and sensitive, like their own Arab steeds. They can be managed but they cannot be coerced. A pressure of the knee, a touch upon the bit and they respond; but tug at the mouth, stab at their flanks with spurs—ah, fatal, fatal. Such delicacy is needed, such address. We have made our mistakes here. We are not perfect. It has been a hard task that we have set ourselves, we Frenchmen. The Druses for instance: how to reconcile their traditions with the Arabs'; ah, what patience, what finesse; but gradually, slowly, listening, counselling, I have managed to adjust all their differences so that the country can know prosperity and peace. Divide and rule: that is the maxim. Keep
the separate tribes separate from each other, sometimes stressing their differences so that they will come to feel that they can only preserve their own identity, their own traditions through our overall authority. “As long as France is here,” I say to them, “you are safe. We will preserve your rights. But if we were to leave . . . Ah, this disastrous tide of Arab nationalism. It will destroy your way of living, it will not tolerate your independence.” That is what I tell the Druses; and they believe me. They know that I am right. But the Sheikhs have to trust me too, and the Bedouins. I tell them that we have our eyes upon the Druses, that France will not tolerate aggression; that we will protect their flocks and grazing grounds. We play one against the other, and it is in their interests that we should; as long as we are here they will know peace.

‘But it is a very delicate mechanism; very, very delicate. It has to be watched and oiled and tended. Can you not understand my indignation when your compatriot, who knows nothing of this country or these peoples, tries to force his English ideas on us? My machine is geared to a certain pace; it cannot be forced. In two weeks he can ruin the work of seven years.'

Reid let him talk on, till the first flood of invective was spent; then, as with Johnson, he interrupted. Had his colleague—he was sure the captain would not object to the use of the word colleague since they were working to a common goal—had his colleague, he wondered, seen any service in the Far East? No, he had not. Perhaps if he had he would be a little more sympathetic to the British major's tactlessness—if tactlessness was the right word; obtuseness perhaps was better; or should we make a combination—obtuse tactlessness. Much of the major's service had taken place in India; he had to deal with a country that contained a servile class, a coolie class; they even used the word ‘untouchable.' The British major was accustomed to shouting at coolies. He did not appreciate the difference between Arabs and Indian coolies. He was an elderly man, he was set in his ways. In addition, not only was he rather deaf but his French was not nearly as good as his colleague's English; yet his pride insisted on his speaking French. He did not catch the exact nuance of the discussion, and he himself often used the wrong words. It was altogether a most delicate situation.

‘But I am sure, my dear colleague, that if we could spend a half-hour with the major before our conference with the
Quimaquam
we shall be able to smooth out all our difficulties. The major understands that the conduct, the strategy, the tactics of the
negotiation must lie with you, in view both of your long experience here and of France's privileged position in this country. The major has not, alas, had what I regard as one of the supreme good fortunes of my life: the opportunity to mix on equal terms with my opposite numbers in your country. As a University professor, I recognize, I proudly acknowledge how much my life has been enlarged and enriched by my association with the culture and traditions of your country.'

Did I lay it on too thick, Reid wondered. His experiences during the last nine months, particularly during these last three weeks with their endless oratorical exaggerations, had accustomed him to the fanciest flights of hyperbole. He looked cautiously at the French captain. A smile that was like a purr hovered on his lips. Perhaps one could never lay it on too thick. Perhaps that was the mistake the English made abroad, and with foreigners. They laid it on too thin.

At any rate there was a definite atmosphere of cordiality when the conference began. Reid opened it. He addressed the
Quimaquam.
He spoke in French. Technically, his French was slipshod. His use of the subjunctive was mercurial and he imposed arbitrary arrangements on his syntax, but he was extremely fluent, his vocabulary was extensive and he could understand quickly-spoken French. He had an idea that the French liked his kind of language from a foreigner, and he suspected that General Spears would have been more popular with the French had he not spoken their language a great deal more correctly and with a much richer vocabulary than they did themselves. Reid spoke now with great rapidity. He explained to the
Quimaquam
that Major Johnson, a most distinguished British officer, had spent the greater part of his service in India, on the north-west frontier, that he had not been long enough in the Middle East to appreciate how different were the conditions here, in the centre of an older and deeper culture, to which the mingling of the minarets of Islam and the arches of ancient Rome proudly testified. He had not realized this at first; it is not easy to overcome a lifetime's training; but the days that he had spent here, in this ancient city, in the company of the
Quimaquam
and of our so talented French colleague, had now convinced him of the necessity of a very different approach.

Reid turned to Johnson. ‘You will endorse that, I am very sure.' Reid knew very well that Johnson had not been able to follow a third of what he had been saying, but from the way in which he
pitched his voice, from the smile with which he spoke, Johnson had no alternative to agreeing. With the same technique on the few occasions when he did speak to Johnson in English, he was voluble, with an eating of his words, and with the use of obscure colloquialisms that made him completely incomprehensible to the French. ‘Don't worry,' he told Johnson. ‘We've got them on a sticky wicket, the ball is turning. It'll be lifting in half an hour when the top has caked. If we keep the runs down for that half-hour we'll have them where we want them. Play it slow.'

Both Johnson and the Frenchman thought that they had made their point, and in a sense the Frenchman had, because when the eventual conference began it was played within the immemorial traditions of the Orient. Nothing was decided, everything was postponed. Yet an atmosphere of cordiality had been created. Eventually there would be a satisfactory conclusion.

It was four o'clock before the meeting was dissolved. They had had nothing to eat, although cups of coffee had been proffered frequently.

‘And now, said the
Quimaquam,
‘it will be my privilege and honour to invite you to join me in my humble meal.'

The meal, Reid knew well, would be anything but humble. He also knew that no preparations for it had been set in motion. He looked interrogatively at Johnson. Johnson shook his head. ‘Let's get out of this, old boy. If I don't get a strong whisky soon I'll be round the bend.'

At considerable length Reid explained the predicament in which he and his compatriot found themselves. Major Johnson occupied a very confidential position in the O.C.P. He was, in fact, General Spears' special representative. General Spears was insistent that he should receive from Major Johnson tonight a report on this day's conference. General Spears recognized the importance of this meeting. He insisted that the report should be made to him on a direct confidential line; the nearest such line was in Damascus. The legation office closed at eight o clock. Major Johnson must, therefore, return to Damascus right away. ‘And I myself, alas, have to accompany him, because the Director-General wishes us to discuss with him the outcome of this conference. He will be delighted to learn how harmoniously our deliberations have proceeded. I hope, however, that His Excellency will at a later date offer me an opportunity of accepting the hospitality of his house.'

He stressed the need for hurry. Yet it was a full half-hour before
the car door was closed. ‘Did I hear you saying that you had to come back to Damascus? Wasn't that your alibi? Well, why don't you? And let's give ourselves a decent dinner. It's a long time since I've had a chance to reminisce.'

*   *   *

The dining-room of the Omayyed was almost empty. It was late, but here there was no problem about early closing hours. ‘Let's go into the bar,' said Johnson.

He looked tired, and drained, and old. Reid found it difficult to remember that they were contemporaries. He had finished his first whisky, while Reid's glass was three-quarters full.

‘Don't wait for me,' he said. ‘I'll catch up with you on the wine.'

‘Wine. That's something I've never understood. Too much time east of Suez. Stengahs and Gin Pahits. Ah, those long evenings before dinner; with the fans whirring, and the shouts of “Boy!” That was the life.' By the time he had finished his second whisky, Reid's glass was still not empty. Johnson looked younger now, refreshed, and his voice had assumed a mock self-pitying tone, as though he were laughing at himself. ‘You know, old boy, I didn't understand a great deal of what was going on today.'

‘I didn't think you did.'

‘Did it matter?'

‘Not in the least. They're in the right humour now. You'll get your wheat all right.'

‘Why couldn't I have understood that, at the start?'

‘Why should you have? It's not the kind of thing you were trained for.'

‘I feel awfully out of my depth at times.'

‘Don't we all.'

‘You don't seem to.'

‘That's all you know.'

‘Ah, but it is different for you, Prof. You are used to listening to people. I'm not. I give orders or am given them. Half the time I don't know what I'm doing or why I'm here. The O.C.P.,
Office des Céréales Panifiables,
indeed; if they were told that in “the Rag” how they would laugh. Oh, well, I'll have one more whisky. You can take nearly all the wine.'

The dining-room was completely empty, by the time they reached it. There was a long five-course dinner; Johnson wrinkled
his nose. ‘Now that I've got to the point, I'm not really hungry. A steak'll do for me. What about you, Prof.?'

‘A steak'll be fine for me.'

‘And about that wine. You get yourself half a bottle. I'll stick to whisky. Grain and grape. Choose a decent wine. This is on me. You got me out of a scrape today.'