Forty Days of Musa Dagh (27 page)

 

 

Iskuhi cast a long glance at Juliette. "No. Impossible. We can't do that.
I'll come if you want me to. I've got over my first feeling already.
I'd love to do it for you."

 

 

Juliette looked suddenly fagged out. "Well, we've time enough till
tomorrow morning. We can think it over ten times if we like."

 

 

She clasped her forehead and shut her eyes. She felt vaguely faint,
as though certain of Iskuhi's memories had at last begun to invade her
consciousness.

 

 

"Perhaps you're right, Iskuhi, in what you feel. We all live such a safe
kind of life."

 

 

 

 

Next morning they were up early. Because of the ladies they did not choose
the short cut up through the ilex gorge, but the gentle, if rather tedious,
long way round, over the northern saddle. Today, for all its clefts,
rocky bastions, wildness, Musa Dagh proved a well-disposed mountain,
which showed its best side to the climber. Iskuhi's quiet was lost in
the general hilarity. But even she seemed, little by little, to cheer up.

 

 

Gabriel Bagradian could observe with what astonishing celerity his son was
shedding his European habits ever since he had begun going to Shatakhian's
school. "I can scarcely recognize him," Juliette had recently said to
Gabriel. "We shall have to be very careful. He's already begun to speak
that dreadful, hard Armenian French, like stones being broken. Just like
his wonderful teacher." By now Stephan knew the Damlayik nearly as thoroughly
as his father. He played the guide but could never manage to stay on the
road, since he kept looking out for every difficult short cut to climb
and exercise his gymnastic skill on. Often he was far ahead and often
well behind the rest, so that his voice could only just be heard when
they called him.

 

 

They reached the beautiful meadow sooner than Gabriel had reckoned.
The tents were already set up. There was even a flag, waving above the
Arab pavilion of the sheikh, or Grandfather Avetis. It was embroidered
with the arms of ancient Armenia -- Mount Ararat, the Ark, and the dove
fluttering in its center.

 

 

This pavilion was indeed the resplendent relic of a prouder, more magnificent
age. It was eight paces long and seven wide. Its scaffolding was of poles
thick as an arm, of precious woods; its interior walls were the finest
carpets. It had one great disadvantage. It was impregnated with the reek
of camphor and musty cloth. The walls had been rolled up and sewn into
sacks, which from time to time the steward Kristaphor had buried under
mountains of camphor and insect powder. The modern tents, brought back
from London a few years ago by Avetis the younger, aroused far more
admiration, though they were only made of the usual canvas. But they were
"replete" with every convenience which the perspicacity of an experienced
hunter could have desired. Nothing had been forgotten in these tents:
collapsible field-beds, far from uncomfortable, silk sleeping-bags,
featherweight tables and chairs that fitted into one another, cooking
sets, tea sets, pots and plates, all of aluminum. Rubber bathtubs
and wash basins. Not to mention wind-proof lamps for petroleum and
methylated spirit.

 

 

They began to sort themselves for the night. Juliette refused the
sheikh-pavilion and took up her quarters in a modem tent, with Iskuhi.
Krikor and Gonzague were given the other canvas tent. Teacher Oskanian
explained, with a somber glance at Juliette, that he preferred, for
reasons of his own, to sleep under the open sky -- apart. As he said
it, he threw back his woolly head, as if expecting a general chorus
of approbation at so proud and resolute a decision, while at the same
time a cooing, feminine voice would beseech him to relent and change
his mind. But Juliette did not so much as mention the wild beasts and
deserters to which he exposed himself for her sake.

 

 

Bagradian secretly thought of this night out of doors as a dress rehearsal.
But it passed without any incident -- like hundreds of picnics of the same
kind. Nothing romantic -- unless indeed it were the fact that the cook
Hovhannes prepared supper over an open fire. The daring house-boy Missak
had ventured a few days back to go to Antioch, where a well-disposed
army contractor had sold him a whole mule-load of English tinned foods,
which they sampled that night. Sato had followed the party at a distance.
She lurked in the dusk beyond the fire, and during the meal Stephan
jumped up from time to time to take her some of his own food. They sat
round the fire on rugs, like all picnickers. Missak had spread out a
tablecloth on a flat knoll for the dishes. The evening was pleasantly
cool. The moon was near its first quarter. The fire began to burn more
faintly. They drank wine, and the strong mulberry brandy distilled by
peasants of the district. Juliette soon broke up the party. She had a
queer feeling of disquiet. Now at last she could understand Iskuhi's
reluctance. All around her glowered the savage, unpeopled earth --
so horribly in earnest. This was perhaps a rather malicious game that
Gabriel played at. The others also said good-night. Oskanian strode off,
with head erect, to pay for his vanity with a chilly night, as near
the encampment as possible. Gabriel posted sentries. Two men together
for three hours were to keep guard around the tents. Gabriel gave out
rifles and ball-cartridges. Kristaphor and Missak had gone on hunting
expeditions with Avetis and were quite used to handling firearms. At
last Gabriel lay down. Neither he nor Iskuhi could sleep.

 

 

The girl lay taut, not moving a limb, anxious not to wake Juliette.
But Gabriel twisted and turned for hours. The reek of camphor and mildew
stifled him. At last he dressed again and came outside. It was about
fifteen minutes to twelve. He sent the sentries, Missak and the cook, to
bed. Then he paced slowly up and down, sole guardian of the "Three-Tent
Square." Often he switched on his pocket-torch, but it only lit up a
tiny circle. Bats flapped though the dark. As the moon rode seawards
out of a cloud, a nightingale began singing in the deathly quiet with
such bubbling energy that Gabriel was stirred. He tried to find out how
it had happened that his deepest thought was already taking so clear
a shape. There they were externalized -- three tents against the dark
sky. How had it come about? Thinking was impossible now. His soul was
too full. As Gabriel lit a fresh cigarette, he saw a ghost standing not
far off. This phantom wore the lambskin cap of a Turkish private, and
was leaning on an infantry rifle. Its face was invisible -- probably
a very hollow-cheeked face, against which its cigarette had begun to
glow. Gabriel hailed the ghost. It did not move, even at his second
and third call. He drew his army revolver and snapped the catch with
a loud click. It was sheer formality, since he felt quite certain that
the man had no intention of molesting him. It hesitated a while before
it moved, and then a queer, long-drawn, indifferent laugh came rattling
out of it. The cigarette-end vanished, the ghost with it. Gabriel shook
Kristaphor awake. "There are one or two people hanging round. Deserters,
I think."

 

 

The steward did not seem in the least surprised. "Oh, yes, there'll be
some deserters. The poor lads must be having a bad time."

 

 

"I saw only one.

 

 

"That may have been Sarkis Kilikian."

 

 

"Who's Sarkis Kilikian?"

 

 

"Asdvaz im! Merciful God!" Kristaphor in a vague, helpless gesture indicated
that really it was impossible to say exactly who Sarkis Kilikian was.
But Bagradian ordered out his men, by now all awake: "Go out and find
this Kilikian. Take him something to eat. The chap looked hungry."

 

 

Kristaphor and Missak set out, with tins of food and a lantern, but came
back in the end without having found him. Apparently they had ended by
feeling scared.

 

 

 

 

The evening had been anxious, the morning was deceptive. The world looked
vaporous. They all felt restless. Sunrise was quite invisible. All the same
they climbed one of the treeless knolls, from which they could scan the sea
and surrounding country emerging gradually through the haze.

 

 

Bagradian turned. "One could manage to hold out here for a few weeks."
He said it as though in defense of the maligned beauties of Musa Dagh.

 

 

Gonzague Maris seemed to have passed a better night than anyone else,
he looked so fresh and full of life. He pointed out the big spirit factory
near Suedia, its chimneys just starting to belch forth smoke. This factory,
so he told them, was owned by a foreign company. Its manager was a Greek,
whom he had got to know in Alexandretta. He had seen him only the other
day and heard some rather interesting rumors. First, a combined peace
effort by the American president and the Pope was well under way. The
second concerned the Armenian transportations. These were only intended
to affect the Armenian vilayets, not Syria. He, Gonzague, could not
tell how much all that was to be relied on, but this factory owner was
considered a most reliable sort of man and had private interviews every
month with the Wali of Aleppo on army supplies. Gabriel was filled for a
few seconds with the conviction that all danger was past, and what had
seemed so near was already retreating into the distance. It felt as if
he himself had beaten back fate.

 

 

He burst forth, in gratitude: "Just look! Isn't it lovely here?"

 

 

Juliette was impatient to get back home. She hated being seen in the
early morning, by men especially. In the morning, she insisted, only
ugly women look their best, and no ladies exist at 6 a.m. Besides,
she wanted at least half an hour's rest before mass. When she had got
engaged to Gabriel, she had obliged him by ceasing to be a Roman Catholic
and entering the Armenian Orthodox Church. This had been one of the many
sacrifices which she never forgot to mention when they quarrelled. She
picked holes, as her habit was. The Armenian rite was not nearly ornate
enough to please her. But what shocked Juliette most was that Armenian
priests should all wear beards, and usually long ones. She could not
abide a bearded man. Their way back was down the shorter path, which led
through the ilex grove to Yoghonoluk. Krikor, Gabriel, and Shatakhian went
ahead. Avakian stayed. He took this chance of making a few improvements
on his maps. Bagradian had given orders not to strike the tents for the
time being. Some of the stable-boys were to stay up on the Damlayik to
guard them. Perhaps they would soon be having another picnic. One reason
for this was Gabriel's superstitious fancy that such preparedness might
help to break the power of fate. The wretched donkey-track lost itself
here and there in shrubs and undergrowth. Juliette in thin shoes, and
with pampered feet, kept voicing her horror of such impediments. Then
Gonzague would assist her, with a resolute grip. They had begun a vague
and often interrupted conversation:

 

 

"I can never stop remembering, Madame, that we're the only two foreigners
here."

 

 

Juliette anxiously tested the earth she trod. "You at least are a Greek.
. . . That's not quite so foreign."

 

 

Gonzague let her surmount her difficulties unaided. "What? . . . I was
brought up in America. . . . But you've been a long time married to
an Armenian."

 

 

"Yes. I've got some reason for living here. . . . But you?"

 

 

"Usually I find my reasons afterwards."

 

 

A steep place had set them running. Juliette paused to get her breath.
"I've never really understood what you want here. . . . You aren't very
frank about it, you know. . . . What can an American who's not trading
in lambskins or cotton or gallnuts find to do in Alexandretta . . . ?"

 

 

"Though I may not be frank -- careful just here, please -- I'm perfectly
willing to tell you that . . . I was engaged as accompanist by a touring
vaudeville troupe . . . not much of a job . . . even though my host
Krikor seems to think so highly of it. . . ."

 

 

"I see. . . . So you left all your actress friends in the lurch. . . .
And where's the vaudeville troupe now, then?"

 

 

"It had contracts for Aleppo, Damascus, Beirut. . . ."

 

 

"And you simply left them?"

 

 

"Quite right. . . . I just ran away. . . . It's one of my foibles."

 

 

"Ran away? . . . A young man like you?. . . Well, you must have had some
good reason. . . ."

 

 

"I'm not so very young as you seem to think."

 

 

"Mon Dieu, this road! . . . My shoe's full of stones. . . . Please give
me your hand. . . . Thanks." With her left hand she kept a firm hold on
Gonzague. With her right she shook out the shoe.

 

 

He, however, stuck to his question: "How old do you think I am? . . . Guess."

 

 

"I'm really not in the mood for guessing just now."

 

 

Gonzague, serious, as if conscience-stricken: "Thirty-two."

 

 

Juliette, with a short laugh: "For a man . . . !"

 

 

"I'm sure I've seen more of the world than you, Madame. When one gets
pushed about as I have, one comes to see the truth. . . ."

 

 

"Heaven only knows where all the others are. . . . Hullo . . . I do think
they might answer us."

 

 

"We're getting on all right. . . ."

 

 

Juliette stopped again, as the road became steep and full of shrubs.

 

 

"I'm not used to climbing about like this -- my legs ache. Let's stop
a minute."