Parade of Shadows Read online

  When we came to the mosque, Graham said, “We’ll enter here. You must put these covers over your shoes.” He approached a Muslim man who seemed to be guarding the door and spoke to him in Arabic. At first the man, looking in my direction, shook his head, but after a bit he saluted Graham in the Muslim way, moving his hand from his chest to his forehead in a graceful arc. Graham returned the salute, looking only a little self-conscious.

  “I feel like I am living five hundred years ago,” I said.

  “And further back than that. According to the Muslim faith it is not 1907, but the year 1325. The Muslims mark their year from the time the prophet Muhammad fled from Mecca to Medina, thirteen hundred and twenty-five years ago.”

  While I stole glances at Graham, thinking him exceedingly handsome, he continued his lecture as he led me into the mosque. “You must not expect too much of this mosque; it’s far from the best of its kind. The Muslims who captured it had to be satisfied with making over the Church of St. John, built by crusaders.”

  I thought of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. “The Muslims turn Christian churches into mosques?”

  “In Spain the Christians turned the Muslim mosques into churches. It’s a resourceful world.”

  There were arcades and colonnades and little chambers and walls decorated with rough paintings of twining foliage and flowers. Hidden beneath the arabesques I could almost see the Good Shepherd and the image of Christ on the cross. Everywhere I looked, there was a feeling of one faith forever trying to elbow out the other.

  After a while Graham said, “It’s stuffy in here. We’ve done what you wanted; now it’s my turn. What is needed is fresh mountain air and a view. I know just the place.”

  As we were leaving, Muslims began to stream into the courtyard and cluster around the fountain. I looked questioningly at Graham, who drew me into the shadows. “They are making their ablutions,” he whispered. In a moment the men had disappeared into the mosque. “Listen and you will hear the imam call out.”

  “Allah!” Through the open arch we watched the men in the mosque kneel and touch their foreheads to the ground. The imam called out again, and Graham translated for me. “‘The creator of this world and the next, of the heavens and of the earth. He who leads the righteous in the true path and the wicked to destruction. Allah!’”

  In their eyes I was the infidel, and I felt it. Graham whispered that the imams once had not only been priests but served as commanders in chief of the conquering Muslim armies. “A sobering combination.”

  He ushered me outside, and I was aware of his holding on to my arm a bit longer than necessary. There was some arguing over the fare with the driver of a two-horse carriage, but very soon the driver shrugged and saluted, and we climbed into the yayli.

  “These people are so poor,” I said to Graham, “I think you should pay what they ask.”

  “If you did, you would insult them,” he said. “This fellow takes as much pleasure in our bargaining as he does in the money he will earn from the trip. In a proper bargain, both people gain honor.” I folded my hands in my lap and remained quiet in the face of this hard lesson.

  There was a warm breeze coming from the sea, but inside the small yayli it was hot. The driver explained that the top must remain up because the roads were dry and dusty. Graham and I were so close to each other that I could feel the warmth of his body, and when our hands brushed, our damp skin clung together for a moment.

  We passed a garrison, the second one I had noticed. I wanted so much to understand all that I was seeing that I could not keep from asking questions. “Why are there so many Turkish soldiers stationed here?”

  “Turkish soldiers are everywhere,” Graham said. “The sultan is afraid of rebellion. He keeps his soldiers not only in Beirut but throughout his empire—Albania, Mesopotamia, Armenia, Macedonia, Palestine.”

  “Why is he afraid?” I had never had so interesting or attractive a teacher at Miss Mumford’s school.

  “The Ottoman Empire once had a constitutional government, but Abdülhamid II put an end to all of that. Now, after years of the sultan’s tyranny, the people are impatient to rule their own lands—if the European powers will allow it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Germany, England, France, and Russia all have a foot in the door of the Ottoman empire.” Graham pointed to a large building with a sign in both English and Arabic. “There in the American college they are turning out Protestants. The Scottish have schools for Muslims and schools for Jews, as well. The Germans are in the game with a very nice hospital and orphanage for Muslims. On the other side of the city the Jesuits and the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul are doing their good works for France, and there is a Jewish college. As I said, everyone has a foot in the door.”

  It sounded to me like children fighting over toys, and I thought of Father and his trips to get and trade countries. It made me wonder what he would make of my escape with Graham. I calmed myself by believing that he would surely approve of all I was learning.

  The yayli made its way along a winding road bordered with pines and small whitewashed villages where chickens were taking dust baths in the road. Goats ran beside our carriage like coach dogs. Women paused from drawing water, and men from plowing, to watch us pass.

  When we reached Mount Dimitri, Graham helped me out of the yayli and sent the driver away, telling him to return in an hour. On one side of us was a small cemetery, on the other a grove of pines, and in the distance a city of white building blocks perched one upon another. Beyond the city was the sea. I thought even the finest painter could not invent such a handsome picture.

  “If you know your Old Testament,” Graham said, “you will know the Syrian gods are gods of the hills.” He smiled at me. “Are you satisfied with your escape?”

  I couldn’t hide my delight. “I can’t remember being so happy.”

  “That is an exaggeration, surely,” Graham said, but he looked pleased.

  He lay down on the grass, tilting his hat over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, and I settled next to him. Though there was no living thing about but the occasional bird, I felt very daring lying there in the open beside him for all to see.

  “Can there be any place as peaceful as this?” I asked.

  “Peaceful?” Graham said. “You should know that half the people who live here in Beirut are the survivors of massacres, drought, persecutions, hunger, religious wars, and tyranny. And if that weren’t enough, we British and the Europeans are making plans for Beirut’s future that have nothing to do with Beirut’s welfare.”

  I sat up, indignant. “You are doing exactly what you did in Istanbul.” Impatiently I asked, “Why must you see only wickedness?”

  “I have never believed that innocence is its own protection; in fact, it leads to terrible muddles.” He relented. “But then, I’m a confirmed cynic.”

  “I don’t believe you are a cynic at all. I think you are someone who wishes he could change things, or why would you keep bringing up all that misery? Why would you care so much?”

  He gave me a searching look, as if he wondered whether he could trust me. He must have decided he could, for he said, “I will tell you a secret, but under no condition are you to tell your father. I have just come from Salonika. It is a lovely city, with its sweep of waterfront, ships coming and going, the frosted peak of Mount Olympus, the church bells. I went there from Oxford to talk with the Young Turks. I don’t mean to brag, but they were impressed with my knowledge of the Druzes. The Young Turks believe I can help their cause in Syria.”

  Graham was losing me. “What is their cause?”

  “The Young Turks are convinced that France and England mean to get a piece of the Ottoman Empire. They are against the sultan, but they are also fiercely opposed to other countries taking Turkish land.”

  “But what could you do?”

  “They want me to travel through Syria pleading the cause of the Young Turks to the Druzes. They want me to assure them that u
nder the Young Turks, the Druzes will be given their freedom.”

  So Graham was a young revolutionary! I looked quickly about, as if the sultan might be hiding beind a tree, ready to jump out and arrest Graham—and me, for listening to such talk. Graham’s face was flushed with enthusiasm. “For the first time in my life I am working for a cause in which I believe: not England’s colonial rule but democracy for Turkey. The Druzes will once again be free to speak their language, and to practice their faith as they wish; and I will have had a part in it.” In his excitement he grasped my hand. “Why shouldn’t I make a little history as well as learn it?”

  Graham sat up and gave me a searching look. “I have trusted you with my secret. You won’t betray me to your father?”

  I shook my head. “I promise I won’t,” I said. I was flattered that Graham had cared enough for me to tell me his secret; still, I couldn’t help feeling guilty. Wasn’t Graham working against my father? I had heard Father say England opposed the Young Turks.

  Graham must have noticed my worried look. “That’s enough about the world’s troubles,” he said. “We’re on holiday and should be talking of pleasant things.”

  “No,” I said. “I want to know what you know. Why don’t you start by telling me about the Druzes. Are they Muslims?”

  Graham took off his jacket and, rolling it up, lay down again with the jacket under his head. He was so close to me, I could feel the outline of his body against my own. I tried to keep my mind on his words. “They are an offshoot of the Muslim faith, but they are not Muslims; at least the orthodox Muslims will have nothing to do with them. They give Muhammad no more importance than Moses or Jesus. Yet they worship with the Muslims.”

  “How can they worship with the Muslims when they don’t believe what the Muslims believe?”

  “The religion of the Druzes permits them to conform outwardly to the religion of the people among whom they live. Certainly that is a civilized attitude. In fact they are encouraged not to reveal their faith. Unlike the Muslims, they have no polygamy and the women are allowed to worship with the men and can even participate in the councils of the elders. The Druzes are a very honest people and are forbidden to tell lies—except to non-Druzes.” He recited all of this in a dry voice.

  “Are they a peaceful people?” I asked.

  Graham said, “The Druzes are an impartial rather than a peaceful people. They have slit the throats of Turkish Muslims with the same gusto as they have beheaded Christians.”

  I shuddered. “I can’t imagine why you study such people.”

  “My dear Julia, if I were to limit my studies to the history of those people who have never practiced violence, I would have to scratch for a subject. But there are much nicer things to do on so beautiful a day than talk of man’s inhumanity to man.” He reached up and carefully pulled out the pins from my chignon, and catching his fingers in my hair, he leaned toward me.

  We heard the yayli. Graham drew away and I hastily did up my hair. Graham’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The driver is right on time, which means he will expect baksheesh.”

  “Neharak sa id,” the driver called.

  “Neharak sa id umubarak,” Graham responded.

  “What does he say?” My voice was unsteady as I fumbled with my hair.

  “It is the Muslim greeting to someone not of his faith: ‘May thy day be happy.’ I answered, ‘May thy day be happy and blessed.’ But that is enough instruction for today. Please remember I am on vacation from school.”

  I caught the driver’s half-amused, half-censorious look and blushed. I could neither account for my behavior nor regret it. I did not know how I would find a word to say on the return ride to the hotel, but as the yayli jostled through the crowded Beirut streets, I had my first look at a camel not in the zoo at Regent’s Park. I exclaimed with pleasure.

  Graham laughed at me. “There is no need for camels in this city. I believe they hire that beast to walk back and forth to give a false impression. Beirut is not a city of the desert, as Damascus is. It’s an enormous assortment of men wishing to do business—very shrewd and ruthless men, as your father is no doubt finding out.”

  At the hotel I thanked Graham with what I hoped was a nonchalant word or two. Though I was trembling inside, I was determined to appear a woman of the world.

  “No, it’s I who should be grateful,” he said. “You’ve rescued me from my own tedious company.” For a moment Graham’s air of detachment slipped, and he took my hand and said, “I’ll be very pleased if I find we’ll be together on the tour.” With a mischievous smile he added, “And of course I look forward to meeting your father.”

  When Father returned to the hotel, I gave him a report of my day, stumbling over Graham’s name, sure that Father could read my mind and see that I had listened to Graham’s revolutionary ideas.

  On hearing Graham’s name, my father was obviously irritated. “Do you know him?” I asked, trying to keep my voice impersonal.

  “When I was up speaking at Oxford, I heard of his interest in the Druzes and worse, the Young Turks. He made quite a speech after my lecture, and suspecting there might be trouble in the future from that quarter, I inquired as to who he was. I suppose Geddes recalls my being there. The unfortunate thing is that he will now know who I am. I’ll have to have a word with him before he spreads rumors among the others on the tour. Under the circumstances I wouldn’t see too much of him if I were you.”

  “How did your day go?” I asked, anxious to change the subject before my father said more, for I intended to see Graham as often as I could.

  “My day went exactly as I anticipated,” he said shortly, then excused himself to dress for dinner.

  Once inside my room I stood for a long moment with my back against the door as though I were keeping someone from entering. I let my hair down, trying to imagine how it felt to Graham. Though I had been traveling for many days, I realized I had just begun my journey. I saw that it could be a dangerous one.

  VI

  ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

  Miss Julia Hamilton

  Hotel d’Orient

  Beirut, Syria

  March 30, 1907

  Mrs. Edgar Hamilton

  77 South Audley Street

  London, England

  Dear Aunt Harriet,

  How I wish I could share this amazing trip with you. You would love Beirut, for it is truly exotic. There are Muslims in white turbans and green turbans and Muslims in kaffiyehs, which are a sort of scarf tied about the head with a cord. The Turks wear a tarboosh, and the Jews broad-brimmed black hats. You have only to look at a man’s head to know his faith.

  At least you do if you have an instructor such as I have. His name is Graham Geddes, and he is a student at Oxford. He is very kind (although he pretends to be cross and cynical). I met him on board ship, and he is staying at our hotel. I was lucky to have someone to take me about, as Father is always attending to some matter of importance which he tells me is no concern of mine. Still, I can’t help feeling curious.

  The weather is perfect. There are palm trees here, and the oleanders and the wild roses are in bloom. From the hotel gardens I can see the mountains on one side and the bay with its steamers and flotillas of sailing ships on the other. From this distance it is difficult to imagine the cold March winds blowing over England and rattling the shutters at Durham Place. The Julia Hamilton who lived there has disappeared, and I’m not sure you would recognize your new niece.

  On the way to our hotel I saw the ruler of Beirut, the Khalil Pasha, in his elegant carriage drawn by four Arabian horses. It was like seeing King Edward driving out on his way to open Parliament. I am sure I will come home a much more sophisticated person with many adventures to tell you about, but right now I am gullible in the extreme and, but for Mr. Geddes’s warnings, would have given away half my money in tips called “baksheesh.” Tell Uncle Edgar I am just teasing.

  Your loving niece,

  Julia

  At seven the
next morning Father and I boarded the train for Damascus. Graham was in a compartment two or three up from ours. When he saw us passing, he came out, a grin on his face, to introduce himself to Father. I could see he relished catching Father out in his game of posing as a solicitor.

  Father acknowledged the introduction in a stiff voice. “I understand you were very kind to my daughter yesterday.” Turning to me, he said, “You had better go and stake out a couple of seats in our compartment. I’ll be with you in a minute.” I was used to being sent off because my father had more important things to do, but this time, because it took place in front of Graham, I resented the dismissal more than usual and was glad that I had a secret Father didn’t know.

  When Father joined me, he had nothing to say about Graham. Leaving me to look out the window, he took up a book. The train made its way through small Muslim villages, up into mountains, and down again onto plains with apricot and apple trees and gardens bordered by hedges. “We might be traveling in England,” I said, glad for a safe topic.

  “There is something else that links us to England.” Father pointed to a Roman aqueduct. “England shares a mutual conqueror with the Syrians—the Romans.”

  I was sorry that Father had spoiled the peaceful countryside with his tales of war. In this he and Graham had much in common.

  At noon we stopped at Rayak for the buffet. The luncheon, a tasteless affair of chicken wings laid out on a bed of gummy rice, left us hungry, so as we boarded the train, Father paused to bargain for a melon with a startlingly beautiful young boy whose high cheekbones and angelic smile made him look, in his rags and tatters, like a disguised prince wandering among his subjects.

  When we reached our compartment, Father found the slender blade of his pocketknife would not penetrate the melon’s tough rind. His disappointment was severe, for I knew he had meant to give me a treat.