They Came to Baghdad (9 page)

I

V
ictoria, breathing in hot choking yellow dust, was unfavourably impressed by Baghdad. From the Airport to the Tio Hotel, her ears had been assailed by continuous and incessant noise. Horns of cars blaring with maddening persistence, voices shouting, whistles blowing, then more deafening senseless blaring of motor horns. Added to the loud incessant noises of the street was a small thin trickle of continuous sound which was Mrs. Hamilton Clipp talking.

Victoria arrived at the Tio Hotel in a dazed condition.

A small alleyway led back from the fanfare of Rashid Street towards the Tigris. A short flight of steps to go up and there at the entrance of the hotel they were greeted by a very stout young man with a beaming smile who, metaphorically at least, gathered them to his heart. This, Victoria gathered, was Marcus—or more correctly Mr. Tio, the owner of the Tio Hotel.

His words of welcome were interrupted by shouted orders to various underlings regarding the disposal of their baggage.

“And here you are, once more, Mrs. Clipp—but your arm—why is it in that funny stuff?—(You fools, do not carry that with the strap! Imbeciles! Don't trail that coat!)—But, my dear—what a day to arrive—never, I thought, would the plane land. It went round and round and round. Marcus, I said to myself—it is not you that will travel by planes—all this hurry, what does it matter?—And you have brought a young lady with you—it is nice always to see a new young lady in Baghdad—why did not Mr. Harrison come down to meet you—I expected him yesterday—but, my dear, you must have a drink at once.”

Now, somewhat dazed, Victoria, her head reeling slightly under the effect of a double whisky authoritatively pressed upon her by Marcus, was standing in a high whitewashed room containing a large brass bedstead, a very sophisticated dressing table of newest French design, an aged Victorian wardrobe, and two vivid plush chairs. Her modest baggage reposed at her feet and a very old man with a yellow face and white whiskers had grinned and nodded at her as he placed towels in the bathroom and asked her if she would like the water made hot for a bath.

“How long would it take?”

“Twenty minutes, half an hour. I go and do it now.”

With a fatherly smile he withdrew. Victoria sat down on the bed and passed an experimental hand over her hair. It felt clogged with dust and her face was sore and gritty. She looked at herself in the glass. The dust had changed her hair from black to a strange reddish brown. She pulled aside a corner of the curtain
and looked out on to a wide balcony which gave on the river. But there was nothing to be seen of the Tigris but a thick yellow haze. A prey to deep depression, Victoria said to herself: “What a hateful place.”

Then rousing herself, she stepped across the landing and tapped on Mrs. Clipp's door. Prolonged and active ministrations would be required of her here before she could attend to her own cleansing and rehabilitation.

II

After a bath, lunch and a prolonged nap, Victoria stepped out from her bedroom onto the balcony and gazed with approval across the Tigris. The dust storm had subsided. Instead of a yellow haze, a pale clear light was appearing. Across the river was a delicate silhouette of palm trees and irregularly placed houses.

Voices came up to Victoria from the garden below. She stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked over.

Mrs. Hamilton Clipp, that indefatigable talker and friendly soul, had struck up an acquaintanceship with an Englishwoman—one of those weather-beaten Englishwomen of indeterminate age who can always be found in any foreign city.

“—and whatever I'd have done without her, I really don't know,” Mrs. Clipp was saying. “She's just the sweetest girl you can imagine. And very well connected. A niece of the Bishop of Llangow.”

“Bishop of who?”

“Why, Llangow, I think it was.”

“Nonsense, there's no such person,” said the other.

Victoria frowned. She recognized the type of County Englishwoman who is unlikely to be taken in by the mention of spurious Bishops.

“Why, then, perhaps I got the name wrong,” Mrs. Clipp said doubtfully.

“But,” she resumed, “she certainly is a very charming and competent girl.”

The other said “Ha!” in a noncommittal manner.

Victoria resolved to give this lady as wide a berth as possible. Something told her that inventing stories to satisfy that kind of woman was no easy job.

Victoria went back into her room, sat on the bed, and gave herself up to speculation on her present position.

She was staying at the Tio Hotel, which was, she was fairly sure, not at all inexpensive. She had four pounds seventeen shillings in her possession. She had eaten a hearty lunch for which she had not yet paid and for which Mrs. Clipp was under no obligation to pay. Travelling expenses to Baghdad were what Mrs. Clipp had offered. The bargain was completed. Victoria had got to Baghdad. Mrs. Hamilton Clipp had received the skilled attention of a Bishop's niece, an ex-hospital nurse, and competent secretary. All that was over, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. Mrs. Hamilton Clipp would depart on the evening train to Kirkuk—and that was that. Victoria toyed hopefully with the idea that Mrs. Clipp might press upon her a parting present in the form of hard cash, but abandoned it reluctantly as unlikely. Mrs. Clipp could have no idea that Victoria was in really dire financial straits.

What then must Victoria do? The answer came immediately. Find Edward, of course.

With a sense of annoyance she realized that she was quite unaware of Edward's last name. Edward—Baghdad. Very much, Victoria reflected, like the Saracen maid who arrived in En gland knowing only the name of her lover “Gilbert” and “England.” A romantic story—but certainly inconvenient. True that in En gland at the time of the Crusades, nobody, Victoria thought, had had any surname at all. On the other hand England was larger than Baghdad. Still, En gland was sparsely populated then.

Victoria wrenched her thoughts away from these interesting speculations and returned to hard facts. She must find Edward immediately and Edward must find her a job. Also immediately.

She did not know Edward's last name, but he had come to Baghdad as the secretary of a Dr. Rathbone and presumably Dr. Rathbone was a man of importance.

Victoria powdered her nose and patted her hair and started down the stairs in search of information.

The beaming Marcus, passing through the hall of his establishment, hailed her with delight.

“Ah, it is Miss Jones, you will come with me and have a drink, will you not, my dear? I like very much English ladies. All the English ladies in Baghdad, they are my friends. Everyone is very happy in my hotel. Come, we will go into the bar.”

Victoria, not at all averse to free hospitality, consented gladly.

III

Sitting on a stool and drinking gin, she began her search for information.

“Do you know a Dr. Rathbone who has just come to Baghdad?” she asked.

“I know everyone in Baghdad,” said Marcus Tio joyfully. “And everybody knows Marcus. That is true, what I am telling you. Oh! I have many many friends.”

“I'm sure you have,” said Victoria. “Do you know Dr. Rathbone?”

“Last week I have the Air Marshal commanding all Middle East passing through. He says to me, ‘Marcus, you villain, I haven't seen you since '46. You haven't grown any thinner.' Oh he is very nice man. I like him very much.”

“What about Dr. Rathbone? Is he a nice man?”

“I like, you know, people who can enjoy themselves. I do not like sour faces. I like people to be gay and young and charming—like you. He says to me, that Air Marshal, ‘Marcus, you like too much the women.' But I say to him: ‘No, my trouble is I like too much Marcus…'” Marcus roared with laughter, breaking off to call out, “Jesus—Jesus!”

Victoria looked startled, but it appeared that Jesus was the barman's Christian name. Victoria felt again that the East was an odd place.

“Another gin and orange, and whisky,” Marcus commanded.

“I don't think I—”

“Yes, yes, you will—they are very very weak.”

“About Dr. Rathbone,” persisted Victoria.

“That Mrs. Hamilton Clipp—what an odd name—with whom you arrive, she is American—is she not? I like also American people but I like English best. American peoples, they look always very
worried. But sometimes, yes, they are good sports. Mr. Summers—you know him?—he drink so much when he come to Baghdad, he go to sleep for three days and not wake up. It is too much that. It is not nice.”

“Please, do help me,” said Victoria.

Marcus looked surprised.

“But of course I help you. I always help my friends. You tell me what you want—and at once it shall be done. Special steak—or turkey cooked very nice with rice and raisins and herbs—or little baby chickens.”

“I don't want baby chickens,” said Victoria. “At least not now,” she added prudently. “I want to find this Dr. Rathbone. Dr.
Rathbone.
He's just arrived in Baghdad. With a—with a—secretary.”

“I do not know,” said Marcus. “He does not stay at the Tio.”

The implication was clearly that anyone who did not stay at the Tio did not exist for Marcus.

“But there are other hotels,” persisted Victoria, “or perhaps he has a house?”

“Oh yes, there are other hotels. Babylonian Palace, Sennacherib, Zobeide Hotel. They are good hotels, yes, but they are not like the Tio.”

“I'm sure they're not,” Victoria assured him. “But you don't know if Dr. Rathbone is staying at one of them? There is some kind of society he runs—something to do with culture—and books.”

Marcus became quite serious at the mention of culture.

“It is what we need,” he said. “There must be much culture. Art and music, it is very nice, very nice indeed. I like violin sonatas myself if it is not very long.”

Whilst thoroughly agreeing with him, especially in regard to
the end of the speech, Victoria realized that she was not getting any nearer to her objective. Conversation with Marcus was, she thought, most entertaining, and Marcus was a charming person in his childlike enthusiasm for life, but conversation with him reminded her of Alice in Wonderland's endeavours to find a path that led to the hill. Every topic found them returning to the point of departure—Marcus!

She refused another drink and rose sadly to her feet. She felt slightly giddy. The cocktails had been anything but weak. She went out from the bar on to the terrace outside and stood by the railing looking across the river, when somebody spoke from behind her.

“Excuse me, but you'd better go and put a coat on. Dare say it seems like summer to you coming out from England, but it gets very cold about sundown.”

It was the Englishwoman who had been talking to Mrs. Clipp earlier. She had the hoarse voice of one who is in the habit of training and calling to sporting dogs. She wore a fur coat, had a rug over her knees and was sipping a whisky and soda.

“Oh thank you,” said Victoria and was about to escape hurriedly when her intentions were defeated.

“I must introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Cardew Trench.” (The implication was clearly: one of
the
Cardew Trenches.) “I believe you arrived with Mrs.—what's her name—Hamilton Clipp.”

“Yes,” said Victoria, “I did.”

“She told me you were the niece of the Bishop of Llangow.”

Victoria rallied.

“Did she really?” she inquired with the correct trace of light amusement.

“Got it wrong, I suppose?”

Victoria smiled.

“Americans are bound to get some of our names wrong. It does sound a little like Llangow. My uncle,” said Victoria improvising rapidly, “is the Bishop of Languao?”

“Languao?”

“Yes—in the Pacific Archipelago. He's a Colonial Bishop, of course.”

“Oh, a Colonial Bishop,” said Mrs. Cardew Trench, her voice falling at least three semitones.

As Victoria had anticipated: Mrs. Cardew Trench was magnificently unaware of Colonial Bishops.

“That explains it,” she added.

Victoria thought with pride that it explained it very well for a spur of the moment plunge!

“And what are
you
doing out here?” asked Mrs. Cardew Trench with that inexorable geniality that conceals natural curiosity of disposition.

“Looking for a young man I talked to for a few moments in a public square in London,” was hardly an answer that Victoria could give. She said, remembering the newspaper paragraph she had read, and her statement to Mrs. Clipp:

“I'm joining my uncle, Dr. Pauncefoot Jones.”

“Oh, so
that's
who you are.” Mrs. Cardew Trench was clearly delighted at having “placed” Victoria. “He's a charming little man, though a bit absentminded—still I suppose that's only to be expected. Heard him lecture last year in London—excellent delivery—couldn't understand a word of what it was all about, though. Yes, he passed through Baghdad about a fortnight ago. I think he mentioned some girls were coming out later in the season.”

Hurriedly, having established her status, Victoria chipped in with a question.

“Do you know if Dr. Rathbone is out here?” she asked.

“Just come out,” said Mrs. Cardew Trench. “I believe they've asked him to give a lecture at the Institute next Thursday. On ‘World Relationships and Brotherhood'—or something like that. All nonsense if you ask me. The more you try to get people together, the more suspicious they get of each other. All this poetry and music and translating Shakespeare and Wordsworth into Arabic and Chinese and Hindustani. ‘A primrose by the river's brim,' etc…what's the good of that to people who've never seen a primrose?”

“Where is he staying, do you know?”

“At the Babylonian Palace Hotel, I believe. But his headquarters are up near the Museum. The Olive Branch—ridiculous name. Full of young women in slacks with unwashed necks and spectacles.”