In Xanadu (5 page)

As we left the Khan al-Afranj we were invited into the shop of an Arab
terzi
(tailor). There we drank
cay
and talked about the problems of the Arabs in Acre, then as now, better integrated than most places: Ibn Jubayr remarked on this in the twelfth century while Hamoudi, who exhibited all the vices of the West in one body, is evidence of it today. The
terzi
was a tall man, unshaven, shambolic and friendly. But when I asked him about his relations with the Jews he was surprisingly eloquent.

"We live in peace in Acre,' he said. 'Here the Jew and the Arab are friends. On Saturday nights the Jews come here, play cards, smoke and drink coffee. The people want peace. Only the government does not."

'What do you mean?'

'We live here under an undeclared apartheid. It is just like South Africa. For the Jews there is democracy. They have freedom of speech, they can vote for whichever government they like, can go where they like and talk to whom they like. For us it is different. We are here on sufferance. We are called into police stations if we are heard talking about politics. We are never sure we will get justice in court: if we have a plea against a Jew, then probably we will not. We are not allowed to join the army in case we turn sides. Because of this we cannot get any good jobs; for these you need security clearance. Most of us end up washing dishes or working as manual labourers; if you are lucky you can become a garbage collector.'

He laughed and sent a boy off to go and get some more tea.

You see this shop? It belonged to my father before 1948, yet now I have to pay rent to the town council for it. If I was a Jew I would be given it, free. The taxes for us are very high. Many of the young - they are very angry. If this was their government they would not mind. But they do not want to pay the tax which will buy the tank which will kill their brother Arabs. It all means we cannot compete with the Jewish shopkeepers. They do not pay rents for their property so they can sell everything cheaper than us. The Israeli government does nothing for our people.'

What do you think will happen?' asked Laura.

How do I know? Some Arabs say: this is Palestine we must kick the Jews out. Also there are many Jews who call us dogs, animals. They say: we must clear the land of the Arabs. Both are wrong. We are both human. We both need to live. We must live together.'

The boy returned and handed round the cups. It was mint tea. When he was ready the
terzi
continued:

'Every morning I think that there could be peace. When I open the shop up in the morning Jews will drink coffee with me. Sometimes if I have problem with my telephone, my Jewish friend will say: use mine. Many of them are such lovely people. If only we could live in peace with them and there were no fighting, no killing. . . .'

Laura and I sat on a tower on the Cape of Storms in the old Pisan Quarter. It was a beautiful night and we sat in silence looking out over the sea, mulling over what the
terzi
had said. Then the peace was broken by two visitors.

Arab 1:
                   
Where are you from?

WD:    Shshsh.

Arabs 1 and 2:

Shshshshshshshsh.

{Silence, then:)

Arab I
(to Laura):    
You wanna buy carpet? I give you good price.

Laura
(dignified):

Please. Not today. We're watching the sea.

(Another pause, then:)
Arab 2
(in whisper):

That is nice watch. You sell?

WD
(abrupt):

Shut up! Or go away

Arab 2
(annoyed):

How long you stay in Acre?

WD
(repentant):

We're off tomorrow.

Arab 2: Where to?

WD: Where to

Arab 2: Where?

WD:  Peking. In China.

Arab 2
(furious):  
You think me fool? You think me

animal? I tell you. Arab man very clever. We invent astronomy! We invent mathematics! Arab man finest artists in world.
(Pause. Then:)
Where are you really going?

WD: Peking.

Arab 2:

You are crazy man.
(Exit Arabs 1 and 2.)

After supper we returned to our room. Hamoudi was out on the prowl but his father was still sprawled on the bed with his hookah bubbling away. The soft porn which had been thrown out of the room by Laura had reappeared; otherwise, to our surprise, our room did not look as if it had been tampered with nor our luggage ransacked. The only sign of life was one of Hamoudi's cats noisily crunching a mouse on my mattress. Laura went to bed, while I sat in the corridor scribbling in the logbook. A few mosquitos wheeled around a light bulb; many more wheeled around me, nibbling on my ankles and forearms. After an hour, I gave up. I felt very tired.

I got out the maps and drew a black line between Jerusalem and Acre. It was about a quarter of an inch long. Lahore was three feet away at the edge of the map. Peking lay halfway across the room on an entirely different sheet. It seemed a very long way indeed.

TWO

Latakia is a filthy hole; I had forgotten how bad it was.

The town smells of dead fish: you can smell it three miles into the Mediterranean. At the first whiff the passengers finish
ed
their drinks at the bar, and closed their
tawla
(backgammon) boards. They gathered their luggage into piles, collected their wives, and wiped their children's faces. By the time the lights of the town became visible on the horizon, the gang-planks were already clogged with excited Arabs jostling to be the first ashore. There were westernized Lebanese in polyester suits and flares; they held black attache cases in their right hards. Beside them stood Druze straight out of a David Roberts picture, squat and snub-nosed in khaki jackets, cavernous
chaiwal
trousers and red and white
keffiyeh.
Their
charwal
dangled heavily between their legs and their
keffiyeh
were thrown over their shoulders and held in place by a thick headband of black cord. They were silent and sullen and smell. The Jordanians were more cheery. They waddled around in dirty white shifts, and nursed large distended bellies and crowds of spoilt children. The Syrian peasants were the worst. They pulled and shoved at their trunks and sacks, knocking into the Druze and arguing with their neighbours. Then they would recognize a friend and fight their way through the crowd to embrace him and kiss him on both checks. They chewed pistachio nuts, scattered the shells and chattered incessantly.

Laura and I were at the back of the queue, and stood next to a group of four huge men who
looked
even more out of place than we did. They had pale white skin and large white biceps, grey ankle-socks, shorts, and close-fitting T-shirts. They talked Russian among themselves and explained to us in French that they were teachers. Later one of them said they were engineers. Presumably they must have been KGB.

Our liner docked soon after 10 p.m. The port was hung with multi-coloured lights and a scattering of charcoal braziers gave off a warm red glow. They lit a scene of bustling anarchy. Thousands of Arabs were massed baying on the quay and within seconds of us touching the pier head, hordes of them had swarmed up the walkways and along the guy ropes. It took well over two hours to fight our way ashore. The girder-faced receptionist broke down in tears as a party of Palestinians took a short cut over her desk, scattering her papers, and an epileptic had a fit on the lower deck amid a carpet of pistachio shells. One old woman fainted. As we tried to edge our way towards the gangplank, a Lebanese merchant began quizzing us on our journey:

'Good sir, why are you coming to Syria?'

'We are following Marco Polo.'

He considered this as he fought his way forward.

'This Marco Poodle - he is Englishman?'

'No,' said Laura, stepping over the epileptic. 'Italian.'

'Oh.' Then: 'When was Mr Poodle coming to Syria?'

'Many years ago.'

'He is still alive?'

'No.'

Then why do you follow him?'