Adam Foulds - In the Wolf's Mouth

The old man said something to Will. Will listened but could not understand. The man repeated himself. This time Will managed to hear the breaks between the words and understood that what he’d been asked, a little surprisingly, was whether he was a German.

‘No. I’m British. The Germans are our enemy.’

‘Ah.’ The man reached into his glass with long fingers and pulled out a sprig of mint, chewed it. ‘Tell me, my brother, who will Allah give victory to in this war?’

‘To us.’

‘Ah. Are there many of you?’

‘Yes. Very many. Many thousands. We have many cannons, aeroplanes, bombs and ships. The enemy, the Germans, cannot resist.’

‘Ah. This is what I thought.’ The old man turned to his fellows. He said, ‘They will win.’

Through the bright gap in the tent wall, Will saw a goat suddenly start to piss, a thick jet of liquid, while it lifted its tail and a few turds extruded and dropped softly in a pile. Will had the urge to comment, to make a little joke perhaps, in the English way, but stopped himself. He felt the flat heat of embarrassment pressing under his skin at the thought of the misstep he might have just made. It would have been gauche and he arraigned himself for his superficial civilisation, degenerate, that was scandalised by natural processes. These tribal men in their tent, mixing regal postures, ceremony and unaffected natural squalor, were truly aristocratic, like figures from epic or Arabic hunting poetry. But he hadn’t said anything. All was well. The moment passed. He sipped his tea and imagined in his own eyes, narrowed at the steam, the same farseeing, blue-green clarity of the eyes around him. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘We will win.’

A thoughtful silence. Outside the tent, the dry ripping sounds of a wood fire, the voices of those tending to it.

‘I can offer you,’ the old man said, slapping his palm on the carpet beside him, ‘one hundred horsemen to help you win the war.’

‘Thank you. I will tell the general of your offer. He will be very pleased and honoured.’ Will had no idea whether the man could raise a hundred horsemen. It sounded suspiciously like a symbolic figure but it hardly mattered. Even if they existed, there was no need for them. No, what this exchange meant was that Will had created an alliance, a pact between warriors.

‘Good. Then that is settled. Come outside now.’

The men all stood up and Will followed them in his socks out into the light and air. He thought for a moment of retrieving his shoes but decided he couldn’t double back. He absorbed, with slight tremors, the discomfort of the ground beneath him. Several men lit new cigarettes and Will did also, offering his around. A couple of the men already smoking took one of Will’s for later. That smell: across the fire lay the scorched carcase of a goat, blackened, cracking, its posture rigid as though still resisting giving up its life. Evidently Will was being treated to full tribal hospitality.

More tea was brought by a woman whose similar eyes looked out, downcast, from the gap in her veil. One of the men patted Will on the shoulder and led him over to squat down by the fire and start picking shreds of meat to eat. The other men joined them, sinking onto their heels and laughing. A hawk called overhead, keen, austere, poignant. Evening moisture had started giving body to the air. After this successful mission, Will would get back on his motorcycle and ride down from the mountains to the coast. At the villa, he would lie on his bed and read more classical philosophy. Here he was sitting among newly made allies, tribesmen. At home in Warwickshire was a famous river by which he’d grown up. He was the son of a war hero. Overhead an eagle (probably) was flying. He was eating roasted goat. He was where he’d always wanted to be, in the middle of his life’s adventure and standing at its prow, pushing forwards.

Before he left, they told Will that they wanted to present him with a gift. Two men left and Will filled the silence with expressions of his gratitude and how unnecessary a gift was for him, it was he who should have brought them a gift and so on. They returned accompanied by a young girl and Will, smiling, looked at them each in turn and waited for them to present the gift. ‘Please,’ one of the men said and gestured at the girl. ‘No,’ Will said. ‘No, you can’t mean …’ She was about fourteen years old, short with strong bare feet and thin gold rings in her ears. The expressions of the men seemed to confirm that they were serious, that she was a gift. Will didn’t know what to say. The living presence of the girl, staring down, waiting, her toes contracting to grip the carpet, disabled thought. Will didn’t want to offend the men and forfeit his achievement with them. Still not knowing what he would do, he thanked them with his right hand over his heart. He took the girl to his motorbike, followed by the tribesmen, thanked them again and sat down, arranging her behind him with her arms around his waist. He had to pull her arms around him; they were knotted with fear or shame or some terrible emotion. He waved and they drove off down the valley, Will’s heart pounding, the girl’s breath on the back of his neck.

When they were out of sight, he slowed to a halt to consider the situation. Again he had to pull at her thin, dark-haired arms that were now bound suffocatingly tight around him. The ride seemed to have terrified her. She climbed off. He could see her short legs trembling. She was his possession. A girl. He felt the warmth of her body still on his back. He smelled the acid smell of her body. But there was nothing he could do or could consider doing. He couldn’t take her with him. He couldn’t have her and then send her back. He wouldn’t do anything, he corrected himself. He was a gentleman and so forth. He took hold of her, however, and hugged her, his nose in one small ear, holding her tightly enough that he could feel her small breasts against him, the strong length of her body pressed against his. He felt it and let go, pushing her away again. He pointed at the motorcycle and said, ‘It won’t ride.’ She stared. He made large x-shaped gestures to tell her that it wasn’t working. He said again, ‘It will not go. It will not go.’ She gave no sign of understanding. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘You go home.’ Still she didn’t move. He pointed back up the hill and shooed her away. Finally he took hold of her shoulders, turned her around, put one hand on her left buttock and pushed. She understood. She ran and didn’t look back.

In the villa that night, Will indulged himself and masturbated. He knew that he’d done the right thing but now he imagined himself throwing her down onto that stony track, pulling the clothing from the helpless girl and fucking her there and then.

It was a pleasure the following day to sit in the office and type up his report. Cigarette, coffee, the hammering of the typewriter keys loud in the bare, high-ceilinged room. Briefly, he stood up and walked to the window and looked down at the harbour that was seething with brown uniforms of newly arrived men and the turning cranes lifting crates and machines. Returning to the desk he continued describing his singular exploit. The account was dryly factual, understated in what Will imagined was the best Whitehall style; nevertheless the image of his success shone out, not gaudily painted but emerging from the essential substance like a profile on a coin.

And it seemed that word had already spread. In the afternoon an Arab arrived at the office and asked specifically to speak to Mr Walker. Will was called out to meet a small, unhappy, very tidily dressed man who shook him by the hand and said, ‘I understand you are a friend of the Arab people.’