Leon Uris (47 page)

Brodhead had always thought he had a hard man in Christopher Hubble. Now he knew exactly how hard. He was one of those few officers who seem to thrive on the
hatred of his men and in return builds an awesome battalion. Yet, almost all these officers go one step too far.

“I agree we must have their utmost respect,” Brodhead said, “but we must also respect them. I’m setting aside this night march. We don’t want these boys to get a feeling they are out there fighting for nothing. I am instructing you to get on with your mule transport.”

“It would be simpler if we had mules to work with. The Zion Mule Corps has already received a hundred animals.”

“You’ll learn that we colonials get the leftovers.”

“I daresay, the Jews are not exactly British.”

“But they are serving British divisions. Speaking of Jews, one of my brigade commanders is a Jew. Quite competent.”

“Really, sir? A Jewish brigade commander? Which one?”

“Colonel Monash, the Aussie.”

“Well, that’s empire.”

Brodhead gave the nod for Chris to leave.

“Oh Chris, who did the actual writing of your instruction manual? I mean, the chap who put the words down. Very clever.”

“Private Chester Goodwood. He’s a member of the gaffer squad.”

“Put a couple of chevrons on him. Corporal, for now.”

“Yes, sir. He is equally good with numbers. He’s the son of Sir Stanford Goodwood, a banker in Hong Kong.”

“Sir Stanford Goodwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lord, I knew him years ago. I thought he was rather nelly queer, you know. At that time it was rumored he had a penchant for young boys. So he has a son? Well, probably has something to do with continuity and all that.”

Despite the flood of warriors into Cairo, Sonya Kulkarian’s preferred, classical, elite, and lavish entertainments were not much in demand. No longer were the great sheikhs and princes of the Arabian peninsula able to gain easy access to Cairo because of the war, and when they did manage to come, it was long on business and short on bombastic orgies. Everything was business. The wealthy of Cairo, a staple for her enterprise, no longer established their little oases of relaxation in their headlong rush for war money.

British officials and generals had mostly been too tightfisted to avail themselves. Now and again, an off-horse Englishman liked and could afford her entertainers, but British pickings were lean.

But what did it matter? At the age of forty-one Sonya Kulkarian had packed in her fortune and was independently independent.

Did it matter that the royal palace had only called once since hostilities began? No! Truth be known, service to royalty was only good as a credential. Otherwise, they were impossible to serve. Their credit was hardly a thing of beauty. You cannot demand payment in advance from royalty.

So it did not matter. Moreover, the madams who had once been competitors jumped aboard the war wagon and cheapened their parties and their services.

Sonya, of course, kept in contact with the best of her girls, for contact was everything.

She was very happy, in fact, to receive Farouk el Farouk. He asked her to set up the Villa Valhalla for a small group of only five from the military who would be in Egypt for two, three, four months. It sounded perfect until he told her it was being leased by a corporal, two serjeants, a low-ranking officer, and a Palestinian Jew without rank.

“You ask this of Sonya? I have served the King’s nephews and cousins and uncles!”

“And complained every minute of the time,” he reminded her. “Do I come to Sonya Kulkarian to embarrass her? No. I assure you, my treasure, what they lack in rank, they make up in…” He twittered the thumb against his third finger and his forefinger. “The lieutenant is of aristocratic nobility. He is heir to half of Ireland and has a most generous hand with the cheque.”

“I don’t deal with trash.”

That may have been a harsh conclusion for a woman of her calling but Sonya Kulkarian was a Circassian. The Circassians were known to be particularly brutal to their women. The men obsessed that they had royal blood. In fact, some still kept slaves in the countryside.

The Circassian colony had been in Cairo for seventy years, though aloof from fellow Moslems, and had grown successful.

They had originated from the mountain regions of the Caucasus in southern Russia. After making the Haj to Mecca, many of them remained in the region. In the middle of the last century there had been a mass migration rather than accept a new political boundary and a ruler from outside their borders. If nothing else, they were the ultimate fierce fighters.

Oh, we know Sikhs are fierce, Turks are fierce, Serbs are fierce, Berbers are fierce, Cossacks are fierce, but one had better believe that the Circassians were the fiercest of the fierce. Their uniforms spoke of glorious soldiers, from their short boots to their high fur hats and great swatches of gold braid and flowing moustaches.

Because of their reputations, their riding skills, and their colorful attire, many Arab kings and princes used them as personal palace guards, which further enhanced their legend.

Sonya’s business was for the elite and her associates were impeccable in manners and performance. It was the clients who were the pigs.

Having gained a sufficient fortune by her early thirties, Sonya managed properties leased for a month or more for those who could pay the high passage.

At forty-one, Sonya Kulkarian had lost some of her incredible native beauty but had the wisdom of the years in the movement of her hips and, what was more, she spoke English.

“So, try it for a month,” Farouk el Farouk pleaded. “Their money is outrageous.”

“I do not want five soldier desert rats who will smash furniture!”

“They can’t be any worse than royalty,” he said.

It was not wise to reject Farouk el Farouk’s entreaties. Not that she needed him any longer, but one did have to keep one’s connections. After the war, believe me, she had said, retirement to Italy…or France…or Spain.

After all, a party was still a party if it was a good one. And she missed the parties. Sonya agreed to a trial at the Villa Valhalla. She had the tiles shined, the rooms filled with flowers, the liquor cabinets packed, the crystal bowls laden with fruits and melons, the central fountain turned on, new silk coverings purchased, and pillows made, laid in the most sensual of incense and candles and lounging robes and oils and great towels….

For what? A corporal, two serjeants, a low-ranking officer, and a Jew? She did not know what to expect except the worst.

Serjeant Major Johnny was the first to arrive. He threw off his clothing, jumped in the fountain, and just lay there for almost an hour after which he dragged himself up to one of the bedrooms and slept for the next five hours.

The Jew arrived later in the evening. He did not even bother to take off his clothing but plunged into the pool and groaned in ecstasy and found a second bedroom and slept until midnight.

Both of them were extremely courteous and made funny jokes. The Jew spoke some Arabic and, pointing to his accordion, warned her he had the voice of a god. Sonya was now puzzled.

The next day the young aristocratic officer came. He merely dangled his feet in the pool until she assured him it was all right to strip and enjoy.

Jeremy was completely out of the ordinary for an aristocratic nobleman. He was sweet, altogether different from any titled man she had ever known. He commanded no one, ordered no one about, did not shout, exhibited magnificent manners, cursed no one, and meditated half the night through on the veranda.

Little sweet Chester, a pet mouse. Why, his face was not manly enough to carry a beard. Such a nice boy. She had to almost force him into a tub and washed him herself before she let him slumber. He played backgammon with her. What a sweet boy. He played the game very, very well.

So far, so good. She would know better after the first party how it would go.

Rory did not arrive until the fourth morning, when the others had returned to camp.

“You are the world-famous Sonya,” Rory said.

“And you are the missing Serjeant Rory.”

“Sonya, show me that fountain, I’m dying.”

When his shirt came off revealing his torso, she gawked.
As the rest of him sank into the fountain, there was a stirring, no, a jolt that had not been expected. In manner of truth, Sonya Kulkarian’s only feeling toward men for many years was hatred. For herself personally there were her women friends, though women were not entirely satisfactory. With women, she most loved the dancing and rolling about, the oils and the songs. Although her hatred of men was genuine, lesbianism was not one of her true desires.

Every so often a man would jolt her such. Not only was his body incredible, but this lad also had good mischief in his manner.

With her anxiety for the safety of her girls and the villa calmed, she immediately liked them, despite herself. For the first two visits she believed all they wanted was sleep.

Although he was not of the highest rank, Serjeant Rory took charge because of his leadership tendencies. He went through the villa with her, telling her of this and that for the comfort of the men and he spoke with great familiarity, as though he and she had known each other for ten thousand lifetimes. He spoke about the women and seemed to know what kind of girl each man would want.

“Not different girls? But all men want different girls,” Sonya said.

“Johnny Tarbox will want many women and he may get difficult, but he is not going to hurt anyone. I think the other three might want to settle with one girl. Peace and comfort and a sense of humor.”

Sonya smiled as her mind flashed on several women. How much fun it would be not to have to battle with angry drunks.

“Sonya, love, I want you to try to find someone very special for Chester.”

“The little corporal? He is only a child.”

“Yeah, but don’t get into a backgammon game with him.”

“I already have.”

“He’s close to a genius,” Serjeant Rory said. “But we may have a virgin on our hands.”

“I know just the experienced woman who will bring him along properly.”

“No. I want someone with a young girl’s face and body. Someone who looks sweet and innocent. Maybe bring her into the kitchen to work and let Chester think he’s made her on his own.”

“Yes…of course…they start young here. But why do you want him deceived? He will know she is a prostitute sooner or later.”

“Chester wants to be deceived. Let him believe he’s in love before he goes to war.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s never received a letter from home or anywhere else. He’s sixteen. Maybe you know a girl who wants to be in love with a soldier boy as well.”

“You are more than a brother,” Sonya said. “He will meet Shaara.”

“I love you, Sonya Clipclopian.”

“You worry over everyone to make certain they are happy. You said, ‘Find someone for Jeremy to keep him from being sad.’ I find her. But what about yourself, Serjeant Rory?”

“I’m healing,” he said making the mistake of looking into Sonya’s eyes. Jaysus, what Egyptian women can do with their eyes! It must have been all those centuries of working behind a veil. They thought with their eyes, flirted, sang, danced, spoke, flashed anger…. No missing the meaning in Sonya’s eyes. She was voluptuous and she knew the art of hips and cleavage and how to show just enough belly…just to him…and those eyes.

“I’m healing,” he muttered.

“I am healer,” she said.

“Not yet,” Rory said.

In a few weeks Sonya had come to think of them as her boys. Not a single one of them pissed or defecated on the floor. What was so utterly amazing was the way they
cared for each other dearly without being perverts…and the way Serjeant Rory saw to their peace and comfort.

Only Johnny Tarbox showed irritation now and then, and always after lovemaking. When he was there, Rory was on him quickly and finally Johnny quit acting out.

They arrived either in the morning or evening, from one to four of them. Once in every week or so all five were together overnight and it was party time.

There was abundance of laughter, such that Sonya could not believe. Realizing they were going to be respectful to the villa and not wreck it, she introduced them to the water pipe. Unknown to the gaffers, she mixed in reasonable amounts of the finest hashish, a brand of Lebanon #1 called Seventh Heaven.

The weekly parties became joyhouses of abandon…men and women belly dancing and teasing, oil wrestling, and above it all the highly emotional voice of Modi singing tragic Russian songs, which often brought on bouts of tears.

Three whole days and four whole nights with all of them at the Villa Valhalla! Each except Rory with someone to hold on to through the night that gave relief from all that sand and heat and of all they had given up to be in Egypt.

Some nights! No need to hurry the party this night. A seduction of peace fell over them. Chester had learned the tambour and played wildly during the belly dances. Now, in this state of subdued euphoria he beat the drum softly. Shaara’s eyes were glazed.

Modi took a deep puff of the water pipe and picked up his accordion. One of the girls, Neva, knew how to play the flute. It was all very serene.

“How did you manage to get liberty passes for us all, Lieutenant Jeremy?” the Serjeant Major asked.

“Research, we’re researching.”

“You know, cobbers,” Rory said, “I’m getting a little guilt on about the Serj, old Yurlob.”

“I don’t know,” Modi said. “I think he might not be comfortable here.”

“What the hell, we’re all from different places,” Rory argued.

“No,
we
’re all from the same place,” Johnny said. “
Yurlob
is from a different place. I’ve certainly tried to befriend him.”

“Me, too,” Chester said, waving as he tapped the tambour. He was next on the pipe. “He’s got a real thing with the inferior/superior business.”

“I think they’ve got a pretty vicious caste system,” Jeremy said.

“He isn’t a Hindu,” Chester said, “so you’d think he might be more open with us.”

“The Punjabs are Sikhs,” Johnny said, “half-Hindu, half-Moslem or something. They still have a caste system. It’s in his blood.”

“How do you know?” Rory asked.

“Someone in the Marines told me about them. He served up in the Northwest Territory of India. They’re fierce fighters.”

“What is life without secrets?” she asked.

“You got secrets?” Chester asked Shaara. Shaara giggled.

“No secrets.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Do we have secrets from each other?” Jeremy asked “I mean the five of us?”

The discussion slowed as the pipe went around one more time and everyone had got the notion he was in a dream in this place. How many hours on the battle line would be spent with memories of this? Too bad all the poor blokes drinking that rat poison in the old city couldn’t have just a scent of this. They had it because the five of them cared for one another enough to keep the secret. Indeed, Villa Valhalla was a great secret the gaffer squad hid from the entire Anzac corps.

“We’re all secret people,” Johnny said. “There is the Johnny Tarbox who wants to be your friend and opens up enough to let you in. But the friendship only rises so high
or falls so deep. Johnny lets you know what he wants you to know and hides what he doesn’t want you to know. And Johnny tries to make you think he is what he isn’t. We all put on a show, don’t we? God, what did you put in this pipe tonight, Sonya? I’m really floating. Where did those damned words come from?”

“Deep inside,” Modi said. “Yes, we all have secrets.”

They looked from one to the other, not with suspicion but faced with a sudden fact that they knew each other and loved each other for a certain reason, because they had to take on a war together, but there was so very much one would never confide with the others. Trust? Good lord, no question that each trusted the other with his life, but not his secrets.