Страница 36 из 69
I was a little taken aback by that, probably because I had disliked the “toffs” so much. “So Colonel Wilson’s right and that’s why Muslims can never rule themselves?” I asked. “Because they are a feudal people, and they require British rule to lead them out of the dark ages?”
“Fifty years ago, Germany was a collection of feudal duchies, and Italy not much better. By the logic of Colonel Wilson we must conclude, therefore, that Christians ca
“You sound like Lawrence, now.” It was another opening for him, you see: an opportunity to steer the conversation back to things a German spy might want to know.
Karl merely shrugged. “Foreigners nearly always wish to simplify the Middle East, Agnes. They ca
“And how did you come to be so patient?” I asked, begi
“My mother was a Persian Jew, from Teheran. My father was with the German embassy there for a few years—that’s how they met. They raised their children in Stuttgart, but my mother took us to Persia every summer to visit her family. My grandfather once befriended a British scholar,” he recalled. “This gentleman studied Persian folktales, which are engaging but naive, as was the gentleman himself. My grandmother said that Persian poetry would have provided him a more accurate picture of the East. It is elegant and sophisticated.” His tone shifted from reverie to judgment. “Here is the trouble for a colonialist in the Middle East: he shall always be the natural victim of ketman.”
“Ketman?”
“The art of fakery,” Karl said dryly, “whereby underlings preserve their dignity by fooling authority. In Persia, the practice is combined with a Shi’a concept: takkiya—religious permission to lie when dealing with infidels.”
It was then that I asked about Lawrence’s friend Feisal and recounted Winston’s odd remark “We’ll take everything but oatmeal off the menu! They’ll choose what we want them to have.”
For the first time since we met, Karl seemed truly surprised. “He can’t be serious! Churchill said this, yes? Not Lawrence, surely! This is a terrible idea, Agnes!”
“But why? Is there something wrong with Feisal?”
“No, not at all! Feisal is, without question, a strikingly attractive leader,” Karl said with much feeling. “He inspires great love, great devotion. He is intelligent, refined. Handsome, soulful. A beautiful man!”
My heart sank deeper with every adjective. This is embarrassing to admit, but I have tried to be completely honest with you. It was not only Karl’s professional interest in Lawrence that worried me. No, there was something else that Sergeant Thompson’s phrasing might have implied and that I was loath to believe. “He’s the kind who is more likely to be interested in Colonel Lawrence,” Thompson had said, and I’d begun to wonder if he was warning me off Karl for reasons that had nothing to do with politics.
Mumma was certain she understood what the detective was getting at. I knew he was that kind all along, she claimed. Look at him! He wears a bracelet watch.
They’re called “wristwatches,” Mildred pointed out. All the soldiers wore them in the war. You can’t pull a pocket watch out in the middle of a battle.
And all that catty jabber about Miss Bell’s dresses? “Wear the silk charmeuse and show her up!” Mumma mimicked. A real man would never say such a thing. And a real man wouldn’t care about you, Agnes. He’s defective himself or he wouldn’t give you the time of day from that sissy bracelet watch of his.
I hated to think it, but even I had wondered. Karl was not unaware of male beauty, and he displayed a certain vivacity and expressiveness that I found both pleasing and unusual. I had never met anyone like him, you see, and I simply didn’t know if he was different because he was foreign, or Jewish, or homosexual, or simply … Karl.
“Churchill is serious about this?” he pressed. “If the British fix an election that will make only Feisal available—Mein Gott, a Su
Karl fell into a brooding silence that persisted even after we reached our hired car. The driver woke up and rushed from side to side, opening the doors. Karl helped me and Rosie inside. There was some chat with the driver—Yes, we had a lovely time, and so on—but the trip back to the Continental was marked by the thickening of a despond that I’d made worse with my clumsy effort to engage Karl’s interest in Lawrence.
When we arrived at the hotel entrance, the driver leapt out again and stood at attention by my door. Karl remained in the car, his face tense and still. I, too, stared blankly, unable to rouse myself enough to get out. Rosie was sitting upright in my lap, her little haunches balanced on my thighs, stubby forepaws resting against my chest. She often sensed my mood, and now she watched my face with such intensity and concern! Aware that I was distressing her, I laid my cheek against her own and stroked her long back over and over. “It’s all right, little girl. Everything’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m all right.”
“You have such beautiful hands,” Karl said softly.
I looked at him, astonished. He smiled through his melancholy. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I have infected you with my bad mood. Ever since we spoke with Ashour, I have been unable to be cheerful. I can only think of his little bride, crying every day.” Karl looked away, toward the north. “Twelve years old. I have a daughter just that age,” he said. “So young, so young …”
If you had been there with us, you might have whispered in my ear, Agnes, he has a daughter. He’s married.
I would have answered, He’s here alone. Perhaps he’s a widower. Perhaps he’s divorced. Perhaps he never married the mother of that girl.
In truth? I had not a single moment of concern for some unknown German woman who might be dead or discarded, after all.
I did not ask, “Oh, and does your family live here in Egypt? In Alexandria, perhaps?” I did not say, “And is your daughter an only child?” I did not once think, He is a husband with a family.
I thought, You see, Mumma? He is not that kind! It wasn’t my fault that he was sad. And he said that I have beautiful hands.
For the next few days, Karl and I met frequently, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for di
His world was so much wider than my own, so mostly I just listened, smiling, when he tossed off international observations like “The English are the only people on earth who pay vast sums to private schools designed to cripple their children emotionally. In Germany, we do that at home. Not as efficient, but far less expensive.”