Lawrence Durrell - Judith

From the central State Tent of the Prince Daud, with its brilliant hangings and vast acreage of carpets, its forest of inlaid tables and elaborate chairs and cushions all spread upon the smooth sand dunes, came screams of laughter in a high register. They were all seated upon the ground. Daud himself, the Vizier, the three State Councillors and old Abu Taib. The cause of their merriment was the little toy train which Colonel Towers had brought back from his last leave as a present for Daud. It rolled unerringly round and round the skilful cobweb of railway lines until it reached the little red station where it stopped once more. But this time in doing so it had seemed to be about to pass under Abu Taib’s robes, and the old man had leaped back with a shriek, like a school-child pursued by a mouse. Hence the merriment. The slim wand-like figure of Daud was bent double. The tears ran down that beautiful and gentle face. He struck his thigh with his palm. It was a capital joke. When the paroxysm had ended, as it always did, in a burst of hoarse coughing — to remind him bitterly of his illness — Daud sprang up impulsively, tears still wet on his cheek. “No, but by God he is right, this Towers,” he cried, “It is certainly as beautiful as a poem by Hafiz, this little machine. He is right!” His large benign eyes bloomed with affection and gratitude. His was a face and figure of extraordinary inbred refinement. Daud was as slender as a stag and as emotional and impulsive as a girl. The ivory skin of his features — helped perhaps by the hereditary consumption of his family — was of a beautiful, almost unearthly pallor. Now as he debated, staring at the engine, his long slender fingers picked at the tassel of his belt. “Once more,” he said, “and I will go and thank him. Just once more.” This time the merriment was even greater, due to an unforeseen interruption by Daud’s cheetah, which had watched the manoeuvres of the train in silence up to now; but on this next occasion — as if it could no longer resist the moving toy, any more than a cat can resist a mouse — it advanced in a single bound and stood like a heraldic animal with its paw raised. As the engine stopped, it touched it once, twice, lightly with its velvet paw and then went off to its corner again with a disappointed air. This was a marvellous joke.

Daud burst out of his tent and swept across the smooth dunes to where the little circle of British Mission tents had been pitched. He moved with a flame-like swiftness and grace, still laughing, his lips still moving with unuttered speeches. He threw back the flap of Towers’ dusty old bell-tent and cried, “Thank you, Towers, thank you! You are quite right.” There was no answer and Daud peeped in.

The old colonel lay snoring on his camp-bed, with an empty bottle of whisky standing upright on the canvas floor beside him. Daud gazed at him with affection, almost with passion. The black patch which normally shielded Towers’ right eye had come away a little, to expose the shrapnel-torn socket. His uniform jacket, neatly placed upon a coat-hanger, swung slowly in a corner of the tent, vaunting its long triple row of decorations. His soiled undervest was stained violet at the armpits with sweat. He snored softly and dreamed: he was just driving off the third tee at Lyme Regis into a westerly wind which forced one to bear down slightly to avoid slicing… Daud placed a finger on the wrist of the sleeper and said: “You are a good man, Towers. I will write to your master and have you ennobled.” Then he turned back abruptly and walked slowly back to his tents, his bent head hanging, deep in thought.

Towers slept on softly. He was a most popular figure in his command, not only because of his knowledge and respect for Arab forms of courtesy, but also for an appealing vein of idiosyncrasy in his character, which made him seem to them something of an original. He was the only British officer they had seen carry a chamber-pot on active service — blue flowers on a white ground. Then too, every afternoon when he was off duty, he took a driver and practised swinging for half an hour, as religiously as a Muslim answering a call to prayer. This little ritual always ended by him producing from a green baize bag a number of battered repaints which he drove, slowly, thoughtfully, majestically into the desert, where the delighted children fielded them, knowing that he always gave baksheesh to those who brought them back. “I like my Arab,” Towers used to say sometimes after dinner when he was mellowed by whisky. “And I think he likes me.” The Arabs did love him, and paid him the compliment of conferring on him the title of “father”. “Not that I have anything against the Jews,” Towers would add whenever the vexed question of Palestine cropped up. “Far from it. Fine fellers all. But in next to no time they’ll turn the whole country into a Manchester suburb, what?”

It was among such simple formulations that he moved, but of recent months even he had begun to feel the shape and form of things changing around him; new issues with sharp edges were coming to light on all sides. It was consoling in a way to be able to take refuge in his soldier’s role and leave all the rest to the invisible politicians who would shape the destinies of the future.

He was awake and dressed now, however, by the time Donner piloted in his convoy of squat armoured cars amidst great rejoicing that evening. He acknowledged Donner’s salute briefly, rather admiring its professional finish. “Well, Captain,” he said, “come into the Command Tent for a brief drink of welcome.”

They transacted their business over a glass of whisky, and Donner handed over his despatches, together with the ornate pigskin pouch in which the Prince’s private despatches had been placed. “I don’t want to be pessimistic,” said Towers, “but I feel bound to confess to my staff that I think things are blowing up. We’ve made too many promises to too many people. We can’t keep them all. I’m no politico, but I’ll lay you short odds that H.M.G. will funk it and try and crawl into the skirts of UNO for a vote on the Mandate.”

Donner coughed and nodded vaguely. He hardly knew or cared what the issues were, provided they permitted him to earn a living as a mercenary. It all sounded faintly anti-British in tone. He pursed his rosy lips and put on a slightly unwilling expression, as though such trenchant remarks were in some way wounding to his finer sentiments. “And if we do,” said Towers, banging his hand down on the Daily Telegraph , “in my view we’ll lose the day.”

He was more explicit that night at a Staff Conference lit by a swinging hurricane lamp. The little group of Mission officers listened to him thinking aloud with various expressions of polite scepticism. “In such an event the place would flare up and I have no doubt that we’d be ordered over the border — ordered to seize Ras Shamir and perhaps move up on the road near us here. Fortunately, the operation would be a simple one against unarmed people; but the cars would give us mobility. However, we can’t afford to take it easy; our infantry training is still groggy. A good regiment, gentlemen, matures slowly, like a good wine. You can’t rush it. And we haven’t had time. So I personally hope that everything will stay quiet. But if they tell us to move we shall have to. Anyway, that’s all for now. In the morning Captain Donner is going to give us a shoot; these cars carry quite a hefty pom-pom he tells me… And so forth.

Later he walked for a while with Donner to examine the cars and meet the crews. “You’d better give the Prince and his entourage a ride tomorrow after the shoot,” said Towers. “These little gestures go down very well — anyway, he is nominally C-in-C. Ach!” Donner looked at the colonel, wondering what the expression signified. Towers smiled. “I’m tired, Donner,” he said mildly. “That’s all. Just tired. I’m within three months of retirement anyway, thank goodness. Got a little cottage down Lyme Regis way waiting for me, and I can’t wait. I’m harness-weary.”