Thieves in the Night (28 page)

When the greetings were over, Mrs. Shenkin found herself standing in the uncomfortable presence of Lady Joyce Gordon-Smith at the fireplace, while the two men had drifted away towards the other end of the room. The servant offered her a drink, and Mrs. Shenkin violently shook her head. “I drink
not. I am not a modernish woman,” she said in her terrible English.

“I do,” Joyce announced languidly. Leaning with her back against the fireplace she looked down at the top of Mrs. Shenkin's head, trying to find out whether she wore a wig. Joyce had been told that all orthodox Jewish women had their hair cut when they were married and had to wear a wig for the rest of their lives. But through the thin, greyish strands on Mrs. Shenkin's crown she could see the pale shimmer of her scalp; she wore no wig.

“We just come back from Tel Aviv,” Mrs. Shenkin said conversationally. “We were visiting my second son who studies in the Gymnasium. Tel Aviv is a beautiful city. You go often there?”

“Never,” said Joyce. She had only been to Tel Aviv once, and the dreadful architecture of the Hebrew town, its broiling streets lined with lemonade shops, teeming with a sweaty, noisy crowd, had made her feel that she had fallen into a Semitic ant-heap. She loved to walk through the Arab shuks, though they were even more crowded and smelly; but then, they were the Orient—whereas Tel Aviv was only a Mediterranean East End, a cross between Whitechapel and Monte Carlo.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Shenkin. “Do you not like to swim in the sea?”

Mrs. Shenkin never swam in the sea but she rightly assumed that Joyce did.

“It is too crowded,” said Joyce.

“Yes—what crowds!” cried Mrs. Shenkin. “Soon Tel Aviv will have hundred fifty thousand people. And twenty years ago—nothing.” Though rather anti-Zionistic, Mrs. Shenkin shared in the general Jewish pride in Tel Aviv.

Joyce said nothing. She sipped her dry Martini with an inward-turned look, preoccupied with her indisposition. These fat Jewish women were supposed to know about herbal teas and things. But then it was of course impossible to ask her.

“This is my son,” announced Mrs. Shenkin. Left to bear
the brunt of the conversation, she had produced a photograph from her bag.

“Nice,” said Joyce after a fleeting glance, without taking the photograph from Mrs. Shenkin's hands. However, she had to admit that the slim, fair boy looked remarkably attractive. How these two ugly people had succeeded in producing him, beat her.

“He is a genius,” Mrs. Shenkin remarked matter-of-factly. “He translates Pushkin's poems into the Hebrew language.”

“How clever,” said Joyce.

“Yes. He translates Pushkin and he knows not one word of Russian.”

Lady Joyce suddenly started coughing into her cocktail. She made a mental note of the story for the Club: the Jewish infant prodigy who translates Pushkin without knowing Russian. She put her glass down.

“Then how does he do it?” she asked with, for the first time, a certain warmth in her voice.

“Oh, it is quite easy,” said Mrs. Shenkin. “A friend of his who is Russian tells him the contents and then he makes it rhyme.”

“How very clever,” said Joyce.

The servant announced Mr. Richard Matthews, and the American lumbered into the room, looking rather untidy, somewhat absent-minded and slightly tight. Joyce had met him at a luncheon party which H.E. had given during Matthews' first visit, and had instantly disliked him. He was clumsy, uncivil and conceited in a kind of vulgar-democratic way— typically American. However, he had made himself quite a reputation during the last two years, and as the A.Ch.C.'s wife one had to entertain all sorts of people. This party was in his honour, and the Shenkins had been produced because those American papers always complained that one was not nice enough to the Jews. To restore the balance she had also asked Kamel Effendi el Shallabi, the editor of a moderate Arab weekly, but he was late as usual.

They stood around the fireplace, holding their glasses, with the dull feeling of pointlessness which is the ritual atmosphere of all Jerusalem parties. Professor Shenkin was holding forth with some involved story about excavations on the Dead Sea, and why they had gone wrong. Now and then the A.Ch.C., with an air of friendly approval, put in an unobtrusive question which showed up the professor's ignorance of archaeology. However, Shenkin was not an archaeologist but a professor of philosophy, though nobody knew what exactly he philosophised about. In a lifetime he had only published two short papers in Hebrew periodicals, one on “Spinoza and the Neo-Platonists”, the other on “Talmudic Influences on German Mediaeval Mysticism”. There was a rumour that he had obtained his chair at the University because some relation of his was on the Board of Curators in America from where the money came.

At last Kamel Effendi arrived, red-faced, buoyant, elegant, and carrying a bunch of roses for the hostess. He greeted the Shenkins with effusive heartiness though they had met only once, eight years ago at an official garden-party. There were more drinks. Matthews had a huge whisky and soda, Kamel Effendi an arrack which he sipped rather daintily with his little finger sticking out, while the Professor nursed a glass of sweet, sticky local vermouth. Watching him, Joyce remembered with a shudder the one dinner-party at the Glicksteins' which she had been forced to attend, and where they gave you sweet Carmel wine in liqueur glasses with your fish.

At last the party moved into the dining-room. A slight odour in the air informed Joyce that the Arab cook had once again burnt the pilaff—he always did it when there were Jewish guests, though how he knew beforehand remained a mystery. However, she felt too fed-up with all of them to care.

Kamel Effendi was holding the stage. Prompted by a question of Matthews, he had launched into Arab politics:

“Ah, the Mufti, the Mufti!” he cried. “He and his family are the ruin of the country. How often have we warned our
English friends against the machinations of the Husseini clan! We told them how the Mufti used his position and the religious funds entrusted to him to finance his terrorist gangsters. In each little village he had his agents. In each mosque the mullah preached hatred and murder by his orders. Alas—you did not believe us… He turned to the A.Ch.C. with a waggishly accusing finger. “No, you did not believe us, so you supported Hadj Amin until he betrayed you and the country was flowing with blood. And then you let him escape under your nose to Syria from where he continues to make trouble with Italian money.”

The A.Ch.C., smiling, applied himself to the burnt pilaff. He looked like a tolerant schoolmaster at a picnic whose pupils have got slightly out of hand, pretending not to notice it.

“Is it true that he escaped from the Omar Mosque in women's clothes?” asked Mrs. Shenkin's piping little voice.

“Bbah!” cried Kamel Effendi. “I care not how he escaped. I care that his paid bandits have killed my cousin Mussa Effendi, and Fakhri Bey Nashashibi, and Sheikh Abdul Khatib the great preacher of the Omar Mosque. Hadj Amin is a curse. All the Husseini family and their National Party are a curse. They kill and blackmail everybody opposed to them and drive us to bloodshed.”

The arrack and the heavy burgundy-type wine from Rishon le Zion were beginning to tell on Kamel Effendi. His face had grown even redder and he spoke in a rather loud voice.

“You talk almost like a Zionist, Kamel Effendi,” said the A.Ch.C., who was having his quiet fun.

“A Zionist—bbah!” said Kamel Effendi. “We don't need the Husseinis to fight Zionism. All Arabs are united against the Zionist danger.” Suddenly remembering the Shenkins, he turned with a broad smile to the Professor. “It is not personal,” he said affably. “Friends remain friends. We are talking about principles.”

The Professor, who had tucked his napkin under his grey goatee, smiled back eagerly.

“We each have our extremists and trouble-makers to cope with in our own camp,” he said unctuously. “You have your Mufti and his followers, and we have our young fanatics. Without them, Arabs and Jews could live as happily together as they did a thousand years ago in Spain.”

“Quite so,” said the A.Ch.C. “The question is of course on what terms,” he added innocently.

“Terms—bbah!” cried Kamel Effendi, and he unexpectedly turned to his hostess who sat in a cramped erect position in her chair, waiting for that faint tide of pain to return. “If you, madame, honour me with an invitation to your house, do I ask you for terms? And enjoying the privilege of your hospitality, do I ask to be master of the house? No, madame, I do not. It is the same with our Jewish friends. They enjoy our hospitality.
—ahlan w'sahlan
, you are welcome. We will be like brothers. We will receive you with open arms as our guests….”

“Yeah—paying guests,” murmured Matthews, but fortunately Kamel Effendi did not hear him. The A.Ch.C., who did hear, helped himself to more pilaff.

“… like brothers,” concluded Kamel Effendi. “Just as in the glorious days of the Spanish Caliphate, as our friend the Professor said. But terms—bbah! If they want our house-never!”

“Well, Professor?” said Matthews with a heavy wink of his eyes. “It's your turn now.”

Shenkin was stroking his goatee.

“Of course,” he said. “Personally I see our friend's point. I was always opposed to this provocative talk about a Hebrew State which only upsets our Arab friends. For me, Zion is a symbol. A state! What is a state? A selfish, old-fashioned prejudice….”

“
Aywah!
” nodded Kamel Effendi. “This is very true.”

“Our young fanatics,” the Professor went on, “want a Jewish majority. What is this talk? A provocation. What are numbers? What are quantities? It is the spirit which counts. We must come in a spirit of friendship and understanding to our
Arab friends. The Jews abhor violence. It is our historical mission …”

“Boloney,” Matthews said suddenly and audibly. They all looked at him, but he was absorbed in his pilaff.

“Won't you have some more?” Joyce asked with a ringing voice through the silence. “Though I'm afraid it's rather …”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Shenkin earnestly, “it is burnt. Our cook also does it. It is because of the Primus stoves.”

“Yes—aren't they awful?” Joyce said icily.

“Look,” said Matthews, having swallowed the last bite on his plate, and turning to the Professor. “Have you people come to build a country or just another ghetto?”

“I came,” said Professor Shenkin who was squirming on his seat, “I came to teach at the Hebrew University.”

“Damn your University,” said Matthews. “People must have security first, and some income, and some leisure, before they can think of a university. You do everything the wrong way round.”

“This is a matter of opinion,” said Shenkin.

“It isn't,” said Matthews, emptying his glass. “You people drive me crazy. One wants to help you and you make it so hellish difficult.”

Kamel Effendi chuckled. “That is a very true remark, Mr. Matthews. We are in the same position. We want to help these poor people, and how do they thank us? They want to take our house away.”

“Aw, chuck that talk about your house,” said Matthews. “For the last five hundred years it wasn't yours but the Turks'.”

Kamel Effendi went red again, while Shenkin relaxed in his chair, dabbing his head with his napkin.

“The majority of the population has always been Arab,” cried Kamel Effendi. “Take myself. My family is descended directly from Walid el Shallabi, Muhammed's conquering General. We are the most ancient family in Palestine…. The Husseinis and Nashashibis are mere parvenus,” he could not refrain from adding.

“My father is a Cohen,” Mrs. Shenkin piped suddenly. “And the Cohens are the descendants of the Kohanim, the priests in the old days.”

“Shall we go?” Joyce said to her, rising rather abruptly. She had been impatiently waiting for Matthews to finish his last spoonful of ice-cream and now felt that she wouldn't be able to stick it a minute longer. Seeing the Shenkin woman's bewilderment and ignorance of English custom, she explained: “The gentlemen will join us later for coffee.” And with a contrite smile she sailed out of the room, followed by the short, waddling Mrs. Shenkin, a queen with inadequate suite.

The four men stood for a second, and as they sat down again the A.Ch.C. said, to turn the conversation:

“There seems to be a khamsin in the air. My wife usually feels it twenty-four hours in advance.”

“That's your local variety of the sirocco?” asked Matthews.

“Yes—only more pernicious.”

“Ah—the khamsin!” cried Kamel Effendi. “In a real khamsin everybody goes crazy.”

“Then this country must be living in a permanent khamsin,” said Matthews.

Kamel Effendi laughed stertorously. The Professor stroked his beard.

“When the east wind breathes, the pastures of the shepherds mourn and the head of Carmel withers,” he quoted from somewhere in the Bible.

“Quite,” said the A.Ch.C. “But the same scorching east wind is also called ‘the breath of the Lord'. So if we are all mad, it's holy madness, you see.”

“I reckon,” said Matthews, “that God Almighty has less to do with it than your Colonial Office.”

“
Aywah
,” said Kamel Effendi. “And your Lord Balfour.”

“There we go again,” said the A.Ch.C. “Who would like some port or liqueur?”

They all refused except Matthews, who took a balloon-glass
of brandy. “What was wrong with old Balfour?” he asked, thrusting his big untidy head towards Kamel Effendi.

“He gave our house away,” said Kamel Effendi, who liked to stick to the same metaphor.

“More boloney,” said Matthews, tasting the brandy and finding that it was good. “There never was a house here. There was a desert and a stinking swamp and pox-ridden fellaheen. You were the pariahs of the Levant and to-day you are the richest of the Arab countries. Your population was on the decrease for centuries because half your babes were dying from filth in their cradles, and since the Jews came it has doubled. They haven't robbed you of an inch of your land, but they have robbed you of your malaria and your trachoma and your septic childbeds and your poverty….”