Страница 47 из 69
“They’re a couple of extra jokers” was the muttered response. “We’ll lose them in the crowd, on the way.” When Thompson looked aghast, Lawrence added cheerily, “Don’t worry about those two— they’ll survive.”
“It’s not those two I’m worried about,” Thompson called, but Lawrence was already striding down the aisle toward the door at the far end of the car.
I must preface what I tell you next, for in the years that followed the Cairo Conference a considerable controversy developed about T. E. Lawrence and his part in the desert revolt. The war book he mentioned to me on our way to the pyramids was eventually published and received polar reviews. Seven Pillars of Wisdom was hailed as a literary masterpiece and denounced as a pack of lies. Lawrence himself was lionized and vilified, his exploits in the desert often confirmed and frequently denied.
I shall not pretend that I am unbiased. After spending time in his company, I grew quite fond of him. In the years afterward, we sometimes corresponded and I followed his career from afar. I did not like to hear stories that were meant to undermine his reputation, but I do try to be fair-minded, and I read many of the biographies.
Chief among Lawrence’s detractors was Mr. Richard Aldington, who published a peculiarly venomous book twenty years after Lawrence died and two years before I did. The book was first released in France under the title Lawrence l’Imposteur, which gives you the flavor of its contents; its title in English was not so bluntly libelous, but Lawrence: A Biographical Enquiry was no less hostile.
I myself enjoyed Mr. Aldington’s novel about the Great War. The Death of a Hero is ironic, sarcastic, ferocious, and fu
Nonetheless, neither Death of a Hero nor its author ever achieved the status bestowed upon Lawrence and his work, and Lowell Thomas’s public lectures were just salt in Mr. Aldington’s literary wound. They glorified war and mortal combat in ways no bitter veteran of the Western Front could tolerate, and on behalf of his dead comrades—gassed, machine-gu
Then again, I suppose it’s possible that everything Aldington wrote about Lawrence was true. I certainly ca
We moved toward the trailing end of the railroad carriage, and as we approached the vestibule, the noise swelled: two thousand men shouting, chanting, screaming. Never had I witnessed emotion as violent as that which greeted the arrival of Winston Churchill and Sir Herbert Samuel in Gaza. Those two persons were the very embodiment of colonialism and Zionism: His Brita
Without a word, Lawrence stepped from the shadow of the carriage into the sunlight that poured down between the cars. Having made himself visible, he lifted one hand slowly. A loose white sleeve fell back from a thin-boned, sinewy wrist. Like the pope of Rome, he raised the first and second fingers above the other two, as though in blessing.
And there was … silence.
In an instant, faces distorted by hate and fury were transformed: by startlement, by joy, by adulation. A moment later the crowd erupted, transported by the simple sight of him. Imagine wi
Smelling of cigar, Winston gazed over my shoulder. “I’d heard,” he said, awestruck, “but if I hadn’t seen it myself …”
“And if the war had continued another year?” Sir Herbert suggested quietly, just behind me.
“He might have ruled the East,” Winston agreed. “By 1919 , that little man could have marched to Constantinople with all Arabia at his back.”
Outside, Lawrence stepped down onto the platform. The crowd fell silent again and moved back, to make a space for him. Somewhere in the distance, we heard a goat bleat. A child at the edge of the crowd piped a request and was lifted onto his father’s shoulders. When Lawrence turned, the crunch of coarse sand beneath his sandals was audible. He held out one hand toward us, his face serene and eyes seraphic. “Come along,” he said, twitching his fingers in invitation. Casual as could be.
We looked to Thompson, who shook his head but shrugged helplessly, then nodded. One by one, we descended the three steps and followed Lawrence in the eerie quiet as the crowd made way for us. Many reached out to touch him, murmuring “Aurens!” as he passed.
Across the square, the door of the ramshackle public hall swung open to reveal a gathering of tribal chieftains and municipal officials, sweating and perfumed. A great cheer went up when Lawrence was glimpsed through the battered entrance of this jerry-made building, but he stepped aside, deferentially waving Winston and Sir Herbert ahead with a low sweep of his hooded arm. Clementine and I followed; with a slight movement of his eyes, nothing more, Lawrence reminded us to remain at the back of the room. Thompson took up his post just outside, looking as though he just dared the crowd to start something. And there he stayed, formidable and unmoving, as Lawrence had instructed.
I don’t really remember much of what Winston said in that meeting hall. My eyes were on Lawrence, who contrived to make himself a wren again, even in his resplendent robes. Standing to one side and a bit behind, eyes downcast, he repeated Churchill’s speech first in Arabic and then in fluent French—the real stuff, not Thompson’s kind— when someone in the audience requested it.
This done, he conveyed the concerns and comments of the gathered dignitaries. No matter what they asked or said, Winston produced nicely phrased political pleasantries, and though the meeting took the better part of two hours, he uttered nothing of substance. What, after all, could he say that was both honest and unlikely to spark renewed passion?
In the back of that stifling room, yearning for fresher air and somewhere to sit, I suddenly realized that, though Winston held their national aspirations in his own pudgy hands, this might have been the first time he’d met with any Arabs. As far as I knew, not a single individual who actually lived in the region had attended the Cairo Conference, even as an observer. Last week, in private, Winston and his Forty Thieves had sealed the fate of everyone here and of generations to come. Public meetings like these were just for show.
In Versailles and in Cairo, I think it’s fair to say, Lawrence did his best to represent the people of the Middle East, but he was just one man, with conflicting loyalties at that. His self-imposed mission was to balance internal imperial interests with international politics, and both of those with the expectations of millions who themselves had competing interests. Arabs, Lebanese, and Djebel Druses. Syrians, Kurds, and Armenians. Native-born Jews and European settlers. Turks, Persians, and Mesopotamians. Egyptians, Palestinians, and a thousand Bedouin tribes. All of these, and more, wanted something that usually involved taking land from someone else.