Parade of Shadows (3 page)

A
T THE
V
ENICE STATION
I pressed my nose against the train window, but I was disappointed to find I could see nothing of the fabled city built upon the water. As we passed into Serbia, it was growing dark.

At dinner Monsieur Louvois was sitting at the opposite end of the dining car. Apart from a pleasant nod to us, he made no effort to renew our acquaintance.

“Thank the Lord for small favors,” Father said.

I thought with a pang of guilt that if Paul Louvois had reason to be curious about us, I had already given him all he information he needed.

Father was in a talkative mood and chatted on about a trip he had taken to Arabia years before. It was a lively story involving camels and disguises, and I found myself laughing out loud at Father's descriptions. I could not remember
another time when my father had made so great an attempt to entertain me. His efforts made me feel quite grown-up.

Over coffee Father spoiled it all by asking, “Well, Julia, what do you hope to get out of this trip?” Immediately I was transported to those terrible hours when my nanny brought me down to have tea with my father. Father would quiz me. “What did you and Nanny do today, Julia?”

“We went to the zoo in Regent's Park.”

“And what did you see?”

“We saw a tiger.”

“Do tigers have stripes or spots?”

A moment before, the tiger was vivid and alive in my mind; now I was uncertain. There followed questions about where tigers came from and what they ate, and little by little my tiger dwindled and faded and finally died altogether. Each time I went down for tea, I promised myself that I would not reveal what I had seen, so I might keep it for myself, but each afternoon I would be intimidated by my father into blurting out answers to his questions, so now when my father asked me what I hoped to get from the trip, I found myself answering the first thing that came into my mind. “I hoped it would be a chance to get to know you better, Father.” The answer surprised me as much as it appeared to alarm him.

“Really, Julia, one would think after sixteen years you would know me quite well enough.” Mercifully there were no more questions. At least, I thought, he remembers how old I am.

At last we reached Istanbul, where we would board the steamer that would take us to our destination of Syria. I had moved so far and so fast, I felt I had glimpsed everything and seen nothing. Now as I stepped from the train, I was aware of stepping into a world that had been made for others and not for me. Everything seemed strange. There was a spicy, ripe smell, as if the country were very ancient, as indeed it was. Men moved about in long gowns or pleated trousers. They wore turbans or fezzes. The sun beat down on me, warming my body; even the cobblestones I stood on radiated heat.

Knowing that Turkish customs officers would board the train, my father had taken measures to conceal any books or papers. Even our Baedeker guidebook was forbidden in Turkey.

“Why are the Turks so suspicious?” I asked.

“They are worried about foreigners bringing in propaganda to incite revolution among their subjects. Since there are revolutionaries like the Young Turks making trouble, I'm not sure they aren't right to take precautions.”

I quickly looked around to see if any of Father's Young Turks were about with their troublemaking, but if a revolutionary was nearby, I could not discover him.

The officers inspected our passports and asked the amount of currency we were bringing in:
“Combien d'effectif?”
Father's reply satisfied them, and in a moment the officers had passed on to the next compartment.

My frustration at hurtling through countries and seeing so little must have been obvious to my father, for he apologized. “Just now I'm due in Beirut, but when we return, I promise to allow you a few days here in Istanbul.” As a further consolation to me, on the carriage trip that took us from the train to the steamer, Father gave the driver a generous sum to pass the famous mosque known as Hagia Sophia.

I saw with awe how man had made the dome to stretch over his place of worship, as God had stretched the sky over man. In my amazement the only words I could manage were a weak “It's very large.”

“For so meager a comment, Julia, I might have spared us the trip through these filthy streets.”

I sighed, wondering if I would ever meet my father's expectations.

I had no sooner become used to the train than it was time to board the steamer that would take us to Syria. Syria
was still nothing more than a name, for I had no pictures in my mind to go with it. I thought it a kind of miracle that in a matter of days I could go from one continent to another, and I wondered if my impressions would ever catch up to me.

When we arrived at the dock, Father spoke rapidly to the
douanier
, the customs officer, in a language I did not understand, handing him some gold coins. A moment before, the man had been ready to delve into our luggage, but this apparently changed his mind. The detour past the mosque had cost us time, and we boarded the steamer just as it was about to sail. There was some confusion about our accommodations, and Father, whose years in the foreign service must have prepared him for misunderstandings, shrugged good-naturedly and went to speak with the purser. I stood alone at the rail, staring greedily at Istanbul's seven hills, with their white domes and clusters of minarets aimed toward the blue sky like rockets. Seeing what I had not really seen at all, I felt like a child who has been given a shiny new toy only to have it snatched away.

“You look as though you are sorry to leave.” The comment came from a young man standing next to me. He was about my cousin Teddy's age, tall, with ginger hair and hooded eyes that were amazingly blue. He seemed to
approach me for the purpose of amusing himself, as if my response would not matter to him one way or the other. His look of detachment couldn't quite disguise an underlying impatience, as though he were putting off some extraordinary reward.

“I don't mean to trespass,” he said, “but you do look terribly wistful. My name is Graham Geddes.”

“I'm Julia Hamilton.” I couldn't supress a sigh. “In the last few days I've traveled so far and seen so little.”

“My experience has been rather the opposite,” he said, and then he quickly changed the subject, as if he wanted to distract me from his first comment. “Surely you saw Saint Sophia?”

“But it's not a cathedral anymore. It's a mosque—Hagia Sophia.”

“They've added on minarets and plastered over the Byzantine mosaics, if that's what you mean. What else did you see? The Hippodrome?”

“I'm afraid I don't even know what that is.”

“It started out as a racecourse for chariots. Emperors were crowned there and the odd martyr burned at the stake.” He saw my look of dismay. “Not your cup of tea? But of course—you are traveling to see only what will give pleasure.”

“I am traveling to see everything that is worth seeing, whether it gives me pleasure or not.”

“Touché,” he said. “You mustn't mind my boorishness. I haven't had much practice in the social amenities these last weeks. Please don't go away. Let me practice on you.”

“You needn't apologize,” I said. “I freely admit to being uninformed and leading a sheltered life.”

“I've heard my sister say the same thing, but I tell her people build their own shelters. She says I'm a pretentious snob, and so I am. Still, I find it hard to look at Istanbul and not remember that only a dozen years ago England and Russia turned their backs while the sultan ordered thousands of Armenians to be slaughtered here.”

I shuddered. “You seem to know a lot about the past, and not very nice things at that.”

“I'm studying history at Oxford, and history is full of unpleasant things.”

“Those warships in the harbor don't look very pleasant,” I said.

“Those are the sultan's. He sits in his palace looking out over the Bosporus, hatching his plots and trusting no one, not even his own navy. He doesn't allow ammunition on those warships, lest his own men turn the guns on him.”

“Might they do that?”

“I fervently hope so.” The anger in his voice surprised me. It was so strong, it appeared almost personal.

I didn't want to hear any more about warships and burning martyrs and slaughtered Armenians. Graham Geddes seemed to imply there was something to be done about such things, but if there was, surely we would not be the ones to do it. I was attracted to the young man in a way I couldn't explain. When my father talked about world events, it was so impersonal, I could never find my way into the events and quickly lost interest. Graham Geddes's emotion made me feel history was alive.

There was something else as well. I supposed it was my hopeless romanticism, but there seemed to be between us some other communication than the one we were speaking aloud, so that even if our conversation should stop, that secret communication would go on.

I became aware that the top button of my blouse had become undone, and I could not think which was worse, leaving it that way or awkwardly fumbling with it. I raised my hand to make some effort.

Graham Geddes had been watching me, and now he leaned over and fastened the closing. It was an impertinent act, but it was done so simply, he might have been dressing a child. He grinned. “Mustn't be untidy, must we?”

To cover my embarrassment, I asked, “Where are you traveling to?”

“I'm going to see something of Syria for research I'm doing at Oxford, although just lately I've been frittering away a few weeks in Athens.”

I wasn't sure I believed him, for his answer sounded practiced, as if he had rehearsed it. There was some delay over the raising of the gangplank, to allow a pair of Turkish soldiers in smart uniforms and fezzes to come aboard. Graham Geddes's face turned ashen. He looked as if he might have to undergo a trial and did not have the strength for it. The soldiers were approaching passengers, most of whom looked like Turkish nationals, and asking to examine their papers. I was startled to see one of them approach Geddes. He recovered his composure and offered his British passport with as much nonchalance as a vicar's wife handing out a cup of tea.

The soldier painstakingly turned the pages, studying each stamp until one of them caught his attention. “You have come from Salonika?” I was surprised. Geddes had said he had come from Athens, not northern Greece.

“I am a student of history with an interest in the ruins of Macedonia.”

The soldier appeared skeptical. “And now?”

“More ruins—Palmyra.”

For a moment the soldier appeared to consider whether the answer was insolent, even suspicious. And then an odd thing happened. The soldier handed back the passport. “I have a cousin in Salonika,” he said, and smiling at Geddes in a way that could only be described as sharing a secret, he added, “Salonika is a fine city.” He saluted and turned on his heel. In another moment he had joined the other soldier, and the two of them were making their way down the gangplank. The steamer began to shake and lurch, and the strip of sea between the pier and the boat grew wider. I started to tell my companion that my father and I were going to Palmyra as well, but before I could get the words out, he excused himself.

I was alarmed at my reaction to this stranger. I had never felt so attracted to anyone. I wanted to go after him. He seemed to offer more adventure than the trip itself. The exciting thing was that he was my adventure and not my father's.

When Father joined me on deck, I asked, “Tell me something about the city of Salonika.”

“Salonika is a nest of conspiracy. The Turkish sultan would like to get his hands on Süleyman Nazif and his revolutionary Young Turks, who are making trouble for him
there. The Young Turks want to get rid of the sultan and take over the government of the Ottoman Empire.”

“But I saw a Turkish soldier examine the passport of someone next to me, and he seemed more friendly after he saw the man had come from Salonika.”

“That's a different story. Many of the Turkish solders are sympathetic to the Young Turks.”

“Why is that?”

“I suppose they are tired of poor food and not getting paid. When the term of their forced service in the Turkish army is over, the sultan shoves them back into the army for another stretch. Why are you asking these questions? You're in a bit over your head, aren't you? By the way, who was the man you saw having his passport checked?”

“I don't know. Just some man.” I did not want to share Graham Geddes with my father.

“Surely, pretending as you do to an artist's eye, you can describe him a little more fully than that.”

“He was an old man with dark skin and white hair.” It was the first lie since I was a child that I had told my father. It didn't make me feel guilty. I thought it a harmless secret and only fair that I should have a secret of my own: My father had so many.

F
ATHER LEFT ME
at our hotel, promising to be back sometime in the afternoon. He didn't warn me to stay at the hotel, knowing that in so unfamiliar a city, it was what I was sure to do. Stepping into the unknown streets appeared as dangerous to me as stepping into the middle of a river whose depth I couldn't guess. “I might just as well be back home,” I lamented, and wandered out into the hotel garden feeling the whole city was for sale and I had no money.

There was little in the garden to cheer me. The stone bench upon which I sat was chipped and cracked, with aggressive vines clawing at its feet. I was surrounded by exotic plants, but they were all shabby: tattered palms, lemon trees with shriveled fruits, and forlorn shrubs with garish blooms the colors and size of gaudy china plates. Rustles and shakings under the foliage suggested there were
sinister, impatient creatures waiting for me to abandon the garden and leave them to their evil play.

Although the sun had been at it only a few hours, the sky was bleached white and I had to shade my book with my hand to keep the print from dancing. Everything told me I was a great distance from home. I was wondering what to do about it when Graham Geddes appeared, searching the garden as if he were looking for me. Yet upon discovering me, he feigned surprise.

“We seem to be staying at the same hotel,” he said, then looked about. “Why have you settled down in this ghastly jungle?” His approach was playful, very different from his more serious manner on the ship.

With Graham Geddes's appearance the day brightened, like polish rubbed onto a tarnished piece of silver. “My father has some business this morning and I don't have the courage to start out on my own, but it seems a waste to sit still when I'm only going to be in Beirut for a day.”

“Let me offer my services as a guide. I've been here before, and I'd enjoy showing off my knowledge.”

I couldn't disguise my pleasure. “That would be so kind of you, Mr. Geddes. You are sure you'll have time? How long will you be in Beirut?”

“Call me Graham, please, and like yourself, only one
day. I'm going on to Damascus tomorrow and then on a tour to Palmyra.”

“I wonder if it's the same tour my father and I are going on.” When we compared notes, I found with pleasure that it was. “It seems half the world is on its way to Palmyra,” I said. “We met a Frenchman on the train who was going there. Why are you taking the tour?”

“I'm not enthusiastic about tours: two weeks of enforced company with dull companions—present company excepted, of course—and a stuffy tour leader who knows considerably less than I do. But the Turks have made it a rule that no Europeans can move about unless they are under the thumb of one of their guides, and this tour travels near several Druze villages I wish to visit. The Druze, a religious sect of Arab peoples, are my speciality—their lives and mine are entwined. Now, Miss Hamilton, you must tell me why you are here instead of buying chic dresses in Paris.”

“You must call me Julia. I'm here with my father, who is a solicitor and has business in Beirut. When I heard he was going, I coaxed him into taking me. It was all spur-of-the-moment.”

“A solicitor?” Graham looked surprised and amused, as if he had just heard a delicious secret. “I gather your father knows people in high places. As he was getting into his
carriage this morning, I overheard him give the address of the pasha, the ruler here in Beirut; one can't go much higher than that. I can only feel sympathy for someone who must attempt business in a town where business was invented: It puts you at a disadvantage of several thousand years.”

Then, as if on impulse, Graham said, “I have to confess, I recognized your father when I saw him board the ship with you. I'll forgive you your little deceit.”

Startled, I was embarrassed at having been caught. I wondered what Father would think when he learned Graham had seen through his disguise. And how, I wondered, did Graham know he was my father?

Graham answered my question when he said, “I knew your father was with the Foreign Office because I heard him when he came to Oxford to give a talk to us students on the Ottoman Empire. I disagreed strongly with your father's criticism of the Young Turks. I believe the Young Turk movement will bring democracy to Turkey and freedom to all the countries that Turkey now rules over with such tyranny: Armenia and Greece and the Arab countries.”

There was so much emotion in Graham's words, I had the wild thought that he might be a revolutionary himself.

His face took on an angry flush. “I suppose your father is busy with cunning schemes for getting his hands on one
more bit of land for Britain and is eager to thwart any plans the Young Turks might have for bringing a constitutional government to the Ottoman Empire.”

I was about to scold Graham for his unkind words about Father when he said, “Enough about politics. What shall we do today? If we're going to be together, we might as well make a start. Perhaps we'll find right off that we hate each other, in which event we won't have to waste time on meaningless courtesies during the tour.”

I was irritated by Graham's remarks about Father, but I managed to say, “I understand there's a mosque.” I knew very well there was one, for I had studied it in my guidebook.

“Mosques and churches and temples. One would think tourists were all mystics on an eternal religious pilgrimage. Come along, then.” The masterful way he took my arm and hurried me off made me wonder if our accidental meeting in the garden might have been part of a plan. I dismissed the idea as ridiculous, excited to be setting off on an adventure with someone so attractive.

As we made our way down the Place des Canons, the street that divided the city of Beirut, Graham kept up a pleasant chatter—half humorous and half informative. The few women on the Place passed us like shadows, for they
were all in black, as if the whole country were in mourning. I don't know why, but their sight took me back to Durham Place and all those years I was shut away from worlds like this one.

There were coffeehouses along the Place, each one with its group of men sitting outside at small tables. As we passed, the men stopped their lively talk to look at us. I suppose they considered me a bold and wanton woman, walking as I was, unveiled and openly with a man. Their stern faces made me feel I was being judged by some standard I could not understand. I tried to be discreet in my glances, but it was hard to take my eyes from their odd and unfamiliar dress.

Graham said teasingly, “You must not think these people are in costume.” He proceeded to explain how much one could tell about a man from what he wore. He adopted the manner of a bachelor uncle giving his country niece a day in the city. He was jolly and patient, producing little treats of information for me like twists of toffee. It was only when he thought my attention was elsewhere that he stole a look at me with something more than amusement—as though I were a book that might contain some scrap of interest if one could just get to the right page.

When we came to the mosque, Graham said, “We'll enter here. You must put these covers over your shoes.” He
approached a Muslim man who seemed to be guarding the door and spoke to him in Arabic. At first the man, looking in my direction, shook his head, but after a bit he saluted Graham in the Muslim way, moving his hand from his chest to his forehead in a graceful arc. Graham returned the salute, looking only a little self-conscious.

“I feel like I am living five hundred years ago,” I said.

“And further back than that. According to the Muslim faith it is not 1907, but the year 1325. The Muslims mark their year from the time the prophet Muhammad fled from Mecca to Medina, thirteen hundred and twenty-five years ago.”

While I stole glances at Graham, thinking him exceedingly handsome, he continued his lecture as he led me into the mosque. “You must not expect too much of this mosque; it's far from the best of its kind. The Muslims who captured it had to be satisfied with making over the Church of St. John, built by crusaders.”

I thought of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. “The Muslims turn Christian churches into mosques?”

“In Spain the Christians turned the Muslim mosques into churches. It's a resourceful world.”

There were arcades and colonnades and little chambers and walls decorated with rough paintings of twining foliage
and flowers. Hidden beneath the arabesques I could almost see the Good Shepherd and the image of Christ on the cross. Everywhere I looked, there was a feeling of one faith forever trying to elbow out the other.

After a while Graham said, “It's stuffy in here. We've done what you wanted; now it's my turn. What is needed is fresh mountain air and a view. I know just the place.”

As we were leaving, Muslims began to stream into the courtyard and cluster around the fountain. I looked questioningly at Graham, who drew me into the shadows. “They are making their ablutions,” he whispered. In a moment the men had disappeared into the mosque. “Listen and you will hear the imam call out.”

“Allah!” Through the open arch we watched the men in the mosque kneel and touch their foreheads to the ground. The imam called out again, and Graham translated for me. “‘The creator of this world and the next, of the heavens and of the earth. He who leads the righteous in the true path and the wicked to destruction. Allah!'”

In their eyes I was the infidel, and I felt it. Graham whispered that the imams once had not only been priests but served as commanders in chief of the conquering Muslim armies. “A sobering combination.”

He ushered me outside, and I was aware of his holding
on to my arm a bit longer than necessary. There was some arguing over the fare with the driver of a two-horse carriage, but very soon the driver shrugged and saluted, and we climbed into the
yayli
.

“These people are so poor,” I said to Graham, “I think you should pay what they ask.”

“If you did, you would insult them,” he said. “This fellow takes as much pleasure in our bargaining as he does in the money he will earn from the trip. In a proper bargain, both people gain honor.” I folded my hands in my lap and remained quiet in the face of this hard lesson.

There was a warm breeze coming from the sea, but inside the small
yayli
it was hot. The driver explained that the top must remain up because the roads were dry and dusty. Graham and I were so close to each other that I could feel the warmth of his body, and when our hands brushed, our damp skin clung together for a moment.

We passed a garrison, the second one I had noticed. I wanted so much to understand all that I was seeing that I could not keep from asking questions. “Why are there so many Turkish soldiers stationed here?”

“Turkish soldiers are everywhere,” Graham said. “The sultan is afraid of rebellion. He keeps his soldiers not only in Beirut but throughout his empire—Albania,
Mesopotamia, Armenia, Macedonia, Palestine.”

“Why is he afraid?” I had never had so interesting or attractive a teacher at Miss Mumford's school.

“The Ottoman Empire once had a constitutional government, but Abdülhamid II put an end to all of that. Now, after years of the sultan's tyranny, the people are impatient to rule their own lands—if the European powers will allow it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Germany, England, France, and Russia all have a foot in the door of the Ottoman empire.” Graham pointed to a large building with a sign in both English and Arabic. “There in the American college they are turning out Protestants. The Scottish have schools for Muslims and schools for Jews, as well. The Germans are in the game with a very nice hospital and orphanage for Muslims. On the other side of the city the Jesuits and the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul are doing their good works for France, and there is a Jewish college. As I said, everyone has a foot in the door.”

It sounded to me like children fighting over toys, and I thought of Father and his trips to get and trade countries. It made me wonder what he would make of my escape with Graham. I calmed myself by believing that he would surely
approve of all I was learning.

The
yayli
made its way along a winding road bordered with pines and small whitewashed villages where chickens were taking dust baths in the road. Goats ran beside our carriage like coach dogs. Women paused from drawing water, and men from plowing, to watch us pass.

When we reached Mount Dimitri, Graham helped me out of the
yayli
and sent the driver away, telling him to return in an hour. On one side of us was a small cemetery, on the other a grove of pines, and in the distance a city of white building blocks perched one upon another. Beyond the city was the sea. I thought even the finest painter could not invent such a handsome picture.

“If you know your Old Testament,” Graham said, “you will know the Syrian gods are gods of the hills.” He smiled at me. “Are you satisfied with your escape?”

I couldn't hide my delight. “I can't remember being so happy.”

“That is an exaggeration, surely,” Graham said, but he looked pleased.

He lay down on the grass, tilting his hat over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, and I settled next to him. Though there was no living thing about but the occasional bird, I felt very daring lying there in the open
beside him for all to see.

“Can there be any place as peaceful as this?” I asked.

“Peaceful?” Graham said. “You should know that half the people who live here in Beirut are the survivors of massacres, drought, persecutions, hunger, religious wars, and tyranny. And if that weren't enough, we British and the Europeans are making plans for Beirut's future that have nothing to do with Beirut's welfare.”

I sat up, indignant. “You are doing exactly what you did in Istanbul.” Impatiently I asked, “Why must you see only wickedness?”