The Mule on the Minaret (17 page)

Tabooli was more than a Lebanese speciality; it was a Lebanese ritual. It was served at a quarter to six with arak. A large dish contained what looked like a mixed green salad. It was composed of wheat, pounded up with vegetables, it was eaten with the fingers, scooped up with lettuce leaves. It had a fresh cool taste, with an after-flavour of onions. With it were served balls of kibbé—a minced meat mixed with corn. The meal was taken slowly, one sip of arak to one mouthful of Tabooli. A glass of arak was expected to last half an hour. Eventually the Tabooli and the arak were cleared away and tea was served with biscuits and very sweet sticky cakes that had an almond flavour. Later on, Cherry Heering
was offered. The party was scheduled to break up at nine o'clock, so that the guests could dine or not dine afterwards as they chose.

Amin Marun had invited a dozen guests. At the start Aziz contributed nothing to the conversation. He sat silent, sulky, inattentive, exactly as he had at that first meeting. Reid waited till the room filled up and he had an opportunity to change his chair and sit by Aziz on a sofa.

‘Do you find more opportunities here for hearing music than you had in Turkey?' he inquired.

‘Many more. That's what makes it so exasperating.'

‘Makes what exasperating?'

‘The fact that I can't get my hands on all there is.'

‘I don't follow that.'

‘In Turkey we are cut off from Europe. There are currency difficulties. We cannot buy all we want from Germany and communication with England is very difficult. I had to make the best of what there was. But here I should not be cut off from England, and the best records are being made in England now. But I cannot bring Turkish currency across the frontier, and my aunt does not realize how much they matter to me. I did not worry in Turkey because they were out of reach. But here they should not be. They are available to others. I sometimes feel I shall go mad, because I cannot hear the music that I need. You cannot memorize music, as you can a poem. You have to go on hearing it.'

His face was white, his eyes were blazing.

‘He talked,' Reid was to tell Farrar later, ‘like a drug addict deprived of his drug.'

Farrar exulted. ‘Now we've got him where we want him. Listen. This is how we'll play it. Not through Abdul Hamid. Aziz has met him and distrusts him; or he should. At any rate, they can't be friends. We'll use a friend of his, Fadhil, whom you haven't met. The Koumayans entertain a lot. They know Aziz. They can invite him to a party; then, on the day that he's coming I'll arrange to have Fadhil asked.'

‘The Koumayans aren't in our show, are they?'

‘Of course they aren't. They'd be horrified if they knew what I was about. I've told them I'm in propaganda; and of course, in a way, I am. My having been at the Mission was a help in that regard. They are very pro-Allies. I can ask them to meet people here of whom they wouldn't have acknowledged the existence three years ago. On occasions I can persuade them to invite a friend of mine.'

‘Do they get anything out of this?'

‘Nothing on the surface, except the self-satisfaction of making a contribution to the cause. We all like to think we're doing something of use in wartime. Though of course there are little things that I can do for them: permits, for instance; and there are some articles that are in very short supply here. When I go into Cairo I don't return empty-handed. And finally, my dear Prof., incredible though it may seem to you, Annabelle Koumayan thinks this decadent piece of masculinity a dish.'

Next morning Reid paid a visit to the Mission. He liked to maintain his connection with it. He also had an opportunity of reading English newspapers, seeing the latest news reports and reading the daily bulletin that was issued by the Mission's Propaganda Section. The news could not be worse. Japanese forces were sweeping south. Singapore had fallen. Java was next upon the list. In the Western Desert Rommel was again in the ascendant, and on the Eastern Front the Russians were in retreat. Reid had not now the slightest doubt of the eventual outcome of the war. With the United States in the field the Axis could not win. But how long would it last? Every battle, every defeat seemed to add another year to its duration: the enemy had to be forced back over so vast a territory.

On his return he paused in Diana's office. ‘A message for you from the boss,' she said. ‘That party at the Koumayans' has been fixed for Tuesday. Six o'clock; and all the interested characters will be there.'

‘Doesn't it seem very trivial that we should be arranging a party for interested characters when the whole of our Eastern Empire is threatened?'

She smiled. ‘Five years ago, did the fact that there were two million unemployed barely subsisting under the means test, prevent your enjoyment of a chateau-bottled claret?'

It was the first time that Reid had been to the Koumayan house. It lay on the high main road that led to the Place des Martyres. It was constructed of ochre brick; a high wall shut it round; a high ironwork gate opened on to an ornamental garden. The house was arranged in the old Turkish manner; a large central hall with small rooms opening off it. The walls of the main hall were hung with carpets and gilt-framed portraits.

When Reid arrived there were some thirty other guests. He recognized very few of them. There were only one or two British officers; those were captains. Farrar was on his guard against having rank pulled on him. There were, however, three French colonels. The remainder were French civilians or Lebanese. Tea and cakes and sandwiches were being served at a large ornately silvered table. A small corner table provided ice, soda and Scotch whisky. The attendance round this table was continuous. Reid supposed that Farrar was responsible for its steady sustenance. Little Scotch can have been available since the fall of France.

He looked for the Amin Maruns. Aziz was standing in a corner. His aunt and uncle were seated together on a sofa. They were not talking to each other. Marriage was curious that way, he thought. Husbands and wives went out to parties, felt they must protect each other; sat together; consumed nourishment, then went home and discussed a party they had not in fact attended. They might just as well go out to a café and watch the world drift past. They would see more variety that way.

Nigel was ubiquitous; gracious, dominant, peripatetic, acting as a host, though he was not a host, effecting introductions, moving from one group to another; he certainly looked as though he were a public relations officer.

To his surprise Reid noticed Diana across the room. He moved across to her. ‘So you are allowed to this kind of party,' he remarked.

‘It wouldn't do, would it, for me to avoid all his parties. People would start asking questions. We have to appear in public sometimes as business acquaintances.'

‘I suppose that I shall one day see the point of these elaborate precautions.'

‘Don't try. Use your common sense. It's refreshing to have one man in the office who relies on that.'

‘It's a relief that security doesn't limit
us
to a business acquaintanceship.'

‘That was my one fear when I fixed your coming to us. It was in fact my one condition. I said to the controller, “The Prof, may have to leave his flat, but he's not going to stop seeing me.” '

‘You actually said that?'

‘Of course I did.' Her look was frank. There was a twinkle in her eyes. He had the sensation of something underneath his heart going round and over. He turned away. He looked across the room,
searching again for Aziz. He found him at length seated talking to a youngish man who was wearing European clothes. He might have been a Frenchman by his appearance. He wondered if that was Fadhil. Diana had followed his glance. ‘It seems to be going all right,' she said.

He noticed at the end of the evening that the Amin Maruns left alone. He took another look for Aziz, but did not see him. He looked in vain, also, for the young Frenchman. He presumed that they had slipped away together. I'd give a lot to be invisible, he thought.

Next day he asked Farrar about Fadhil. ‘He looks as though he might be a Frenchman. Is he?'

‘I fancy he is, but he won't admit it. If he did they'd conscript him for the army.'

‘What does he say he is?'

‘Egyptian; that could be anything. I don't know too much about him. In point of fact I don't want to know too much. Abdul Hamid swears he can be trusted. That's enough for me. He has been here several years. Since the beginning of the war he has had a teaching job at the University; a wartime job because they are short of staff. He has no real qualifications, but it isn't difficult to teach elementary English.'

‘Is he married?'

‘I don't think so; not so as you'd notice it, as they used to say.'

‘What about his parents?'

‘All his relatives are in Egypt.'

‘For a man as security-minded as you, you take a great deal on trust as far as this gentleman is concerned.'

‘I trust Abdul Hamid. That is sufficient. He has a hold on Fadhil. Fadhil wouldn't dare double-cross him. Abdul Hamid is a very tough operator.'

‘I wish I knew what had happened between those two.'

‘We'll know soon enough.'

*   *   *

They learnt five days later. Aziz and Fadhil had made friends quickly. In fact, they had recognized each other, through their association at the University, though they had never met.

‘I've noticed you,' Fadhil had said.

‘I'm surprised at that. There are so many students.'

‘Perhaps, but there was something different about you. You looked as though you didn't quite belong there.'

‘Is that unusual at the A.U.B.? We're a very miscellaneous collection; a dozen different nationalities.'

‘Yes, but there's a common multiple. They are all desperately anxious to graduate with honours. You do not seem very anxious.'

‘Is that a recommendation?'

‘Normally it wouldn't be; but you didn't look an idle person. I felt that you had other interests. I wondered what they were. What are you studying?'

Aziz told him; for a minute or two they exchanged notes on the professors who took his classes; then the talk became personal. Very soon Fadhil edged the conversation so that it was Aziz himself who brought up the question of music.

‘I have some new records in my flat,' said Fadhil. ‘I wonder if you'd like to come back and hear them?'

Fadhil had a small two-room apartment near the University. It was in a recently built house. It was on the fourth floor. It was barely furnished, with a settee and two armchairs, but the shelves were filled with books, and though the floor was covered with cheap threadbare matting, a good carpet was hung over the settee. The room was heated by an open charcoal brazier. It was chilly. ‘We'd better keep our coats on,' Fadhil said. On the table there was a high pile of records.

‘I wonder if you've heard this, I got it at Christmas. When I was in Cairo.' He had brought back six new records. He played them over. There was an entranced expression upon Aziz's face.

‘If only I could get records like that,' he said.

‘You can, if I can.'

‘I never go to Cairo.'

‘I do. I can get them for you.'

‘I couldn't afford them. It is a question of currency. My parents can't send money out of Turkey. They don't even pay my expenses with my aunt. My aunt has no money except what my uncle gives her. I'm dependent on him. He only gives me a bare minimum.'

‘Then why not earn some money?'

‘How could I?'

‘There are ways; there are always ways; most of us have sidelines that are more profitable than our apparent jobs. Do you think
I could afford trips to Cairo, a record player like this and all those records on my salary at the A.U.B.? Of course I couldn't. My sideline is an import-export agency, mainly with Turkey. It is very possible that you could help me there. I'll think it out. There may be ways in which we could serve each other's purposes. I don't like to think of you being deprived of music. I'll see what I can do.'

Reid read the report in Farrar's office.

‘So you see,' said Farrar, ‘what did I tell you?'

Three days later Fadhil produced his offer.

‘As I told you,' he said to Aziz, ‘I'm carrying on trade with Turkey. It's legitimate business; you needn't worry about that. But there is a good deal of information that I need about conditions in Turkey that I find it hard to get. Censorship is strict, security regulations are strict. Turkey does not want the whole world to know the secrets of its economy. Germany is doing a considerable trade with Turkey. I am in competition with the Germans. I need to know what goods are being imported from Germany and at what price. I also want to know what Turkey is selling to Germany. I'm wondering if you couldn't help me with just that information?'

‘How would I set about it?'

‘Have you any friend in a government department, in the Board of Trade say, who would have access to that kind of information?'

Aziz thought. He had very few friends of his own age, and friends of his own age would not have been of much help in a position like this; they would not occupy posts of sufficient prominence. But through a music club he had met a number of older men, some of whom were employed in government service. One of these was in the Istanbul branch of the Ministry of Commerce.

‘In a junior position, though,' he explained to Fadhil.

‘That wouldn't matter. It is the most elementary information that we require. We are not asking him to divulge state secrets. It is simply routine information, only it is difficult for me to get it. A newspaper man could find out easily. Do you know any journalists?'

‘I'm afraid I don't.'

‘In that case we had better make use of your friend in the Ministry of Commerce. He should be able to help us. But there is one complication. We have the problem of the censor. It would not
do to have you making such inquiries in a letter that might be opened by the censor. We want to avoid that kind of complication. It will save a great deal of trouble if the messages are sent up in secret ink.'