Hashish: A Smuggler's Tale (31 page)

We quickly entered the water to look for the
pirogue
, which we had taken the precaution to sink. Only her two tips stood above the surface like pebbles. If we hadn’t known she was there we should never have seen her. In a few seconds she was afloat, still half-full of water. We climbed aboard, half of us paddling and the rest baling out. At last we
reached the
Fat-el-Rahman
, whose mast stood out against the already paling sky. We unfurled the sail which we had left rolled round the lateen yard so that we could be off at very short notice. When finally dawn flamed in the sky we were two or three miles from land.

The hills we had just left, these black cones dimly seen through the darkness, these gloomy ravines where we had lived such anxious hours, all this stretch of country which our terrors had peopled with hostile shadows — all this became suddenly rosy and smiling in the glory of the rising sun and when the big red sun appeared over the purple plateaux of Asia, spreading a shining veil over all nature, the anguish vanished from our thoughts as if it had never been, leaving us joyous and carefree.

Djebeli had decided to remain ashore, first because his presence on the
bouire
was superfluous and even dangerous if it were known, but also because he wanted to be at Suez as rapidly as possible, to find out, from one of his numerous friends in native circles, why the patrols had been doubled.

The wind blew from the north as always in this gulf. We had to tack, but I had never so enjoyed a tedious piece of navigation. Now we were really free from all care. I didn’t care if misfortune did overtake the caravan; I should have sacrificed the rest of my money with a light heart; the fact of having succeeded was reward enough, and the sum I had already received was nearly double the small capital with which I had set out. Instead of going back and anchoring in the roads I went on to the little harbour at Old Suez, at the end of the tortuous channel that wound across the lagoons to the left of the canal. The tide was rising and bore us in rapidly. The agency of the Messageries Maritimes was on the quay of this old harbour, to which nowadays only an occasional
bouire
came. The
Helen
, the only steamer which ever deigned to put in here, was drowsing with banked fires opposite the entrance.

There we were within the customs’ waters, and when the customs officer who was on duty perceived us he came on board and had a conscientious rummage. I was delighted to have him poke his nose into every corner. I could not wait till evening before seeing Stavro. The sooner I told him about the night’s adventures the better; he was the only man who could draw a plausible conclusion from these happenings.
He was at home, for he had seen my
boutre
and was expecting a visit from me.

‘You have had unheard-of luck,’ he said to me. ‘I spent a ghastly night for I thought all was up with you. I had sent a man to warn you of the danger and tell you not to go, but you had already set sail and I couldn’t lay hands on Djebeli. A fisherman has been arrested with your two
okes
of hashish in his possession. To save himself he invented a long story about a caravan coming from Syria, and if you had been captured on the Asiatic coast your goose was cooked.

‘For my part, I had some of my agents report that they had seen a herd of camels beside Ras Sudr. This fixed the attention of the police on this shore of the gulf, but once the police is alarmed it is like setting fire to a heap of straw; everything burns. Encouraged by the hope of making a profitable capture the frontier guards on the African coast also showed abnormal zeal, and that was why I feared for you.’

At this moment there came a knock at the door. Stavro’s face became the colour of paper. I was surprised to see how jumpy this colossal creature was. We held our breath, waiting for the visitor to knock again, but the minutes passed without anything happening; so it was one of the band.

The sister-in-law went and opened the door. It was Djebeli. Stavro’s hands were trembling slightly and beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His eyes were two points of interrogation. Djebeli saluted, unruffled as ever.

‘Well, what is it? Speak, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Everything’s all right, at least things might have been much worse.’

‘So there is something?’

‘Yes, the
pirogue
was seen yesterday, but the guards did not recognize it. They called it a
boutre
, probably to excuse their flight. This morning, an officer and twenty men went to examine the spot where the alleged
boutre
had been seen.’

Djebeli stopped and searched in his pockets for a cigarette.

‘Well then? Go on, for heaven’s sake,’ implored Stavro, white as a sheet.

Djebeli cast him an ironic glance from his solitary eye, which seemed to laugh in the reflection of the candle at whose flame he was lighting his cigarette. Stavro clenched his fists as if he could hardly refrain from striking him.

‘Well’, continued Djebeli tranquilly, ‘they found the hearth. Though the ashes were cold, it was obvious that there had been a fire there only the previous night. This detail put the guards out of countenance. They were immediately asked how it was they had not noticed this fire. The details they had invented to justify their cowardly flight seemed ridiculous. This cooking in the open air, those footprints innocently left on the sand, not the slightest trace of camels, everything showed that the nocturnal visitors had been merely fishermen who had landed there to warm themselves and heat their supper while waiting till it should be time to lift their lines. The officer was furious, and condemned the guards to a week’s imprisonment to teach them to run away from fishermen.’

As Djebeli spoke, Stavro’s face cleared; he seemed to be breathing in new life. The portrait of the old fighter hanging on the wall above his rifle seemed to look down pityingly on this colossal son of his, who hid such a timorous soul in his huge body. Fire brings forth ashes, as the Arabs say. Stavro was quite reassured now and became his normal self. He reassumed his imposing air and his grey eyes had once more their eagle gleam. He escorted me to the door, rubbing his hands together gleefully. We made an appointment for the morrow in Cairo, when I should receive the rest of my money, if all went well.

I was now at ease and could leave my
boutre
without being haunted by fears of disaster. The same evening I set out for Alexandria. I wanted to see Jacques Schouchana (see
Secrets of the Red Sea
) and if possible sell him the pearls I had left. Last time I had seen him at Massawa he had given me his brother’s address.

When I reached Alexandria I took one of these old horse-cabs at the station, and drove to it. It was a very fine jeweller’s shop in the Rue Sesostris, in the richest part of the town. I was received with
great cordiality, after the Jewish fashion. Jacques had spoken about me, and immediately they called me Mr Henri and treated me as an old friend.

‘Yes, Jacques is here. He arrived from Massawa ten days ago. He will be here presently, but it is only nine o’clock yet; that’s a little early for him. Did you being any pearls?’

They lost no time in getting down to brass tacks. I showed all I had left. They made disparaging faces and began bargaining discreetly, as was seemly, with a friend.

‘But I’m not at all anxious to sell them,’ I said; ‘I’m simply showing you them in order to have your opinion about them.’

‘You’re wrong, upon my word, you’re wrong. Look what Jacques brought with him.’

And he opened a safe and showed me some magnificent pearls. Naturally mine looked very measly by contrast.

‘Well,’ went on the brother, ‘what do you think he paid for these?’

And he named a ridiculously small sum. I was completely crushed.

‘Pearls are getting cheaper every day,’ he went on after a moment’s silence; ‘diamonds are what are in demand. Look, I have a splendid stone here. I got it cheap – it was left as security for a loan. You ought to take it and get rid of your pearls, that would be a good spec, for you.’

I felt as a mutton-bone overrun by ants must feel, that I should be cleaned to the last fragment of meat. Luckily, Jacques arrived. A messenger had gone to tell him I was here. He had got up in my honour and greeted me affectionately, saying ‘thou’ to show what an old friend he was. I was very pleased to see him again, for he was a frank, loyal and good fellow, honest as the day, and he recalled the good old days when I had started pearl fishing. And then we had an inexhaustible subject of conversation in the death of Saïd Ali, for at this time I had not yet solved that mystery. (See
Secrets of the Red Sea
.) I could not think of lying to him, so told him frankly what had brought me to Egypt. He looked absolutely terrified; his eyes started out of his head.

‘Four hundred
okes
? But that is an enormous quantity. How much did you get the
oke
?’

‘Three pounds.’

‘What, you have been robbed. Hashish is worth more than thirty
pounds just now. Ah, if you had only come to me; you must have fallen into most unscrupulous hands.’

I explained that in the deal I had made all the risks of smuggling had been eliminated as well as all the tiresome formalities and heavy dues of the customs.

‘But there’s no danger whatever,’ he exclaimed; ‘at least for those who are not under suspicion, for those who have a genuine profession, as I do, and a clean reputation.’

“What, Jacques, you would have dared?’

‘Oh, you don’t know me. I look like a softy; you are always poking fun at my ties and my perfumes, but I’m bold enough, yes, yes, you needn’t laugh, I’m bold enough.’

‘I’m sure you are, Jacques,’ I answered, smiling, ‘but have you ever tried to bring hashish into Egypt?’

‘No, never, but nothing could be simpler. I can go anywhere with my suitcase in my hand without anyone thinking of asking what it contains.’

‘Yes, but – the customs?’

‘Oh, at Suez you can land easily outside the customs limits. I should be there with my valise, and there you are. Just think, thirty pounds; what a marvellous deal!’

I was greatly astonished to see that this soft-living, rather timorous Jew had a taste for adventure and risk. But he did not realize what such an adventure involved. He saw himself as a cinema hero. And I’m sure if I had had hashish there he would have run all over Egypt with his suitcase, so taken up with his romantic role that he would probably have done wonders. I smiled at the thought, but all the same I had often made use of the same expedient to spur on my failing courage. One can face danger more bravely if one imagines an audience hangs breathless on one’s every movement. Sancho and Don Quixote, all the time. So I needn’t have laughed at Jacques.

‘Everybody in Egypt dreams of making money by smuggling hashish,’ went on Jacques.

‘Yes, but there’s a dangerous precipice between dream and reality.’

I listened with amusement while he expounded his ideas on how to smuggle hashish. After all, why not leave him his illusions? They did not harm anybody. We decided to go out for a walk.

‘Where shall we go?’ asked Jacques.

‘First of all I must buy some clothes; I’m rather a scarecrow in this khaki suit.’

‘I know the very thing for you. We’ll go to my brother Abraham’s. He has a ready-made clothes shop.’

So we went to this other brother’s. He was of the same type, but older, and pallid with living in the darkness of his shop. He declared that he could do nothing for me in this shop, as here he had only very cheap articles which, alas, were often sold at a loss. And he sighed despairingly.

‘Come with me,’ he added briskly; ‘I’ll soon get you what you want.’

He put on his hat and we set off across a veritable ghetto. We stopped for a moment at his other shop where he sold second-hand clothes. Gorgeous uniforms, evening clothes, fur-lined overcoats, hung side by side, and from among them crept out the manager, a little round-backed jew with damp hands. Abraham said a few words to him and we went on our way.

At last we reached our destination, a third shop belonging to Abraham. There were only Jews in this quarter; every street was full of them, and every single one seemed to know Abraham. We had to go into several shops, shake hands, ask the family news, have a coffee, and so on. Naturally, since Jacques said ‘thou’ to me and Abraham treated me as an old friend, everybody thought I was a Jew too, and this allowed me to see the little Jewish shop-keepers in their true colours. Anyhow, I had always had a secret sympathy for this race, eternally oppressed, docile and meek, who are called cowards because they have often the courage to appear to be afraid. From this inside view I was now getting I saw that this humble appearance often covered an unbelievable tenacity and ferocity when it was a question of money.

The moneylender would patiently bring about the ruin of a debtor until it was safe for him to pounce. He would take the jewels off a corpse to pay himself for an unsettled debt. He would steal from the orphan if he legally could. And all this with the calm implacability of an automaton. Yet the same Jew would work himself to death to educate his children, follow the most humiliating occupations in order to keep his old parents, or even distant relatives, and he would be most charitable to a fellow-Jew in distress. In them slumbers a mysticism old as the race and change less as time. When by some chance their fierce commercial instinct is deviated from its ordinary aim, then this mysticism comes to the surface
and accomplishes wonderful things. This Jewish humility, this resignation of a persecuted race, would appear to be a sort of hoarding of the genius of the race so that it can be used for these sublime exceptions, for prophets and great revolutionaries.