Страница 43 из 69
Detective Sergeant Thompson was easy to pick out in the multitude, since he stood a good deal taller than your average man, English or Egyptian. Moving in his direction, I waved to him and called, “Are you going to make the climb?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, started again to say something, and thought better of it. “No,” he said finally, and carefully, and quietly. “I feel like I’ve been beaten with clubs.” He started to jerk his head toward Churchill in the distance, but winced and curtailed the gesture. “At least he’s decided we won’t go on to Sakhara after all. Just the bloody Sphinx, then back to the hotel.”
Indeed, merely walking around to the other side of pyramid was more than enough exercise to satisfy the most athletic and ambitious among our party. The stepped pyramid at Sakhara was impressively visible to the south and I’m sure it was very interesting, but it was all I could do to hobble the last little distance to the Sphinx, where our camels would be waiting for us.
To make even that small additional effort seemed unlikely to be worth the trouble but, once again our pain was rewarded by the stu
“Yoo-hoo!” In a parking lot nearby, Lady Cox was waving a hankie to get my attention. “Miss Shanklin, where is everyone?” she called in a shrill voice that cut like a train whistle through the sightseers’ babble.
I picked my way across the sand. Lady Cox and I exchanged stories. Mine was filled with discomfort and wonderment, hers with boredom and a
“We’re going to have a photograph,” Clementine called out just then. “Everyone! Get back on the camels for the picture!”
There was a fair amount of French commentary on that notion. We were all wretched. Hips, shoulders, back, knees—everything ached, and every point of contact with the saddle felt raw. Joints and muscles had begun to seize up like a Model T engine after its crankcase has jolted apart on a stretch of rutted road. I hated to think what I would find when I undressed. Blisters, boils, bruises …
Nevertheless, most of the British remounted at Clementine’s request, and that photo is in the history books. There we all are: the people who invented the modern Middle East and those who came along, or fell in with them by chance. The Sphinx is nearby, the pyramids in the distance. You can see Clementine and Winston, Miss Bell, Colonel Lawrence, and Sergeant Thompson high on camelback, along with several officers in uniform. I hung back, shy as always of being photographed. Clementine insisted, so I hurried over and stood next to Lady Cox. You can see the two of us, on foot, off to the left. We are standing next to an Arab whose name we did not ask.
Mercifully, Lady Cox offered me a ride back to Cairo in the consulate car; I accepted with gratitude. When young Davis asked, “Did you enjoy the day, miss?” I hardly knew what to say, for if the world offers a more lacerating, bone-shattering, muscle-wrenching mode of transportation than riding a camel, I never discovered it. And yet, memories of that day are among the most vivid of my time in Egypt. Indeed, they remained among the most vivid of my life, and I would not have traded them for an experience more comfortable or luxurious.
I returned to the Continental Hotel early that evening in a state of utter aching affliction. Karl was the very soul of understanding and lifted Rosie into my arms for her delirious greeting when he realized I was too stiff and sore to bend over and pick her up myself.
“Ach! Agnes! I well remember my own first journey on a camel,” he said, and insisted I take some aspirin immediately. He’d had my room tidied. The morning’s flowers were artlessly arranged in a lovely faience vase. “A gift,” he said. “Rosie and I found it in a shop this afternoon.”
While Karl ordered something from room service, I retreated to the bathroom. Within minutes I was nude, as I had imagined I’d be early that morning, but soaking alone in a tub of warm, scented water that Karl had drawn for me himself. Half an hour later, Rosie a
The sun set. I ate an omelette. Karl prepared a pipe and listened while I told him everything I could recall of what Miss Bell had said. In one way, to share it all seemed homey and natural, and brought to mind the evenings when Mumma and Papa had discussed their plans to begin a business together. At the same time, it was exciting to feel a part of something clandestine and important.
It was premature to draw out the British ground troops, Karl thought. “Trenchard will need a year at least to build the air bases. The army should remain for now.” He was also wary of the man the British had decided to work with on the Arabian Peninsula. Ibn Saud openly wished to conquer the Hejaz and Mesopotamia, Karl told me. His goal was to spread Wahabism, an ascetic form of Islam to which no one outside his tribe adhered.
“Can the British truly believe that ten thousand pounds a month will buy Ibn Saud’s friendship? They’ll simply end up financing the trouble he makes for them. What a pity that Sufi Muslims are outnumbered!” he remarked. “No one thinks of them, but the Middle East would be better if they ran it.”
He was also quite gloomy about Miss Bell’s map. “This Iraq of hers makes no sense—politically, tribally, religiously.”
“Miss Bell seemed to think that Lawrence’s friend Feisal could bring the region together,” I said.
“Perhaps, for a time, but all men are mortal. What will happen when Feisal dies? A very real civil war, I fear, to end a very artificial state. No,” Karl said decisively, “I see nothing to be gained by Miss Bell’s new boundaries, and I am surprised Lawrence compromised on this. His plan was sensible. Keep the three Ottoman districts separate: Kurds in the north, Su
Karl sat for a time, lost in thought, and when he came to himself, he seemed slightly boggled. “And so! Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “The Treaty of Sèvres is abrogated: no homeland for the Kurds after all. And nothing for the Armenians. Two nations, brushed aside in the name of compromise.” He lifted the teapot and topped off my cup before asking, “And what of Palestine?”
“No one mentioned it.”
“Odd. I heard that Sir Herbert Samuel arrived for the negotiations yesterday. He’s the high commissioner for the Palestine Protectorate.”
I thought back, but nothing came to mind. “I don’t recall hearing that name at all, but— Oh, I keep forgetting! Lawrence has invited me to come with the British party that’s visiting Palestine!”