Lawrence Durrell - Judith

At first light she had an early morning swim in the Jordan and packed her exiguous belongings in the cheap fibre suitcase.

The first bus to Jerusalem passed the cross-roads near to the kibbutz at eight o’clock. She did not intend to miss it. As to finding a job, she decided to find one for herself, starting from scratch, if necessary.

In the spring sunshine Jerusalem was looking its best, the honey-coloured tones of its buildings giving back the light of the sun as if filtered through the heart of a honey-comb.

It was in ironic contrast to the mood of the girl herself, as she sat, operating the wooden STOP/GO signal which alone enabled traffic to flow on a narrow road. She was surrounded by cement mixers, pneumatic drills, asphalt barrels pouring out their contents, and hissing steam rollers.

She was tired and grimy. Moreover, her inefficiency at this simple task was already patent. The hooting of cars stabbed at her nerves. Their impatient drivers volleyed abuse at her. Too soon she found herself reversing the STOP/GO signal, with the inevitable result she had been dreading all that morning. The two streams of traffic drifted together like glue and halted in an inextricable confusion. Panic-stricken, she abandoned her signal and tried to restore order by a little amateur point-duty, but in vain.

She was aware of a pair of steely blue eyes fixed upon her embarrassment, her utter ignominy. Lawton gave her a smile of amused malice as he sat in the front of his jeep. His driver showed some disposition to add to the noise by hooting as well, but the Major put a hand on his wrist and said something in a low voice that made him stop. Finally, with the help of the foreman and several hirsute navvies, the damage was repaired and traffic began to move again. As Lawton’s jeep passed, she saw that his face still wore the ironical and rather malicious smile which she took as the unkindest masculine criticism of her competence. She went back to her signal post with burning cheeks, pressing her lips with determination as she resumed her task. She would get it right this time.

Meanwhile, further down the road, Lawton had made the jeep pull off on to the grass verge to allow him to get down. He made his way unhurriedly back to where the girl stood, and now the malicious insolence on his face had given place to an expression of sympathetic interest.

“Miss Schiller,” he said, “forgive me for intruding, but may I ask you the meaning of all this?”

She looked up for a minute, as if about to respond with something harsh, but one glance at his face was enough to establish that his interest was well intentioned.

“Have you left Ras Shamir?”

She nodded. “A month ago.”

“And is this the best you can find in the way of work in Jerusalem?” he asked.

“So far,” she gazed at him proudly.

He felt suddenly a little out of countenance and stammered: “You must be capable of something better than this.”

“It is all I could find,” she said shortly.

“Would you resent as interference an offer to help?” They looked at one another and, without waiting for her to say anything further, he took out a card case, scribbled something on a card and handed it to her.

“Go and see our Chief of Personnel,” he said. “You probably know some languages at least.”

She stood looking at the card while he, saluting her punctiliously, turned on his heel and made his way back to the jeep…

Her translation from a job so ignominious to one of relative ease and respectability could not, she realized, have been achieved so easily without a helping hand. She caught sight of herself reflected in the sunny shop-windows, no longer the ragged and stained kibbutz field worker, but a young woman personably groomed and dressed. It was almost unbelievable. The kindly personnel chief had advanced her a month’s salary and even found her a flat.

“Mind you,” he said, “three months’ probation is the custom.”

She sighed and folded the file which lay on her desk, the slip cover of which bore the words: “ARCHIVIST TRANSLATOR SECOND CLASS — HUNGARIAN, RUSSIAN, GERMAN.” She picked up the phone and asked:

“Is the Major in yet?” Then, reassured by the response, she walked down the maze of corridors to Lawton’s office. Coming down the corridor, she almost collided with Carstairs, who was overwhelmed with astonishment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but she sailed past him like a galleon in full sail, and he stood staring after her, inhaling the rather too successfully applied Chanel No. 5. He watched her like a man in a trance as she entered the door to Lawton’s office, and closed it softly behind her. His face was a study.

Re-entering his office in a daze, he found his solid secretary, Brewster, tapping away at a service message. It was Carstairs’ custom to ramble on and Brewster did not stop his typing. It was his private conviction that nothing but utter gibberish escaped Carstairs’ lips.

“At what point, Brewster, does a man cease to believe his eyes?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir,” said Brewster without pausing.

Carstairs reflected deeply at the window, and said, with an appropriate gesture:

“Ah, but one bite, Brewster, from the peach of immortality, is worth a whole basketful of apricots.”

“Very good, Sir; if you say so, Sir.”

Meanwhile, Grete stood before Lawton’s desk, transformed out of all recognition, smiling at his obvious confusion. He looked staggered, even awed.

“I’ve come to thank you,” she said.

He stood up nervously. “Thank me,” he stammered. “Thank me for what?”

“For sponsoring my application,” she said. “Without it I would not have got this job, and you know it.”

“It’s not strictly true,” he said. “You could as easily not have got it, but I’m glad to have been of use. I’m sure you’ll be happier.” An indecision had seized him. He did not know whether it would have been appropriate to invite her to sit down in one of the leather armchairs and accept a cigarette, but he rejected the idea, as not sufficiently official. The infuriating thing too was that, while he had recognized her as beautiful, he had had no idea that she was quite as beautiful as all this — a veritable Pygmalion’s image. He cleared his throat nervously and said:

“If there is anything else I can ever do…

She turned to the door with a docility which was tinged ever so slightly with disappointment.

“Miss Schiller,” said Lawton impulsively in his cold voice: “Would you consider dining with me tonight?”

He looked as if he expected an explosion of some sort. Her docility was the most surprising thing about her.

“With pleasure,” she said in a low voice.

He sighed with relief. “Thank you,” he said. With returning self-confidence he said:

“I’ll send a car for you at eight.”

The door shut behind her and Lawton folded his arms, and lit his pipe, to muse on his own good fortune. It was not long before it reopened to admit Carstairs.

“Oh, what is it?” he cried irritably.

“Nothing, dear old spy-catcher, nothing. I only wanted to look at you. I’m beginning to see you in an entirely different light…

Lawton’s dinner invitation marked a new epoch in Grete’s life. Picnics by Lake Tiberius, swimming at Caesarea by moonlight, dancing and dining in the sparkling summer air at Tel Aviv. While these occupations were valuable, in that they provided a total contrast to the hard and rather arid life of the kibbutz, they did not offer any final cure for her inner malaise. From time to time the old obsessional nightmares returned and, more than once, she found herself drinking to still them.