Queen of Flowers (26 page)

‘Away! For we are ready to a man!

‘Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.

‘Lead on, O master of the caravan:

‘Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Baghdad.’

The lantern slide clicked onto a map. ‘You see here the Golden Road,’ said the professor. ‘It travels all the way across
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Persia and Turkestan to the cities of Bokhara and Samarkand, ancient seats of luxury and learning before the khanates were conquered by the Tsar in the late nineteenth century. It is 1500

miles long, and they were indeed very brave, who travelled it in caravans when the roads were beset with bandits. The weather was also a fierce enemy. The road follows the river Diyala through the mountains, which are high and cold, even in April.’

Phryne looked at the lantern slide of high mountains. They looked extremely forbidding. Especially if one was relying on a camel to climb them.

‘From Baquaba to As-Sadiyah.’

Click. Baquaba, a low collection of tents and hovels covered in snow.

‘From Bijar to Resht.’

Click. Bijar, a bigger town, with a turreted fort and a backing of snow-covered ridges. Then a lantern slide of Resht, a blessing, the high mountains behind it, and a place where there was grass and, yes, more sand, but at least it was flat.

‘After climbing high, through snow all the way, where the camels’ legs are wrapped in felt to save them from frostbite, it must have been wonderful to come down to sea level again.

Even in the winter, sea level is warmer than snow-capped peaks.’

Click. The sea, presumably the Caspian. It looked like any other sea, but it would surely have been a sight for snow-blind eyes, wearied by days of dragging protesting camels—and if Phryne knew camels, they would have been protesting bitterly—ten miles a day through mountain passes haunted by wolves, bears and tigers.

‘Behind are the Elburz mountains, and now the journey becomes easier. Time to take inventory, perhaps. What had the merchants of Baghdad to sell?

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‘Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine,

‘Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,

‘And broideries of intricate designs,

‘And printed hangings in enormous bales?

‘The caravan crosses the seashore at the edge of the Caspian for many miles. Perhaps there are bandits, but the guards are well trained and well armed. Some are even Pathans, feared tribesmen of Afghanistan, whose oath is their bond—if they can be made to take it. The trading cargo is very valuable.

‘We have rose candy, we have spikenard,

‘Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice

‘And such sweet jams meticulously jarred

‘As God’s own Prophet eats in paradise.

‘Travelling with the caravan there are other religions and other races. There are performers, dancers, musicians, widows, orphaned children; anyone who can pay the caravan master’s fee. The Jews are there too:

‘And we have manuscripts in peacock styles

‘By Ali of Damascus: we have swords,

‘Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles.

‘And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.’

Click. Lantern slide of a group of Jewish merchants, wearing intricately knotted headdresses and long robes. Unlike other pictures of Jews that Phryne had seen, these stared levelly into the camera and were not abashed. She remembered Simon Abrahams and the Zion fantasy. She would warrant that these grave, robed merchants could tell Simon a thing or two about survival in the desert.

‘Then upwards again, as the year is moving into summer.

To Babul, Sari, Gurghan and then to the pass into Western Turkestan at Arkhabad.’

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Click. Not as high as the other pass, perhaps, but dashed uncomfortable. And snowy. And the town that surrounded it was the picture of Oriental disarray.

‘Then into kindly meadows, where the camels chew, and the master of the caravan asks about his strangest travellers:

‘Who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,

‘You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?

‘And they reply

‘We are the Pilgrims, master: we shall go

‘Always a little further: it may be

‘Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow

‘Across that angry or that glimmering sea,

‘White on a throne or guarded in a cave

‘There lives a prophet who can understand

‘Why men were born: but surely we are brave,

‘Who make the golden journey to Samarkand.’

Phryne blinked tears from her eyes. Who was this poet?

Ah, yes. She glanced down to squint at her program. James Elroy Flecker, a young Englishman who had been a diplomat and had fallen in love with the East. That much was clear.

Had written this book and a play,
Hassan
. And had died—

another one, so young—in 1915, at thirty, of tuberculosis.

Damn.

‘Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells

‘When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,

‘And softly through the silence beat the bells

‘Along the golden road to Samarkand.

‘Due east the caravan can see the high mountains, but they do not need to urge their failing camels that way. The land is flat and green and full of grain.

‘We travel not for trafficking alone

‘By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
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‘For lust of knowing what should not be known

‘We make the golden journey to Samarkand.’

Click. A stone city, with wall and turrets all complete; a great gate; camels and merchants and a high frieze of mountains behind. Samarkand.

‘Journey’s end. Here they would sell their cargo and buy what Samarkand is most famous for: manuscripts, medicines and carpets. In Bokhara and Samarkand are made the most exquisite colours, the choicest dyes, and the elaborate and delicate patterns. One Bokhara rug of a good size would pay for the whole journey. But all journeys end at last.’

With a sad gesture, the professor recited the last two verses from memory:

‘When those long caravans that cross the plain

‘With dauntless feet and sound of silver bells

‘Put forth no more for glory or for gain

‘Take no more solace from the palm-girt wells.

‘When the great markets by the sea shut fast

‘All that calm Sunday that goes on and on:

‘When even lovers find their peace at last

‘And Earth is but a star, that once had shone.’

There was a pause, then wild applause. The lights came up.

The belly-dancing girl shook a few bells as she bowed. Professor Merckens took her hand and bowed again.

‘That was so sad!’ declared soft-hearted Joannie, blowing her nose.

‘It was true,’ said Diane, ‘and very interesting. Especially about the things they were selling. I would love to see one of those Bokhara carpets.’

‘It was beautiful,’ whispered Jessica Adams, the new flower maiden, mopping her face unaffectedly.

‘It would be wonderful set to music,’ said Marie. ‘Like
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Mussorgsky, the Great Gates of Kiev, you know—the “Pictures from an Exhibition”. Get a good tenor, a Russian maybe, to chant the verses, and run the music behind the voice.’

‘You need to do it,’ said Phryne. ‘I’m just going to congrat-ulate the professor. Are you coming?’

Phryne collected her maidens and slid to the front of the mob around the tea-urns. Professor Merckens turned at her touch on his arm and smiled.

‘That was a wonderful reading,’ she told him. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Delighted,’ he said. ‘Miss Fisher?’

‘Have we met?’

‘No, but I am a great reader of “Table Talk
”
.’

‘Here are my flower maidens,’ said Phryne. ‘Miss Smythe, Miss Adams, Miss Pridham, Miss Bernhoff.’

‘A lovely posy for a lovely lady,’ said the professor affably.

‘Do you want some of this ghastly tea?’

‘No,’ said Phryne.

‘But I think you might find this agreeable,’ he said, nodding at the belly-dancer. She bowed gracefully, tinkling her little bells and held out a round brass tray on which were small glasses in intricate wire holders. Phryne took one and sipped.

Her mouth loved the taste. It was very sweet but strongly flavoured.

‘Mint tea?’ she gasped. ‘I thought I had tasted mint tea before. This is marvellous.’

‘This one is made by crushing and steeping the mint for hours with sugar, which extracts the volatile oils,’ he said.

Phryne nodded to the girls and they tasted it as well. Mint tea, unlike champagne, met with general approval. The jingling girl then offered a tray of Oriental sweets. Phryne chose a piece of what she had known as an insipid and gluey sweet called Turkish
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Delight. This was entirely different. She seemed to have a mouthful of rose petals and honey. The old man explained.

‘Not made with gelatin, but with the gum of the mastic tree—the merchants of Baghdad were selling mastic. Mine comes from the Greek island of Syros, where I hope to retire very soon. They probably do make the best rahat loukoum in the world, though they say so themselves.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Phryne. ‘I will remember your sweets—and your voice.’

Professor Merckens bowed and passed on to another urgent congratulator. His show had definitely been a hit. Phryne gathered her maidens out the front, where their parents were to pick them up. Marie was pushed to the forefront of the group by Joannie and Diane.

‘Miss Fisher, has there been any word of Rose?’ she asked.

‘Stop shoving!’ she added to Diane behind her.

‘No word,’ said Phryne. ‘But the police are looking for her.’

‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Joannie. ‘Do you think she is?’

‘She’ll be all right,’ said Diane. ‘She can swim. Come on, Joannie, there’s your father’s car, and—oh! There’s Derek!’

‘Yes, he’s coming home to supper with us,’ said Joannie, and the two of them hurried away. An astonished Phryne could not catch them as they vanished into the crowd. She can swim?

What had Diane meant by that?

‘Miss Fisher? It was awfully nice of you to choose me,’ said Jessica Adams timidly.

‘No, it was nice of you to agree to be a last-minute replace-ment,’ said Phryne. ‘Has Madame fitted the dress yet?’

‘Yes, and it’s lovely. But what if Rose comes back? The others are talking as if she won’t but what if she does?’

‘Even if she comes back, she won’t take your place,’ soothed Phryne. ‘Is this your father? Good evening, Mr Adams. Might
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I compliment you on your lovely daughter? See you on Saturday morning, Miss Adams. Don’t you worry now.’

Phryne packed the girl into her father’s dark green Vanguard—nice car—and turned a considering eye on Marie Bernhoff.

‘Did you hear what Diane said?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said the girl uneasily.

‘And do you know what she meant by it?’ asked Phryne.

There was a moment of extreme tension.

‘Oh, it’s too silly,’ Marie burst out of her taciturnity. ‘Why do perfectly reasonable girls go mad when they meet a halfway pretty boy? Diane and that Derek were playing some kind of trick on Rose, that’s all I know. Diane knew where Rose was going when she ran away and they sent her a note. And it had to do with the beach. That’s why she said something about swimming. It was a cruel trick, I could tell, Diane was feeling wicked about it, which is why she can’t stop talking about it.

Hinting. And I,’ said Marie furiously, ‘am going home to sketch out the beginning of my Samarkand Suite and I don’t want to talk about it anymore!’

Thereupon she burst into tears just as her dark, flirtatious father approached and took off his hat. He was a small, magnetic man with the dark brown eyes of a very able sheepdog.

‘Tears, daughter?’ he asked mildly. ‘Miss Fisher, have you been tormenting my offspring?’

‘No,’ said Phryne. ‘I’d diagnose it as artistic temperament.

She heard some very moving poetry and wants to make a suite out of it.’

‘Ah,’ said the dark man with real understanding. He picked up his daughter’s hand and drew it through his crooked elbow.

‘A nice walk,’ he said, ‘in the fresh air. Then we shall talk about the scope of the music, and what you want to say.’

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‘It’s all about love and death,’ choked Marie, groping for her handkerchief.

‘Then you shall write music suitable for love and death,’

he said equably.

Phryne watched them walk away. The things we do for love, she thought. Like ruin ourselves, kill ourselves, kill other people. What a race, the human race. Dulcie might be right in her view that the only thing which would really improve the world for the animal kingdom of which she was so fond was to get rid of all of us.

Miss Anna Ross to Mr Rory McCrimmon

I’ll come to you at midnight. Mama is out at a church social
and will be back late. I will be your wife, husband mine. Then
she can’t deny us. Anna.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The dragon-green, the luminous, the serpent-haunted sea,

The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the
white-and-blue-flower foaming sea.

James Elroy Flecker

‘Gates of Damascus’

Eleven-fifteen found Phryne and Lin on the pier, watching for the lights of a small boat. Bert was worried, and when Bert was worried, he had a tendency to nag.