Some Here Among Us (26 page)

‘Yes,’ said Candy, looking at the mountain.

‘Well, don’t you think – I mean don’t you actually think – that they look like a script, a sort of proto-script, a kind of proto-Arabic you might say? Don’t you think so?’

‘They do!’ said Candy. ‘They look exactly like a script. How brilliant of you!’

‘Then the question is, my darling,’ said Joachim, holding out his wine-glass to be re-filled, ‘what is the script saying?’

‘“Fuck off, Joachim”, probably,’ said Toby in an undertone.

‘Now,’ said Chadwick.

‘What was that?’ said Joachim. ‘What did he say?’

‘Fuck off, Israel,’ said Toby. ‘Obviously. Fuck off, Israeli Air Force.’

‘No, my dear chap,’ said Joachim. ‘What I think it’s saying is this: “Fuck the Moderator of the Free Church of Scotland.” ’

And he then laughed so immoderately at his own remark that almost everyone up and down the table, without even hearing what it was, felt quite warmly disposed to him for his good humour. Joachim then began a long story about visiting Edinburgh – or was it Glasgow? – it was a long time ago – when he was a student at St Andrews and seeing the words ‘Fuck The Pope’ written on a brick wall under a railway bridge, but someone else had come along and struck a line through the word ‘Pope’ and carefully replaced it with:

Moderator of

the Free

Church of

Scotland

This recollection made Joachim roar with laughter again, and again some of the others around him felt themselves basking in the glow and the cheer. Candy had completely forgotten that she had moved Jojo and Joachim to this table only in order to bring Jojo and Toby closer together, at least for the duration of lunch, the final gathering of the wedding. Her plan was to show Toby to advantage: how could anyone prefer pink-faced Joachim, plump, scanty-haired Joachim who must be pushing forty, to her handsome son who was twenty-three and who, she firmly believed, was intended, desired,
required
by fate to marry Jojo? But now she was laughing along with everyone else, although she wasn’t exactly sure what the joke was – a prim sectarian hand on a brick wall in Scotland – but she felt sure that it was funny. She trusted Joachim on that. Joachim, she thought, was charming, irresponsible, flippant, quite unlike the people she normally met in Washington. She felt flippant, irresponsible, herself. There was Chadwick for instance, going on about the Middle East crisis. She’d just about had the Middle East crisis, Candy thought, up to her ears.

‘And if it
is
just an old family row over the will,’ Chadwick was saying, ‘then you should ask yourself: What are
we
doing involved in it? We might, perhaps, take the role of impartial judge, high above the fray. Instead we jump in and help one side beat up the other, and strip him naked. Did you know, for example, that every drop of kerosene used by the Israeli military is donated free of charge by the United States of America? Yep, those boys up there right now – all riding round on free JP-8 jet fuel, courtesy of Uncle Sam.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Joachim. ‘At least
they’re
not going to bomb us to smithereens.’

Everyone round him laughed, which irritated Chadwick. For a moment he lost his courtly manner.

‘Oh, wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘Well I do. And we may all have to worry about it. It’s distorting and poisoning our relationships everywhere – even here, even now.’

‘Not mine, dear boy,’ said Joachim, ‘not mine.’

Chadwick felt heat on his face. To be addressed as ‘dear boy’ by this scarlet-cheeked Englishman. Then he remembered himself and drew back. There was a phrase he’d once read about sixteenth-century Rome – ‘Only in this city have men learned to differ in opinions without flying into a rage.’ He smiled at Joachim, and nodded and then withdrew his attention. Joachim looked disappointed. He felt that he’d been on the verge of a great victory, on behalf of flippancy, but it had slipped away. In any case, the lunch was now reaching a fissiparous state. At all the tables people were beginning to leave their seats and go visiting. He heaved himself up and looked down at Candy.

‘Must away,’ he said. ‘Splash the uh, the uh—’

‘Now don’t forget to come back!’ cried Candy.

Jojo didn’t look up. She leaned in towards Chadwick.

‘What did you mean “even here, even now”?’ she said.

‘Nothing,’ said Chadwick. He looked back at Jojo, golden-headed, sun-browned after only a day or two in the Levant. He was thinking about the war in Iraq. He felt weary for a moment even thinking about Iraq, much less talking about it to this young woman. That morning, at the hotel, he had had a call from a colleague in Washington, warning him that a scandal was about to break over prisoner abuse in Iraq.

‘It’s not pretty,’ said his office colleague. ‘You’re in the Mid-East on vacation? That may not be the best place to be in the next few days.’

But here they were in a field in the Mid-East. It was warm. It was almost the beginning of May. The afternoon sun was still shining on the meadow. There were sounds of high hilarity rising here and there. A small dance-floor, of the best polished wood, had just been revealed near the tents, and the dancing was about to begin. The music had started already. The dance-floor was still empty but as soon as the first dancers arrived it would be instantly thronged. What was he doing talking about war to tall, pretty, Jojo, the tops of whose breasts, he couldn’t help noticing, were sun-browned as well. Chadwick had no desire to alarm her. But Jojo was serious. She was from the film world where no one she knew – she was in wardrobe – talked about things like this. She looked at him seriously. And Toby was there too, listening. They were there sitting together side by side, at last, and after all. Chadwick relented.

‘This foul mess we’re in,’ he said. ‘This fiasco in Iraq. How did
this
happen, you have to ask. How in God’s name did we get to here?’

‘To where?’ said Toby.

‘US war crimes. Murder at checkpoints, mass arrests, thousands kept hooded all day in the sun, then vanishing into prisons. Rumours of torture . . . How on earth did they manage it?’

‘Who manage it?’ said Toby.

‘Seven or eight people who took over US policy after the twin towers came down,’ said Chadwick. ‘But I have to say they did it brilliantly. They left the rest of us for dust.’

Toby had gone pale. He had just realised a fact which until then had somehow escaped his notice: he was not Jewish. He put it another way – he was no longer Jewish. He was no longer Candy’s son. He felt strangely, unjustly, deprived. He was also annoyed with himself. His stupid remark – he could hear it now – laughing at a name . . .
Isbister
. ‘If only I hadn’t said that,’ he thought, ‘Race might never have let the secret slip.’ And he, Toby, might have stayed as he was, perhaps for ever. But it was too late now. He was no longer Jewish. He was an Isbister instead. An Isbister! He wanted to steal a look at Jojo to see if she noticed the difference, or even if she seemed different now as well, but he didn’t.

‘After the towers fell,’ said Chadwick, ‘there was this incredible noise and confusion. Everyone had their opinion. I know what I thought: this was the result of a terrible foreign policy. It was time to change. Americans are not fools. We don’t want to see our cities under attack from maddened strangers. What should we do now? And that was more or less the first response. We had to change our Middle East policy. We had to settle Israel-Palestine. We had to be
fair
. But then, all of a sudden, that changed. Attack Iraq. Attack Syria. Attack Iran. Leave Israel alone! All the good ol’ Uncle Chip stuff. And they won! They’ve got their way. It was brilliantly done.’

‘How?’ said Toby.

‘It was all over in a couple of months,’ said Chadwick. ‘In fact, it was decided in a single week. I remember that week, although I didn’t know exactly what was going on. I had an inkling but I just couldn’t see it clearly. You were both there, I remember that.’

‘We were there?’ said Toby.

‘You were there,’ said Chadwick.

‘How can he not love this girl?’ he thought, looking at Jojo, tall and slim with her clear eyes fixed on him as if fixed on the facts.

‘The week Bernard broke his leg,’ said Chadwick.

‘We were there,’ said Toby. ‘We saw the meteors!’

‘
We
,’ thought Jojo.

She remembered Caspar standing on the truck-bed. ‘These here are
American
shootin’ stars.’

‘Thanksgiving,’ said Toby.

‘Thanksgiving,’ said Chadwick. ‘That was the day the President, President Bush – God help us all – said
Get me the war plans for Iraq. And – keep this a secret
. The only thing that had appeared in public that week was an article in the
New Yorker
by old Bernard Lewis. He was a friend of our Bernard. They grew up in London together. “That old fox”, Bernard used to say. Lewis writes a piece in the
New Yorker
that week linking 9/11 and Iraq. Iraq was “deeply involved” – almost everyone in the Middle East thought that! And that America was too frightened of Iraq’s terrible ­weapons to do anything about it. Oh, it was a beautiful piece of incitement. And the very next day, on Thanksgiving eve, Bush says to Rumsfeld, “Get me the war plans for Iraq. Keep this secret.” You might, in fact, make an argument that that week the
New Yorker
all on its own pushed the US into war.’

‘Thanks, fellas,’ said Toby.

‘But the campaign didn’t end there. It was rolling right along. There was Bletchley Two, for instance. Ever hear of Bletchley Two?’

‘I never heard of Bletchley One,’ said Toby.

‘Bletchley Park,’ said Chadwick, ‘was where the British broke the Nazi codes in World War Two. And Bletchley Two was the name these people gave to a secret conference to analyse the meaning of 9/11. See how good they are? What happened on September 11 wasn’t an act, it wasn’t even an event – it was a code. It was a mysterious signal from outer darkness which needs decryption. And they are the fellas to decrypt it for us. And a real rogues’ gallery they were too – old Bernard Lewis again, Wolfowitz, various hacks and think-tankers. And so they
de-code
9/11. And guess what? It was nothing to do with American policy. It was evil attacking good, lightning out of clear blue sky. What to do? There’s a swamp in the Middle East. A delta of terror. Drain the swamp! Smash up the Middle East. Burn it down! Start with Iraq! Impose the free market! It doesn’t actually make any sense, it was a series of mad non-sequiturs, but the White House – that ship of fools – bought it.’

‘Wolfowitz, Lewis,’ said Toby. ‘So that’s your argument, Uncle Chaddy?
Blame the Jews
.’

‘Oh, Toby,’ said Chadwick. ‘I’m not an anti-Semite. I’m not even anti-Zionist, if the project was carried out with decency.’

‘You,’ said a voice, ‘are wanted.’

A hand fell on Jojo’s shoulder. It was Maro’s father, Anton.

‘Young lady, you must come and dance,’ he said. ‘Look over there! Everyone is dancing.’

‘Oh, Anton,’ said Jojo.

‘No “no”s,’ said Anton. ‘Gillian has even put her veil on again. How can the bridesmaids not dance if she wishes it? She has sent me to get you. This is an order from high command.’

They looked over the way. The little dance-floor was crowded. The beat was pumping. A white veil could be glimpsed among the moving heads. Jojo stood up and looked into Chadwick’s eyes for release but he had no power to grant it. Away she went in her beautiful dress with Anton, wilting slightly, as one condemned.

5

By this time almost everyone was strolling around or on the dance-floor or installed inside the low-slung tents, and the few still at the tables drinking coffee or
arak
– there was no sign the waiters were ever coming to clear up – now felt like those lost souls who stay on in a ruined city; then Chadwick and Toby got up too and left, and went strolling around the field, and ended up at the gate to the lane where the buses were parked. They stopped and looked down at the shingle pond which was already in shadow.

Beside the pond was a man in a green corduroy suit, sitting on one of the carved dining chairs, his back to the festivities, a fishing rod in hand.

‘Look at that,’ said Chadwick. ‘Only an Englishman would bring a trout-rod to a wedding breakfast.’

‘I know him!’ said Toby. ‘He’s one of Gilly’s friends from Cambridge. He’s a don. He’s very clever. He’s very clever, and very bad-tempered – that’s what I hear.’

The thought of this combination for some reason made them both laugh. The Arab boys who earlier had been shouting from the tops of the poplars had come down to the ground and were now gathered round the fisherman in green corduroy, although keeping a respectful distance. Toby and Chadwick stood leaning on the gate watching him as well.

‘He has these tremendous rows with his girlfriend,’ said Toby, ‘so I hear.’

‘Does he now?’ said Chadwick with the faintest hint of sarcasm.

‘He knows!’ thought Toby, who heard the hint, and realised how well Chadwick knew him. ‘He knows I’m not Candy’s son. He’s probably known that my whole life. He probably knows my real mother!’