The Brides of Solomon (6 page)

I sat at the entrance to a wine-shop, talking with two friends. When business was over, Zakho was a silent little town. A footfall, the murmur of the streams, the low voices of women behind
shutters and courtyard doors—those were all one heard. I did not expect the harsh voice of an Arab, calling me by the name of Nadim Nassar.

I looked up. It was a certain Zeid, a dealer in sheep and mangy camels—a wild-eyed barbarian who knew no law but what he misconceived to be his religion. I had seen him in the square of
Ferjeyn, with foam on his villainous mouth and an old sword that had been used on women. I had unfortunately missed my shot at him. He was regarding Zakho with disgust, for it was a town of
heretics: Yezidis, Shias, Kurds, Alaouites—let alone Christians and a few Jews.

‘You do not appear very mad, Nadim Nassar,’ he said.

‘My mind has cleared, thanks be to God,’ I answered, and my friends stared—for it was a pleasant bit of scandal that my name was Nassar and I had been mad.

‘It has cleared very quickly. God is indeed Great,’ Zeid replied.

M. le Consul, there was irony in his voice that would have befitted a university professor—except that it lacked subtlety.

I hailed him as an old friend and took him by the hand and asked him where he meant to spend the night. The idiot was so full of contempt that he thought I was afraid. I left my friends and led
him round the corner into a street where, I said, there was good coffee. He went with me, continuing to give thanks for my deliverance. His poor brain was pleased with the simple jest. He could not
have told me more plainly what he meant to do on his return to his village. There was no one in the street, and it was nearly dark. I killed him quickly and mercifully, and laid his body behind a
pile of dung and rubbish.

It was hardly the act of a respectable Frenchman. But what else could I do? Was Zeid to be allowed to return home and scream that Nadim Nassar had been pretending madness? He was just the type
to conceal himself among Helena’s olives with his rusty sword.

Beyond Zakho, it is true, there was a convenient lack of law and order, but in the town itself were more or less civilised police. I had to be far away before Zeid’s body was discovered.
Merjan, by good fortune, was at our timber camp. I told him what had happened. It was unnecessary to give details. I had only to sketch the character of Zeid, and explain that there was a blood
feud between us.

The Yezidis meet with so few friends that they give absolute loyalty to those they have. Merjan on the instant took food, water and arms, and marched me off through the hills to seek a party of
his clients from whom we could borrow ponies. Before dawn we had crossed into Syria. The next night we rode south parallel to the frontier—it was routine, that—and crossed back again
into Iraq. By the third dawn we were among the rocks of the Jebel Sinjar, and exchanging shouts with Merjan’s own people.

‘Go where you will, freely,’ Merjan said to me. ‘And if you wish to visit Ferjeyn, you shall be passed from friend to friend as far as the last village of Yezidis, who will
guide you across the frontier and receive you on your return.’

He left me with his parents, and rode back to Zakho with the ponies. I stayed at his father’s house as long as politeness demanded, and then begged to be sent on to the western end of the
Jebel. To my regret I saw none of the rites of their religion. The devil does no better or worse for them than for other mountain Arabs. They are hospitable, kindly and very poor. In the heat of
their rocks there is a fine foretaste of hell—but if in the east one belongs to a sect that is hated it is as well to find an inaccessible home.

From village to village I was passed along the upper slopes of the range into Syria. There, in the no-man’s land, I was still a long day’s march from my home, but the plain below me
to the north was the same that for eight years I had seen from the heights above Ferjeyn.

The Jebel between Ferjeyn and the frontier was worthless and eroded country, inhabited only by a few miserable goat-herds. I passed through it cautiously, seen only from a distance and, since I
was armed, avoided. At dusk I arrived on the pastures above Ferjeyn. I was so excited that I could have embraced the nearest cow. But I contained myself. There were two horses grazing. They looked
to me like gendarmerie horses. I was sure they belonged to no one in the commune.

When it was dark I dropped from terrace to terrace and down the beds of streams. It was better not to take the path until I knew more about those horses. There was a light in my house behind the
shutters, and I heard the voice of Helena singing to the children. I knelt in the shadows below the window and called softly to her. Her voice ceased. She thought it was only her singing which had
summoned me. Then I called again, and she opened for me a window in a room that was dark.

M. le Consul, I do not know if you are happily married, with a family. If you are not, and I should describe my feelings, you would accuse me of exaggeration. If you are, I have no need to
explain. In any case, imagine that for two months you have lived my life and have had no chance to send or receive a message. We were all wet with tears. I think I have made it clear that we were a
singularly united family.

Helena told me that Ferjeyn was watched. It was said that Nadim Nassar had killed again in Zakho, and that he had taken refuge in the Jebel Sinjar. The Yezidis had sworn that they knew nothing
of me, but Merjan had been seen returning north to the Tigris, and leading a saddled pony. Ferjeyn was terrified lest I should cross the Jebel and return. John Douaihy had not dared—in case
some fool should talk—to tell them that I had only pretended to be mad.

I calmed Helena. I was not going to lose the joy of homecoming for the sake of worrying about what might never happen. A family is much like a squadron. The last man to show fear must be the
sergeant-major. We closed down the shutters and made a feast. The harvest, thank God, had been good, and Helena was not in want. She had even set by a small store of money for me. And so the little
family jokes were repeated, and we laughed at them as though I had never been away. At last the children slept where they sat, and we put them to bed.

In the morning it was a question where to hide. We did not live in luxury. There were four white-washed rooms in my house, all opening out of the little guest-hall. The furniture would not have
concealed a frightened rabbit, and anyone passing could look in through the windows.

Helena went up to the flat roof, and reported that there were men of Ferjeyn on the terraces and the path, and that those who were working their fields were armed. It was idiotic that they
should be afraid of me. But all the poor fools knew was that on my last appearance I had tried to kill my wife.

The children went to school. It was not necessary to tell them to say nothing; we warned them, however, not to show their excitement by a single look or word among themselves. Yes, M. le Consul,
the priest has a sort of school at Ferjeyn. He teaches them to read and write Arabic, and such history as he knows. It is naturally somewhat specialised. They can read French, too, for I taught
them myself. And I have always spoken French with them as much as Arabic. M. le Consul, I beg of you—take them when the time comes. They are fine youngsters, and they will be valuable to
France.

I had thought of going out to the barn, and making myself vanish among the fodder; but it was impossible to get there without being seen. Well, I am an old campaigner and I had need of sleep.
What better than to take it, hiding under the bed? Sometimes I heard callers, and once Helena led a woman into the room and sat talking, being careful to wake me up lest I should snore. I did not
care. I fell asleep again. The floor of my own home caressed my body.

Then John Douaihy arrived. Helena led him to our room so that I might know who had come and that he was unaccompanied. I assure you that he was telling Helena she should not remain alone in the
house.

‘God grant you more brains in your fat head, O my father!’ I said to him from under the bed.

I could only see him from feet to knees. They trembled like those of a Syrian dancing girl. I poked out my head and told him not to be a fool.

‘But you killed Zeid,’ he stammered.

They are a feminine folk, the Arabs. After a while they are taken in by their own lies. By now John Douaihy himself had begun to believe I might be mad—it is possible that he had not
forgiven me the salad—and if Helena had not laughed at him I think he would have backed out of the room. To be giggled over by a daughter—there’s nothing like that for bringing a
man back to common sense.

Yes. I had killed Zeid, and I told him why. He had only time to lean down—for I was still under the bed—and take my hand between his and promise to tell his people that it was
shameful to hunt a citizen of Ferjeyn, whether mad or not, and that they must not shoot so long as my rifle was slung. And then the gendarmerie were at the door.

There were two of them. They came with the news that I must be lying up close to or on our mountain. The goatherds of the Jebel Sinjar had seen a man with a rifle hiding among the rocks at dusk
and looking down into the saddle between the main range and the hill of the Christians. It was true that for a few minutes I had been careless. But the first sight of Ferjeyn pastures was full of
emotion.

All the doors from the guest-hall were open. In so fresh and empty and windswept a house the gendarmes could see at once I was not there. And both Helena and her father were calm. John Douaihy,
from the moment of the knock on the door, had become the dignified headman of his commune. In spite of his appearance the old owl could surrender himself to his feelings like a child. During a mere
five minutes he had been overcome by the demands of terror, of affection, and now of duty. He led the gendarmes away. As a father-in-law he was worth many more civilised. I should like to hold his
hand again.

I was encircled, M. le Consul. And no means of breaking through. Two Syrian troopers were not much of a force against a sergeant-major, but what about my fellow-townsmen and, beyond them, the
Moslems of the plain? I had no wish to start a battle with either. It looked as if I had only two alternatives: to give myself up or to remain in the house until the search for me slackened. But
the latter was impossible. The oldest of my boys was only seven. At that age children can act a part for a few hours, but not day after day.

The tactical position was simple enough even for a gendarme. There were a dozen routes by which I could leave my house, but if I went up I must somewhere cross the pastures on top of the hill;
and if I went down I must go through Ferjeyn. So I knew more or less where the pickets would be. True, they were expecting my arrival, whereas I was trying to get away. But that made no
difference.

I asked Helena to go out at dusk and try to report to me where the gendarmes were and what was the organisation of the people of Ferjeyn. All the same, I had not much confidence. She would be
closely watched for her own safety, or because it might be thought that she was trying to find me.

‘That is what I should do,’ she cried. ‘Nothing could keep me from going to find my husband.’

‘But he is difficult to find,’ I laughed. ‘Since he ran away from you, he has learned too much from bad characters.’

‘You would send me a message,’ she said.

Well, there, out of our pleasantries, leaped the scheme. It was ready-made. It only needed details to be filled in by a woman’s wit and a soldier’s experience.

A basket of food to be left out for me. Excellent! Where to leave it? But the answer springs to the lips. Where there was a clear field of fire, so that the gendarmes could settle down on a rock
overlooking the basket, and be confident. Then the men of Ferjeyn had to be considered. They must be decoyed away from the route I would take back to the Jebel Sinjar.

It was easy. There was a little glade on the south-western slope of the mountain, commanded by the necessary rock. It was a spot well-known to us, where we used to go in the heat of summer,
before the babies could walk, and let them crawl on the grass. Now, if I were coming from the Jebel I should traverse the southern slopes of our mountain and reach that glade without ever crossing
the pastures. And any man of Ferjeyn would be sure of it. So there was no need for any cordon across the top.

Helena made up a basket of food, and pretended to be taking it up the mountain to her uncle. Boulos was really there, hoping, I am sure, to warn me off if he could; it was not likely that John
would have had a chance to speak with him yet. First, she had to find the gendarmes and act suspiciously and draw their attention. Then she must make them follow her, and pretend not to be aware of
it. That was difficult—impossible if she had not been acting in character. But all Ferjeyn knew what she was. If a starving husband had managed to let her know he needed food, she would have
blindly taken it to him, though he were armed and mad and had tried to kill her.

She returned at the beginning of the night. Meanwhile the children had come home and were keeping guard—all but the youngest who was under the bed with me. She had no doubt that she had
been followed. The gendarme was clumsy when sneaking through the woods on foot.

I said my farewells, and plunged into a night that was also of the spirit. As I have said, I planned to go back to the Yezidis. The route, the people, the hiding-places, I had worked them all
out. A lot of fuss about nothing. Such planning was against my principles. I should have known better.

On the track between my house and the pastures there should be a picket. Even if I were expected elsewhere, that was an elementary precaution to take for the safety of my wife and children. I
was glad to find three of my fellow-townsmen alert and in the position I would have chosen for them myself. It gave me confidence that Helena was always in their thoughts. With all its faults, it
was a gallant little town, my Ferjeyn. The three men were facing uphill, and I was able to leave the track and pass boldly round them. When they heard me, they challenged. I replied in the falsetto
of an idiot that it was Nadim Nassar returning from his wife. They laughed.