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Title: The Cruel Fire
Author: Atiyah, Edward [Edward Selim] (1903-1964)
Date of first publication: 1962
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1962
   ["Published for the Crime Club"]
Date first posted: 15 June 2018
Date last updated: 15 June 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1537

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Mark Akrigg,
Jen Haines & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






THE CRUEL FIRE

by Edward Atiyah




    In the small Lebanese village of Barkita, Faris Deeb is a man of
    property. Miserliness has brought him wealth, but also the hatred
    of his wife and children.

    One day business takes him to Beirut, where he becomes impassioned
    of an Egyptian belly dancer. His clumsy advances repulsed, Deeb
    returns to Barkita in anger and frustration; finding a beautiful
    American movie star swimming by moonlight in his orchard pool,
    he attacks and murders her.

    Bit by bit, he tries to hide his trail, as slowly his family and
    the villagers begin to suspect his terrible secret.

    Scene: Lebanon




FOR NAJLA


All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living and dead, is purely coincidental.




CHAPTER 1


Life was beginning to stir in the little, remote Lebanese village of
Barkita as the summer morning came over the hills in bright sunny
strides, leaping from roof-top to roof-top, stretching longer and longer
past the pinewood, across the terraced vineyards, plunging here and
there into the shadows of the valley. The day labourers were already on
their way, whether by the main road or by mountain paths, to the various
orchards or building sites on which they worked, each carrying his
midday meal under his arm--olives and onions rolled up in a round, flat,
thin loaf of bread. But the more well-to-do of the villagers--the small
peasant proprietors and shopkeepers--had only just got up and were
drinking their early cups of Turkish coffee and smoking their first
cigarette or hubble-bubble of the day. Many of them sat in the open, in
a small garden or on a terrace just outside their front door, over which
a vine spread its branches, now thick with leaves and heavy with pendant
bunches of grapes.

One of these comparatively prosperous and leisured villagers was Faris
Deeb, who sat on his terrace sipping his coffee with a loud, hissing
noise. He was a heavily built man of about forty-five, and his face was
hard and unamiable, with a few days' growth of hair on it, for he shaved
only twice a week. He was the local corn dealer and owned a vineyard on
the hillside behind his house and an apple orchard in the valley, by the
river. The vineyard he had acquired from his father, who now sat a few
paces away from him, sipping his own coffee; but the orchard he had
bought with the profits of his hard dealings in corn and the savings of
his avarice over the years. He had a shop in the village where he
transacted his corn business and sold a few other things besides; but he
did not have to hurry to it in the morning because his elder son and
assistant, Mitry, was now sent ahead to open it, while Faris Deeb drank
his coffee and smoked his _argileh_.... Where was that damned
_argileh_? He would finish his coffee if it did not come soon, and he
liked to draw the first few puffs while the aroma of the coffee was
still in his mouth.

"Rosa!" he called to his wife, who was preparing him the _argileh_ in
the kitchen. "Rosa! What the hell are you doing, taking such a long time
to prepare me my smoke?"

"It's coming, it's coming," answered the unseen Rosa with an impatience
as cold as her husband's was heated. "I'm not a machine."

"I'll say that," growled Faris Deeb. "A lazy cow, that's what you are. A
cow that doesn't even give milk, now that your children are grown up!"

"A cow, am I?" said Rosa with aloof, unpassioned venom, issuing from the
kitchen, carrying the _argileh_ between her two hands. Then she
addressed herself to her father-in-law. "Listen to your son's sweet
morning speech, Abu Faris. This is my reward for making him his coffee
and bringing him his _argileh_; for looking after his house and bringing
up his children to be better than anybody else's children in the
village, though the Lord knows he never gave me enough money to dress
them decently, so loath was he always to open his purse wide enough for
a copper to slip through!" She was a few years younger than her husband,
and not an uncomely woman, with red cheeks, full lips and full but not
over-abundant bosom.

"Put down the _argileh_ here, and enough tongue-wagging in the early
morning," said her husband. "You always had enough money for food and
clothes and everything necessary. I don't deny my family that, but by
God, I'm not giving money away to be spent on your trashy fineries.
Anyhow, what do you think I am, a gold mine?"

Abu Faris sipped his coffee in silence, not wishing to be drawn into
this acrimonious exchange between his son and his daughter-in-law. Such
exchanges were a common occurrence in the household, not only between
Faris and Rosa, who often finished by getting a beating from her
husband, but also between Faris and the children. Mitry was too big and
strong to be beaten now--too big and strong for Faris even to beat Rosa
in his presence; but when Antoine and Genevieve answered their father
back, he beat them too as he beat their mother. There had been that
terrible scene when Faris discovered that Genevieve was walking out with
the young man Ramiz--a nice young man too, who would make a suitable
husband for her--and given her such a thrashing that her cheeks were too
red and swollen for her to go to her work the next day. The old man's
sympathies were with his daughter-in-law and the children, who were good
to him and who were the victims of his son's vicious temper and tyranny;
but he himself was cowed by the tyrant, though he did try to protest
when Faris beat Rosa or the children. Until the row reached the stage of
physical violence, however, Abu Faris preferred to keep out of it. He
bitterly regretted his folly in making over the vineyard to Faris. If he
had kept that in his name he would have retained some hold over his son,
but now he had none. Yes, he had been a fool....

Faris Deeb uncoiled the red _argileh_ tube and, putting the black
mouthpiece between his lips, drew at it as though taking deep breaths
under a medical examination. The embers poised on the mound of wet
tobacco glowed, and the glass stem of the _argileh_ began to cloud with
smoke.

Rosa contemplated her husband with ill-concealed, arrogant distaste, her
arms akimbo, the fists resting on her hips in a challenging posture. Her
secret guilt made her hate him all the more. In her hate of him she
found her absolution--her hate and her provocation of him into words and
actions of increasing viciousness. When she succeeded in making him
behave with the utmost brutality of which he was capable, the adulteress
felt purged of her sin, exulted in it as her final revenge and triumph.
She had also another triumph. She had learned how to deny him the
enjoyment of her body even when he took her. Gone were the days when she
resisted him or showed reluctance. That had only whetted his desire and
given him greater pleasure. Now, she let him take her when he wanted as
though she were a lump of dough that neither responded nor resisted, and
she knew that her indifference filled him with a mad frustration.

"Thank God," she said, "the children don't depend on you any more for
their food and clothes. They're all grown up and earning, and you need
them more than they need you."

"I have never needed anybody, nor ever will," he said, smarting with his
unsatisfied need of her as a woman.

"Then why don't you let Genevieve get married? Why don't you let Mitry
go to join his cousin in Brazil?"

He took the mouthpiece out of his mouth and glared at his wife. "Has
that girl been asking you to intercede with me again? I've told her
'no,' and 'no' it is. Get that into your head. And if I ever catch her
walking with that namby-pamby boy again, I'll give her a bigger
thrashing than the last one. I'm not going to let her marry a penniless
fellow and produce a family that will become a burden on me. She'll have
to marry a man of property."

"Ramiz is not a penniless fellow. He's earning."

"Earning from what? A job by the week which he might lose any time. Has
he got a house? Has he got a shop, a vineyard, a prosperous father?"

"No one with property will marry her unless she has property of her own.
Would you give her a dowry? Why, you don't even allow her to save from
her wages so that she could amass a little dowery of her own. You make
her work and pay you half her earnings. You'd lose that if she married.
That's why you won't let her marry."

"It's a lie! What she gives me of her wages doesn't pay for her keep."

Abu Faris intervened here with a quiet aside to Rosa. "Enough, enough,
my daughter," he said, trying to prevent the altercation from reaching
those excesses which so distressed him. He could not understand it, but
it did seem to him that Rosa often went on deliberately provoking Faris
until he used violence on her. He had known children behave like that,
as though nothing would satisfy them until they were beaten, who knew
the beating would come if they went on provoking their elders long
enough, and yet would not desist. Rosa was like that. She was being like
that now. Paying no regard to her father-in-law's warning, she went on:

"You make a handsome little profit out of it, together with what you get
from Mitry and Antoine. Antoine gets only ten pounds a month, and you
make him give you five."

"Ten is only his salary, you fool; but a waiter at a smart hotel gets
twice as much as that in tips. I know nothing about his tips."

"How that must hurt you!" said Rosa.

"You know how much he gets," said her husband, narrowing his eyes,
beneath the bushy eyebrows, into hard slits, "don't you? He tells you."

"All right, he tells me; but I'm not going to tell you," she said,
letting her arms fall and walking back into the kitchen nonchalantly.

Faris Deeb dropped his _argileh_ tube, got up and followed her.

His father said: "Come back, Faris; leave her alone. How does she know
how much the boy gets in tips?"

"She knows," snarled Faris Deeb, "and I'm not going to have anything
kept from me in this house. I'll beat her secret out of her."

In the kitchen, Rosa had picked up the coffee pot and turned the tap on
to wash it.

"How much?" said her husband, coming up to her. "I'm asking you for the
last time. How much?"

"I don't know," said Rosa coldly.

"You're lying. You said you knew."

"I wanted to annoy you. I hate you."

"Your hatred doesn't hurt me."

"Nor your children's? They all hate you. You're a blight on their lives.
They wish you dead, every one of them."

"I don't care if they hate me or love me as long as they fear me."

"But they don't all fear you now. Mitry doesn't. You daren't beat him
any more." She gave him a little derisive sneer, knowing that he was
about to strike her, and experiencing that queer thrill that came before
the first blow. She enjoyed goading him because it made her feel
superior to him intellectually. The rage that he felt when he beat her
hurt him much more than his blows hurt her, for she was no weakling and
could stand up to a good deal of punishment.

"Why should I beat him," he said, "when he obeys me? He's a sensible
young man now."

"A strong young man, you mean, who is capable of paying back a bully
like you who beats only women or children. Or are you afraid to beat
even a woman now?"

He raised his hand and struck her in the face; and her conscience, as
well as her intellect, was satisfied, for she was expecting a visit from
her lover that morning.




CHAPTER 2


Half an hour later Faris Deeb walked into his shop in the village. It
always pleased him to see his sacks of sample grain standing solidly on
the floor of the shop, open and bulging with their contents, filling the
shop with the faint, dusty smell of wheat. The blow he had given his
wife and the smoke he had inhaled from his _argileh_ had somewhat
soothed his temper--that, and the prospect of one or two profitable
deals he expected to transact that morning. Everybody in the village
knew that he was the hardest, most astute dealer in the district, that
nobody ever got the better of him in a bargain. They feared him in the
village, as they feared him in his house. Everybody feared him except
Rosa. He had an uncomfortable feeling that she mocked him. She had
looked so insolent, standing before him, her hands resting on her hips,
telling him that she knew how much Antoine got in tips but that she
would not tell him. Well, she had got what she deserved. Much good it
did her to be insolent when he could thrash her. And he would thrash her
and thrash her until she told him how much the boy got in tips. Or
perhaps he could find out from Mitry by cunning instead of force. For he
prided himself on his cunning as much as on his ability to inspire fear.

Mitry was in the shop putting a few papers in order, when his father
walked in. He was bigger than his father and more powerfully built but
with a gentle, rather subdued expression in the youthful face.

"Anyone been yet?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Abu Shukri came a few moments ago. He said he would come later."

"Did you tell him there were other buyers for the apple crop?"

"I told him. I said they were willing to pay a higher price than what he
was offering."

"Good. You're a smart fellow like your father," said Faris Deeb,
deciding that a little flattery would serve his purpose. "I shall make
of you the cleverest dealer in this district, and one day you will be a
rich man." From the window of the shop, across the narrow valley, could
be seen the Baruk Spring Hotel, where Antoine worked. Faris Deeb nodded
his head in its direction. "Your brother is clever too."

"There's no cleverer fellow than Antoine in these parts," said Mitry.

"I reckon they're very pleased with him at the hotel because he knows
English, and they have many English and American visitors now. Couldn't
do without a waiter who spoke some English."

"No, they couldn't."

"They're doing good business at that hotel; it's always full nowadays.
And the Americans pay well. They chuck their dollars about as though
they were piastres."

"Ay, they do. Wherever they go, the prices go up."

"Your brother must be making a lot in tips. I shouldn't be surprised if
his tips came to more than his wages--maybe fifteen pounds a month, or
twenty." Faris Deeb spoke in a tone of disinterested speculation. His
cunning prompted him to name a figure or two. People liked to correct
you if you were wrong and they knew the right answer.

"How would I know?" said Mitry, who knew. Antoine had told him but made
him swear not to tell his father.

Faris Deeb peered at his son obliquely, doubting whether he was telling
the truth. He knew that his family were united in a conspiracy of
defence and secrecy against him. For all the power he had over them, in
his innermost heart he often felt helpless and insecure against this
conspiracy, felt that in their unity they had a power which he lacked,
which enraged him, which could even frighten him. In his little kingdom
Faris Deeb knew the loneliness in which all tyrants must live. "They
wish you dead, every one of them," Rosa had shouted at him in the
kitchen. She wished him dead too. But wishes had never killed a man.

His ruse with Mitry having failed, he decided to change the subject. He
would force the secret out of Rosa before long or, better still, he
would make Antoine pay another three pounds for his keep whatever the
amount of the tips he received.

"Where's last month's corn account?" he asked Mitry. "Did you get it
from the broker?"

"Yes. Here it is," said Mitry, taking some papers out of his pocket. As
he did so, an envelope, bearing a Brazilian stamp, fell on the floor.

"What's that?" said Faris Deeb.

"A letter," said Mitry, picking it up in some confusion.

"Your cousin in Rio?"

"Yes."

"When did you receive it?"

"Yesterday."

"Let me see it."

Mitry handed his father the letter. He was going to have spoken to him
about it in any case. Perhaps it was just as well that it happened so.
Now, he would not have to spend hours working up his courage to the
necessary pitch for opening the subject.

Faris Deeb read the letter, then threw it scornfully on the desk.

"Father, I want to go to Brazil," said Mitry.

"Go," said Faris Deeb curtly, then, as Mitry remained silent, he went
on: "Have you got the fare?"

"No. You know I haven't."

"How can you go then?"

"If you will lend me the money, I will pay it back to you when I have
worked there for some time."

"You want me to sell the orchard and the vineyard to pay your fare to
Brazil?"

"You don't have to sell the orchard or the vineyard. You've got enough
money...."

"All the money I have I need; and I need you here in the business."

"But there's no future for me here. You're standing in my way. I want to
go."

"See that door there? It's wide open, isn't it? You can just walk out
now and head for Brazil. No one will stop you."

"With not a pound in my pocket?"

"If you haven't got the money for the fare, you'll have to save it from
your earnings. I pay you a good wage, don't I?"

"At the rate you pay me, and after I've paid you back for my keep every
month, it will take me ten years to save the fare."

"Then shut up and get on with your work here, and don't let me hear any
more about this nonsense of your wanting to go to Brazil. Let's have a
look at this account."

Mitry handed his father the account, and remained silent for a moment
while Faris Deeb perused the figures. He was torn between fear of his
father and the urge to escape from him into a free life, a life free
from fear and hatred, and beckoning with bright opportunities. When this
question of going to Brazil had first been raised, he had been held back
by a chivalrous feeling towards the rest of the family, thinking it
would be cowardly of him to go away and leave his mother and the younger
children at his father's mercy, without even the little protection which
his presence afforded them. But his mother had encouraged him to go. She
had told him she could look after herself, that Genevieve would sooner
or later get married, that Antoine was growing up and would, like him,
be soon big and strong enough for his father to be afraid to beat him.
So now only two things stood between him and the new life his cousin
offered him in South America: the fare and his father's opposition. The
accidental dropping of the letter had reopened the subject and he did
not want it to be closed until he had pursued it to the end; for once it
was closed he might be afraid to raise it again for a long time.

"If my cousin will advance me the fare," he said at last, "will you let
me go?"

"What's that you said?"

"Only that I might ask my cousin if he would be willing to pay for my
ticket by way of a loan which I could repay him when I went out there
and started working with him."

"You're not going there. Do you understand?"

"But you said I could go if I had the fare."

"If you had it in your own money, not if you borrowed it like a beggar.
Supposing you don't make good in Brazil and can't pay it back to your
cousin? Supposing you died before you paid it back? I'd have to repay it
then, wouldn't I? Don't you dare ask your cousin for it. I'm not
standing you security for two hundred pounds."

"I'm not asking you to stand me security for anything."

"Ay, but you're my son, aren't you? If your cousin lends you the money,
it's because I'm your father, and he knows I've got property. Well, I'm
not having my property mortgaged to send you out to Brazil, when I've
got work for you to do here--plenty of work. You will stay in the
business with me.... Now take this account back to the broker and
tell him this figure of fifty-three here is wrong. It should be
forty-three. And don't you dare speak to me of Brazil again."

Mitry took the account and walked out of the shop. Although he no longer
feared his father physically, he was still dominated by his will, still
too much the cowed son of a tyrannical father to be able to rebel.
Physically, his father could not prevent him from going to Brazil if his
cousin would advance him the fare, could not prevent him from writing to
his cousin to ask for the fare. But the mysterious power of the spirit
which a tyrant exercises over his victims, even when the sanction of
physical violence is not applied and has indeed fallen permanently into
abeyance, held Mitry in its grip. He could not go to Brazil. He dared
not write to his cousin to ask for the money. His father's command laid
an unchallengeable interdict on his will. He walked along the street of
the small village like a prisoner walking in the prison courtyard,
though around him there were no walls, but open slopes and valleys
stretching to the sky--the sky through which 'planes flew to Brazil from
Beirut every day. He was miserable with frustration and burning with
hate. One small, sweet thought was his only immediate consolation: his
father had not succeeded in tricking him into revealing how much Antoine
made in tips.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was still only nine o'clock and at the Baruk Spring Hotel Antoine, in
white coat and black trousers, was attending on the patrons who had not
finished their breakfast yet. His favourite among them was a young
American woman who had come from Beirut a few days before to spend a
fortnight's holiday at Barkita. She was pretty and friendly--very
democratic, thought Antoine, talking and jesting with him without a
trace of snobbery, not as some patrons treat a waiter.

She was now sitting at a table by herself on the terrace overlooking the
valley, and Antoine was bringing her a basket of fruit, having filled it
with the most luscious of the pears and peaches that had arrived at the
hotel that morning. He had kept them specially for her because she was
late in coming in to breakfast, having gone for a long walk on first
getting up.

"Good morning, Antoine," she said, with a sunny smile. "What a lovely
fruit basket you have brought me! I'm hungry after my walk. Thank you."

In spite of her friendliness he was too shy to tell her that he had
carefully handpicked them for her behind the back of the cook, who liked
to keep the best for himself. He only said, smiling back with the
youthful devotion she had inspired in him, "I hope you like them, Miss
Bright. They are very good to-day."

"I sure am going to like them," she said, picking the largest peach.
"Everything and everybody here is delightful--the village, the hotel,
the people and the fruit!"

"Where you walk this morning?" he asked in his broken English. All the
other patrons had finished their breakfast and left the terrace, so he
could permit himself to have a little conversation with her while she
ate her peach.

"I went down the valley and followed the river," she said. "There is a
lovely clear pool down there, with big grey rocks on one side and an
orchard on the other."

"What is 'orchard?'" he asked.

"Fruit plantation--apple trees."

"Ah, yes, yes. Trees belong to my father--his orchard."

"Fancy that! Well, I didn't steal any of your apples, Antoine; I swear I
didn't, though I was sorely tempted."

"They are not my apples; they are my father's."

"Well, isn't that the same thing?"

"No. You not know my father," he said, shaking his head.

"Isn't he nice to you?"

"No. My father not nice to anybody."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Antoine."

"When I am little older, I go away from home. I go to Beirut and work in
hotel there."

"Just to escape from your father?"

"Yes, and I get more money in Beirut."

"But your village is much nicer than Beirut. You have these beautiful
mountains, and the valley and the river; and that pool--my, isn't the
water in it wonderful? So clean and sparkling between the rocks. Doesn't
anyone swim in it?"

"Some children bathe sometimes."

"Nobody else? Doesn't anyone go to it from the hotel?"

"No."

"Well, don't tell them about it. I want to keep it all to myself! It
would be wonderful to swim in it by moonlight. I love swimming by
moonlight."

"Oh," said Antoine, simulating a shiver, "at night it is very cold,
very, very cold!"

"I like the water when it's very cold, very, very cold," she said,
repeating Antoine's words, but with zest instead of a shiver. "But now,
I want some very hot, very, very hot coffee, please, Antoine. You know
how I like it."

"I bring it to you boiling," said Antoine, hurrying back to the kitchen.




CHAPTER 3


Faris Deeb spent the morning arguing with the corn broker and
transacting the sale of his apple crop. The bargaining was hard and
lengthy, and he conducted it with his usual toughness and cunning,
obtaining a price which both satisfied his cupidity and flattered his
vanity as an artist in these matters. In the afternoon he took a seat in
a car going to the town of Tripoli, where he wanted to look over some
property that had been recommended to him as a good investment.

The estate agent who hoped to sell him the property was lavish in his
hospitality. He insisted that Faris Deeb should stay for the evening,
and took him to dine at the city's most popular cabaret, hoping that
good food, plenty of liquor and the sight of pretty, scantily-clad
dancing girls would induce in his client a mood favourable to
purchasing. Faris Deeb, whose partiality to liquor was held in check
when he had to pay for it himself, drank several glasses of arak while
he and the estate agent ate and watched the dancing girls perform. This
was the first time that he had seen a cabaret spectacle; and the hot,
pounding blood in his arteries pounded with new excitements at the sight
of young, semi-naked female bodies swaying and jerking provokingly at
only a few paces from him.

Noticing his entranced gaze, the estate agent said:

"This is the famous Egyptian belly dance. Ever seen it before?"

"No," said Faris Deeb with assumed indifference, but following the
motions of one particular belly with hypnotized eyes.

"Well, you must come to Tripoli more often, and we will show you more of
these pleasing sights. If you buy that piece of land, you will probably
want to build on it--everybody is building now with rents soaring as
they are--and that will give you more occasions to visit the city. You
could divide your life then between Barkita and Tripoli. Waiter, two
more please."

"Maybe," said Faris Deeb, his eyes fixed on the navel in the middle of
the shivering belly. The belly itself, white as milk, was completely
naked, but below it the dancer wore a triangular loin screen of beads
and tinsel, and the same sparkling fabric covered the mounds of her
breasts. Faris Deeb found this local veiling an impediment to his full
enjoyment. He tried to penetrate it with his imagination, but as he was
doing so he suddenly felt very uncomfortable, thinking that everybody
around the dancing floor was watching him and divining his thoughts.
Well, what the hell! He could wager all the men there were having the
same thoughts, the same desires. He wrenched his eyes off the dancer for
a moment to survey the audience, and was reassured. He was not different
from other men; and though a villager, he had heard enough about town
life to know what went on at these places. Perhaps, if he bought that
property he might, as the estate agent had suggested, become something
of a townsman himself. His eyes returned confidently to the object of
their desire.

"This girl here," said the agent, noticing Faris Deeb's special interest
in the person concerned, "comes from Cairo. She's a very good dancer,
and a lovely piece to look at, think you not?"

"Ay, she dances well," said Faris Deeb, sipping his drink and pretending
to share his companion's ostensible appreciation of the art of dancing.

"The management pays her ten pounds a night for her dancing apart from
the commission she gets on the drinks the patrons order when she's
sitting with them.... And this is not to mention the money she makes
on her own account in other ways. What say you, Khawaja Faris, shall we
invite her to our table after this number?" The estate agent gave his
client a smile which the serpent might have given Eve when they were
discussing the apple.

"What for?" asked Faris Deeb, uncertain whether the agent was making him
a serious proposition or merely pulling his leg.

"We could invite two of them to make a little party, and then take them
for a drive in my car after the performance. Only, then we should have
to order something more expensive than arak. They will want whisky at
least, if not champagne. But you don't have to worry about that. It will
be all on me. Have you ever tried champagne?"

"No," said Faris Deeb, maintaining a stolid outward calm but dizzy with
excitement and panic at the things he might try that night, if the
estate agent was serious, if the thing was possible. Rosa was the only
woman he had ever made love to, the only woman he had ever seen
undressed, and his senses had long since become blunted with the sight
and the touch of her, so that when he took her now, it was like taking a
bite of dry bread because you were hungry; and now after years of dry
bread he saw a feast before him, and his appetites gnawed at him with a
sweet and fierce craving. Yet, he dared not say "yes," for fear that the
estate agent was laughing at him, for fear that he would not know how to
set about these matters because he was a villager unused to the ways of
the town. And there was a greater fear still. Though the estate agent
had offered to pay for everything, this might be only an empty gesture.
When it came to paying the big bills for the whisky and the champagne,
when it came to settling with the girls themselves, he must offer to pay
his share, and the agent's generosity might waver. Faris Deeb had one
hundred pounds in his pocket. He had brought this large sum in case he
decided to buy the property and had to pay a deposit on it. As he gazed
at the swaying figure of the dancer, his hand went automatically to his
breast pocket where the money was. He clasped his wallet firmly through
his coat, protectively, his avarice struggling with his lust.

The agent, for his part, had not been serious in his invitation. He had
merely wanted to increase his influence with his bucolic client by
showing him what doors of pleasure he could open for him, without
actually opening them. Through those doors he had no wish to enter with
Faris Deeb, being himself a sophisticated townsman and regarding his
client with a certain derision as an unpolished countryman. Deciding
therefore that the moment had come for him to extricate himself nimbly,
he said:

"I see that you have no desire for such frivolities to-night."

"Such pleasures are for a young bachelor like you, Khawaja Jamil," said
Faris Deeb, assuming a respectable married man's aloofness, but sick
with disappointment at the withdrawal of the prospect which the estate
agent had dangled before his eyes for a moment. Now that the money in
his pocket was safe, and the dancer's body no longer accessible, it
gleamed and swayed before him with a more teasing appeal than before.

"Come, come, Khawaja Faris," said the estate agent, "you're only a few
years older than me, and this is the modern age we're living in. You
think only bachelors permit themselves these distractions? What's the
harm in it? But if you're not in the mood to-night, some other time
perhaps." Having extricated himself from all immediate commitments,
Khawaja Jamil could afford to become expansive and seductive again. He
enjoyed toying with the whetted but not-to-be-fulfilled desires of this
limited, primitive village merchant.

Faris Deeb had never been more in the mood. In fact, he had never been
in it at all till that night. In the village, he had from time to time
lusted in his heart after this or that woman in a passing way, never as
a practical proposition, never with fulfilment as a possible, attainable
goal. He did not know how to court women, how to make the first move. In
his courtship with Rosa twenty-five years before, it was she who had
made the first move, and since then the experience had not been
repeated. But here it was different. Here the women were there specially
for it. All you had to do was to pay, and he could pay if he wanted to.
His hand clasped his wallet again. How much, he wondered? Three pounds?
Five pounds? The dancer, wriggling her belly, swaying her hips, clicking
the fingers of her two hands held together above her head, and jerking
her bust with convulsive little movements that shook her breasts
provokingly under their veil of beads, came forward towards their table,
giving Khawaja Jamil a smile as she did so.

"You seem to find favour in her eyes," said Faris Deeb.

"Oh, she smiles at all the patrons," said the estate agent, casually.

The dancer stood before them for a few moments, only six feet away, and
the lust in Faris Deeb, vanquishing his avarice as nothing had
vanquished it before, made a mental bid of ten pounds. With a violent
thumping in his heart and a growing weakness in his knees, he said to
his companion:

"If you have a mind to invite her, don't let my presence stand in the
way. I shall have to be leaving for the village shortly anyhow."
Desperately he hoped that Khawaja Jamil would take the hint, invite the
girl and one of her companions, press him to delay his return to the
village. The bidding in his mind went up to fifteen pounds as his eyes
gazed now at the dancer's navel, now at the tips of her trembling
breasts. Surely, fifteen pounds should cover everything--the whisky, the
champagne and all that was to follow. On these hopes and daring
calculations, Khawaja Jamil slammed the door by saying:

"I didn't want it for myself, Khawaja Faris; I'm here every night. It
was to provide you with a little entertainment--but as you must be going
back to Barkita soon there will be no time. Let us hope there will be
other occasions. I will accompany you to the car stand. What time were
you thinking of leaving?"

Faris Deeb's thwarted desire turned into a murderous hate for his
companion. He pulled at his watch-chain and took out of his waistcoat
pocket the old, nickel watch, his father had given him on his
twenty-first birthday. "I think I will be going now," he said curtly.
"It's eleven o'clock."

"Well, let me know as soon as you've made up your mind about that little
property. If you decide to buy--and, by my honour, you will not find a
better bargain going in Tripoli for a long time--we will have a big
celebration. We will come here again, and there will be no nonsense
about your having to go back to Barkita so early in the evening. The fun
here begins only after midnight. You'll have to stay till morning. But
let me whisper a secret in your ear: this pretty piece from Cairo you've
taken such a fancy to is only staying another week, so don't let matters
slide for too long."




CHAPTER 4


The car from Tripoli, in which Faris Deeb took a seat for Barkita,
deposited him on the main road in the valley a few minutes before
midnight. From there to his house on the hillside was a short walk of
some fifteen or twenty minutes by a footpath which passed close to his
apple orchard, whose crop he had sold that morning, while it was still
on the trees, and was to deliver the following Sunday. The light of a
large moon flooded the valley, but the only noises to be heard in it, as
Faris Deeb started to walk, were those of the receding car that had
brought him from Tripoli and was now on its way to the next village, and
of the river, lapping its banks or tumbling over a rock here and there.
The pool, which the river formed in a pocket among the rocks, gleamed
with silver reflections in the distance.

Faris Deeb was still thinking of the Egyptian dancer. The shapes and
motions of her body filled his drunken brain, and his own body ached
with the hunger they had provoked. In imagination he sought the
fulfilments which had eluded him in reality, constructed the scene which
had never taken place. Would it really take place if he bought the
property within the coming week? His avarice made further fantastic
concessions. He would pay twenty pounds, twenty-five pounds. But was the
estate agent serious? Without him he could do nothing, even with
twenty-five pounds. He did not know how to set about these things. He
couldn't go to the cabaret by himself, take a table, invite a girl,
didn't know how to start, what to say. His dependence on the estate
agent for the pleasure he wanted tormented him. And, rough villager
though he was, a strange sense of shame made it impossible for him to go
to the agent and say, "Look here, I want that girl. I'll pay twenty-five
pounds for her. I'll buy that property if you fix it up for me." Why
couldn't he? They were both property, weren't they? Both for sale?

His thoughts were suddenly arrested by something he saw. A figure moved
on the river bank just behind his orchard, shadowy and, as it seemed to
him, stealthy. He stood still and peered through the trees. The figure
appeared and disappeared, with slow and careful motion, as though
picking its way on the rocks that surrounded the pool, some hundred
yards from where he stood. His suspicious nature instantly prompted the
thought that somebody was coming to steal his apples, fill a sack with
them and sell them the next day in the market. By God, he would teach
the rascal and the whole village a lesson! He would catch the thief
red-handed and give him the thrashing of his life before dragging him to
the police post!

With this intention he went into the orchard and began to advance slowly
and noiselessly in the direction of the moving figure. For a few moments
he lost it behind a clump of trees, but he was getting very close to it
now and he took careful steps so as not to frighten the marauder away
before he could catch him in the act of committing his crime. When a few
moments later the figure reappeared, now only ten yards away or so,
Faris Deeb was dumbfounded. It was the figure of a woman, standing among
a group of rocks above the pool, with her back to him, taking off her
clothes. He stood utterly still behind a tree, so that she could not see
him even if she turned round, and gazed at her. He was certain, without
seeing her face, that she was not a local woman. No woman of the village
would be mad enough to come bathing in this pool at midnight by herself.
It must be an English or American woman from the hotel. These Westerners
were eccentric enough for anything.

Although the woman obviously thought that she was completely unobserved,
Faris Deeb at first imagined that she had a bathing costume on
underneath her dress, and that all he was going to see when she had
finished stripping was a sight similar to some he had seen once or twice
on the beaches of Tripoli when he had visited the town in summer, but
rendered more exciting by night and the solitude of the place. He and
this woman were alone in the valley, and she did not know that he was
watching her as she removed her surface clothing. He waited to see her
in her bathing costume. But when the clothes came off--some pulled over
her head, some unfastened behind her back, some sliding down her
legs--there was no bathing costume. She stood for a moment naked in the
moonlight, then bent forward and dived into the pool.

Shameless woman! thought Faris Deeb with provoked lust masquerading as
offended modesty. What does she think this place is--a brothel? I have a
good mind to give her a thrashing when she comes out; she deserves it
even more than an apple thief would have done. By God, I'll take her
clothes away before she comes out! That would make her look a fool of a
bitch, having to go back to the hotel naked!

While these expressions of hypocritical indignation were whirling round
the surface of his mind, Faris Deeb's eyes gazed immovably at the
bathing figure, and his body clamoured with a dark and imperious urge.
When the bather swam towards the farther end of the pool, he crept
forward and stood behind the trunk of a nearer tree, only a few yards
from where the woman's clothes were. Then the bather swam back towards
him. At first she was doing a gentle breast stroke, and he could only
see her head above the water, but the face was distinct enough to show
him that she was both young and pretty. The water around her rippled
with broken gleams of moonlight. The head came nearer and nearer. Then
it stopped, and Faris Deeb's heart beat with a giddy excitement at what
he saw next. The bather spread her arms out, dipped her head into the
water and let her body rise to the surface in a straight, motionless
line, the legs held close together, the feet thrusting gently in and out
of the water. She remained thus for a few seconds, then she turned over
and floated on her back, her breasts and the swell of her belly just
above the edge of the water.

A hundred thousand Egyptian belly dancers could not have provided such a
spectacle for the eyes of Faris Deeb. Although he had little poetry in
his soul, the beauty of this secret, natural vision in its setting of
moonlit water among the rocks and trees had a magic which overwhelmed
him. The desires which had first stirred in him in the public,
artificial atmosphere of the cabaret sharpened to an unbearably
exquisite yearning. And--the thought flamed up suddenly in his brain,
sweet and terrifying with its seductive power--here, the object of his
desire was immediately accessible. He would not have to pay twenty-five
pounds. He would not have to wait on the estate agent's favour. What his
eyes saw, his hands could stretch out and seize. He had heard that these
English and American women were only too willing. Perhaps, she was lying
there hoping that some man would see her. Perhaps that was why she had
done this thing.

At these thoughts a terrible agitation shook him. A great desire urged
him on, but a great fear held him back; and in this state of tormenting
conflict he remained for a few minutes motionless behind the tree.
Afraid of the vision, and of the temptations it was whipping up in him,
he shut his eyes. Then, desire overcoming fear by the weight of a straw,
he opened them again and took a step forward. And just then, the bather
came out of the water. Faris Deeb's courage faltered again. He gazed,
helplessly and furiously, at the bather as she dried herself with a
small towel. The minutes were slipping quickly. Soon she would be
dressed, she would be gone. Yet, he could not move. Sick with rage at
her provocation, at his cowardice, he took comfort again in moral
indignation. "Shameless woman!" he muttered to himself. "Harlot! I shall
report this to the municipality; they must not allow it to happen again.
This is my orchard. I won't have naked women swimming next to it. By
God, I won't!"

In a moment the woman had put on her few clothes and departed, walking
back to the hotel. Faris Deeb watched her go, then, raging with
frustration and self-contempt, he left the orchard and headed again for
home--and Rosa.




CHAPTER 5


Faris Deeb opened his eyes the next morning as though awaking from a
dream that had taken him to a remote and magical land. For a few
seconds, as he drifted back into consciousness, he really thought he had
dreamt the strange experience that had befallen him on his way home the
night before. Its reality, its indubitable reality came back to him only
slowly, bringing sweet and increasing amazement. He tried to recapture
the vision, to stand behind the tree, to gaze upon the pool and what he
had seen in it. But he could not concentrate in the harsh morning light
and amidst the morning bustle of activity in the house. His father's
_argileh_ was already gurgling on the terrace. Mitry was getting ready
to go to the shop. Rosa was giving Antoine and Genevieve their breakfast
before they set off for their respective jobs. The voices and noises,
the comings and goings jarred on his nerves. He was angry and irritable.
The vision would not stay in his mind. It broke and splintered
teasingly, and the splinters pricked and goaded him. When he had got
into his bed at half past midnight, he was resigned to accepting Rosa as
a consolation for the vanished excitements of the cabaret and the pool,
but the old cow had been asleep and he had not been able to wake her.

"Rosa!" he called, as he finished dressing, "bring me a cup of coffee
quickly. I want to go down to the orchard."

"What do you want to go down to the orchard for?" said Rosa, speaking to
herself and the children in the next room, where she was giving them
their meal. "Haven't you sold the crop?"

He heard her but did not answer. He could not even be bothered to inform
Antoine of his decision to charge him eight pounds a month for his keep.
A desire to keep himself to himself, to remain alone with his thoughts
dictated an avoidance of all intercourse with his family. And with
himself he was in a state of rage. Bitter tauntings assailed him from
the secret places of his mind, hopeless yearnings after a lost
opportunity. Why had he been such a fool and coward, refrained from
touching after seeing, walked away feebly from the orchard, meditating
revenge by complaining to the municipality? Complaining!

He came out on the terrace as Rosa was arriving from the kitchen with
his coffee.

"Don't you want your _argileh_?" she asked, not from any desire to
minister to his further pleasure, but merely as a matter of routine, and
so as not to waste the tobacco if he was not going to wait for it.

"No," he said. "Why? Have you soaked the tobacco? I did not ask you to.
I said only coffee."

"No, I have not soaked it."

"Here," said his father, "you can have a draw at mine to go with your
coffee." He offered his son the mouthpiece of the _argileh_ tube.

"I will smoke a cigarette," said Faris Deeb, taking out of his pocket a
packet of American cigarettes which the estate agent had bought him at
the cabaret the night before. He lit one, drew at it deeply, and sipped
his coffee.

"They're expensive, these American cigarettes," said his father,
surprised that his son, who never bought any but local cigarettes,
should have indulged in such an extravagance.

"I didn't buy them myself; they're a present."

"Mitry tells me you sold the apple crop for a good price," said Rosa.

"Not so good that you can buy yourself a silk dress," said Faris Deeb.
Looking at his wife, he was filled with a flaming hatred for all women.
The Egyptian dancer had eluded him; the woman in the pool had eluded
him; even his own woman, whom he dressed and fed, had eluded, was always
eluding him now. Cow, lump of dough, even when she was awake! "I shall
need all the money I have to buy that property in Tripoli," he added, by
way of a stern warning against any projects involving an increase in
domestic expenditure.

"Will you be going to buy it, then?" asked Abu Faris. "Did you have a
look at it yesterday?"

"Ay."

"Did you look at it by moonlight?" asked Rosa. "You were very late
coming home."

The form of her question, and what he had seen by moonlight checked his
impulse to chastise her sarcasm with a violent retort. Strangely, he
found himself on the defensive, and merely said: "I had to spend the
evening discussing it with the estate agent." This slight, temporary
abdication of his power galled him, so he added with cold anger:
"Anyhow, how do you know at what time I came home. When I arrived you
were sleeping like a cow."

"I was awake at half past ten, and you had not returned," she said.

"It's none of your business when I come home... I may be late again
this evening; there's some more business I have to transact. And you
can't complain that I disturb your sweet slumbers when I arrive. The
dead trunk of a tree has more life in it than you, once your thick head
flops on the pillow!" He sipped the last of his coffee and walked out of
the house, saying to Rosa, "Send me some breakfast to the shop later; my
father can bring it."

Rosa thought, "Wish I could send you poison and crushed glass to rid us
all of you! Why don't you die? Hundreds of decent people, loved by their
families, useful to the world, die every day. But you'll bury us all and
live to be ninety!"

Faris Deeb walked briskly down the footpath that led to his orchard and
the pool beyond it. The agitation in his spirit communicated a jerky,
stumbling impulse to his legs, and the distant view of the pool drew him
with a teasing magnetism. It was still early morning and there were few
people about, but the straight golden shafts of the climbing sun were
striking here and there into the valley, lighting up pocket after pocket
of it. This was the real world, not the phantom world of the moonlit
night; but that phantom world was all that Faris Deeb saw with his
mind's eye. Vanished from earth and sky now, yet filling his mind, it
had a secret reality which made the day seem like a dead reflection of
it. The orchard, when he reached it, was just a congregation of apple
trees, as it had always been till the night before, having no meaning
beyond itself. He stood behind the tree that had concealed him while he
watched the bather, and gazed at the pool. The water sparkled in the
sun, but it was nothing more than just water. The rock on which the
bather had left her clothes, on which she had stood drying herself, when
she came out of the pool, lay above the water--a grey, flat ledge of
stone, sterile, yielding nothing. Faris Deeb was bitterly disappointed
in all this commonness and barrenness. He had come hoping to recapture
the vision, the reality of what he had seen. But what his eyes saw now
only interfered with the picture in his mind.

There was only one hope--that the bather would come again that night.
This possibility had first occurred to him while he was talking to Rosa
a few minutes earlier; and the promise and the challenge of it were now
pounding in his heart. Opposite extremes of fear assailed him--fear of
doing the thing he desired if he was tempted again, and fear of being
too cowardly to do it. Perhaps it was better that he should not come to
the pool again that night; anyhow, who said _she_ was coming again? And
if he came and there was nobody, it would be a bitter disappointment,
and he would feel a fool and be tired and sleepy, waiting in vain till
after midnight. And if he came and found her...? He turned away from
the pool, walked through the orchard and headed for his shop. The sight
of the apples hanging heavily on the boughs deflected his thought. The
greedy doubt which he always felt after concluding a transaction,
however profitable, assailed him again: could he have squeezed another
few pounds out of the buyer? But if he was greedy, he was also vain, and
he dispelled the doubt with a quick reassertion of his vanity as the
most astute dealer in the village, who always got the best of a bargain.




CHAPTER 6


Rosa was not surprised to see the village Greek Orthodox priest coming
towards the house in the middle of the morning, accompanied by the boy
who carried for him the little vessel of holy water with which he
sprinkled benediction over the houses of the members of his flock, in
return for a small contribution for the Church--which meant, as the
parishioners knew, a present for himself. Rosa hurried to the drawer
where she kept her purse, and took out a couple of twenty-five piastre
notes--the equivalent of a shilling--which was the usual amount she gave
for this unsolicited blessing. It was enough for the holy beggar--that
and the cup of coffee she would have to make him!

Having equipped herself financially for the visit, she removed her
apron, put a comb through her hair, and did some rapid tidying in the
sitting-room. Then she went out to welcome the visitor, as he reached
the garden gate. He was an elderly priest, with a greying beard; and he
wore the long, black habit, black cloak and tall, black hat of his
office; it was like a top-hat, but instead of a curving rim at the
bottom, it had a short, flat rim at the top. The hem of his garment was
grey with dust from his walk up the hillside.

"Welcome, welcome, Abuna," said Rosa, opening the gate. "Good morning to
you; do me the honour to come in." She took his hand and kissed it.

"Good morning to you, and may God bless you, my daughter," he said,
coming in with his acolyte. "I hope I have not interrupted you in your
work."

"Abuna's visit is always welcome, whatever it interrupts," she said,
leading him into the house and thinking that if he had come the day
before, when her lover was there, the interruption would have been most
abominable.

"You are very kind, my daughter," he said, then, as they entered the
hall, he turned to his water-carrier, took the small whisk from the
vessel and sprayed a few drops of benediction in various directions,
mumbling the appropriate formulas. Rosa took out her two twenty-five
piastre notes and pushed them into the boy's hand, as though they were a
tip for him, whereas in fact all three of them knew that, by a polite
convention, the poor lad acted only as a recipient for the priest.

When these formalities were over, Rosa ushered the priest into the
sitting-room, and went into the kitchen to make him the customary cup of
coffee. The boy sat out by himself on the terrace, eating an apple which
Rosa had given him.

The priest had a delicate mission to carry out. He had not come merely
for the fifty piastres Rosa had given him, but for another purpose as
well. In her confessions to him Rosa had never mentioned anything about
her lover; but rumours had reached him of late, and he had decided to
convey a veiled warning to the erring woman. It was both in her interest
and in his that he should do so. The more he knew about the secret
weaknesses of his parishioners, and the more they knew that he knew, the
greater would his power be over them, the more generous their donations
to the Church. Father Boulos was not above a little indirect blackmail
in such matters, but it had to be very indirect and delicately
practised.

When Rosa came back with the coffee therefore he began by asking her the
usual questions about the health and well-being of the family.

"As to health," said Rosa, "they are all well, thank you, Abuna, and
praise be to God. But you know what Faris is like. What shall I tell
you?"

"You need not tell me anything, my daughter. I know what Faris is like.
I know everybody and everything in this village."

Rosa started slightly at the almost imperceptible stress he laid on the
word "everything."

"Of course, of course," she said plaintively, deciding to ignore any
possible innuendo and assume that Father Boulos was merely referring to
her husband's ill-treatment of her and the children. "You know all our
secrets."

"Does he still beat you?" asked the priest.

"He struck me in the face only yesterday morning. Look. Perhaps you can
see the mark. But I don't care about myself. It's the children, the
children, Abuna! He makes their life a misery. That's why he struck me
yesterday--because I was standing up for them. My heart bleeds at the
way he treats them. He's a tyrant. He has no love or mercy in his
heart."

"Never mind, my daughter. You must forgive him. It is his temper. God
made him so, and we cannot understand the ways of God. But we must
remember that we are all sinners and in need of God's mercy. Every one
of us is a sinner, is that not so?"

"Of course, Abuna," she said, avoiding his eyes that were fixed on her
significantly, while she looked down on the floor with an expression of
conventional religious humility, as though merely acknowledging her
share of the universal sinfulness of mankind. She still was not sure
whether there was any hidden meaning in his words.

"I hear a lot about the unhappiness and the wickedness of people,"
continued the priest, "not only from what my parishioners tell me about
themselves in the confessional, but also from the gossip that goes on.
In a small village like this there is much gossip. God preserve us from
malicious tongues."

"Amen," said Rosa, still seemingly taking the priest's remarks as
expressions of general truths, but convinced now that he knew of her sin
and was admonishing her in particular.

"The most important things in life," exhorted Father Boulos, "are fear
of God, and a good reputation. If Abu Mitry will not mend his ways, you
have the satisfaction, at least, that you have never given him cause to
ill treat you; and if your conscience is at peace, nothing else can
really hurt you. God be with you, my daughter. I will have to leave you
now." He slapped his knees, with large and fleshy hands, as though
spurring a mount, and prepared to rise.

"Just a moment, Abuna; you must take some of our grapes and apples;
they're the best we've ever had. I'll fill you a small basket, and the
boy can carry it for you and bring it back when you've emptied it."

"Don't trouble yourself," he said, after Rosa's retreating figure, and
in a protest which he did not mean to be taken seriously. "I've got some
in the house."

Rosa came back with the basket of fruit, but knowing that Father Boulos
preferred cash to presents in kind she pushed another twenty-five
piastre note into the boy's hand as he and his master were departing.

"You shouldn't have done that," said the priest. "You've already given
him something."

"Never mind," said Rosa, full of amiability. "It isn't every day I have
the pleasure of seeing Abuna. You have honoured and blessed the house."
To herself, she thought: "Beggar and hypocrite!" as she stood watching
him and the boy going down the hill. Who had told him? How had he come
to know? She and Yusef had been lovers for two years now, and she had
been so careful that she thought nobody knew about it. She was not
afraid of Father Boulos. He would not say anything to her husband. A few
piastres every now and then were enough to keep his mouth shut. Faris
never gave him a bean. No, he wouldn't tell on her. He was just giving
her a friendly warning to put her under an obligation, so that she
should give him a few extra piastres. She knew the old fox well enough.
Holy man indeed! Nevertheless, what he had reported by his oblique
remarks alarmed her. If people in the village--wicked, wicked gossips,
what business was it of theirs?--were talking, Faris might pick up
something, and then.... She must warn Yusef at once. Yusef had a
silly, swaggering streak in his nature, and he drank. He might have said
something incautious, perhaps boastful, when drinking with a friend.

Rosa took a red towel and went out into the garden. There, she placed
the towel triangularly on the clothes line at a certain point. That was
an agreed signal between her and her lover. Yusef would see it from his
garage, and know what it meant. It meant Rosa wanted to see him
urgently, but not in the house (the signal for the all-clear in the
house was a blue towel); in such circumstances, they met in a derelict,
half-finished house (whose owner had returned to South America to make
enough money to complete it, but had not been heard of for many years)
in the outskirts of the village. As soon as Yusef was able to leave the
garage, after seeing the towel, he would sound three sharp hoots on an
old motor horn which he kept in the garage specially for the purpose.
Then Rosa would set out for the derelict house.

The signalling system having functioned successfully, Rosa and Yusef met
half an hour later. She was the first to arrive, and when he came in,
she said apprehensively:

"You made sure no one saw you enter?"

"Yes. What's the matter? Anything happened? Has he struck you again, the
beast?" He was about her own age, a little over forty, and not much
taller; good-looking in a robust, undistinguished way, with ruddy cheeks
and thick black hair; and his hands, in spite of the wash he had given
them before leaving the garage, still bore the stains of engine oil.

"No; I wouldn't call you out here in the middle of the morning just to
tell you that."

"Never mind what you called me for. Now that you're here, I'm going to
take what I want." He smiled naughtily, taking her in his arms and
pressing her close to him. "It does your looks good to be made love to.
You looked fine yesterday, but to-day you are the queen of Lebanon! When
can I come again to the house?"

"It seems you're already coming too often."

"What do you mean?"

She told him of the priest's visit.

"I'll pluck the old gossip's beard if he doesn't keep his mouth shut!"
broke out Yusef, who had no more respect for the local clergy than Rosa,
and who expressed his sentiments with the swagger which Rosa feared.

"He'll keep it shut all right, but it means others are talking."

"Who's talking? Let me know who it is, and I'll give him such a bleeding
mouth that he'll never be able to talk again."

"And much good that'll do us. The whole village would know then."

"Well, let them know; let them talk. They all know the beast beats you.
Let them know you're having your revenge on him." His voice dropped its
defiant swagger and became softly amorous, seductive, as he lifted her
skirt and began caressing her thighs. They were now sitting on a long
stone which had been left lying on the floor of the half-finished room.
A few thorny plants grew around it from the untiled floor.

"We must talk of serious things just now," she said, but without
attempting to arrest the progress of his caresses. "You must be very
discreet, Yusef!"

"But I am discreet. Why, when we meet in the village, I pretend not to
see you."

"It's not your eyes I'm afraid of; it's your tongue. Have you told
anyone about us? Any of your friends?"

"I swear by the bones of my father and mother not a word has come out of
my lips."

"Not when you're sober, but you can't always be sure what you say when
you're drinking with your friends, and they start talking of Faris and
of how cunning and astute he is, and of how everybody fears him in the
village, and of how he underpaid you for the lorry he hired from you for
the transport of the grain; you might be tempted to let drop some word."

"No, no, my heart. Never fear."

"I'm not afraid on my own account; I don't fear him and I can look after
myself all right. But I fear for you, my love. Faris might do something
dreadful to you if he came to hear anything."

"If you can look after yourself, so can I. I am stronger than he is, if
it comes to a fight. I'll knock him down in the middle of the market
place. I'll kill him!"

"And be hanged for it or go to prison for the rest of your life?"

"Not if he attacks me. But you don't have to worry about it Rosa; he
will never come to know anything. Nobody will tell him; they all hate
him."

"Exactly. Someone may tell him just out of hatred, to humiliate him.
Besides, it isn't only Faris I'm thinking of; I don't want the children
to hear anything."

"But who will tell them? People are sorry for them because they have
such a bad father."

"You never know. If Mitry or Antoine quarrels with somebody, if a girl
becomes jealous of Genevieve, they might easily try to insult them--say,
'Go and see what your mother is doing,' or 'Who are you to talk to
people like that when your mother is not a respectable woman?'"

"They wouldn't dare; they would have me to answer to then. I'd break the
jaw of anyone who said that."

"But they would be right," she said, changing her tone from the warning
to the penitential. "I am not a respectable woman, am I?" She looked
down on her exposed thighs and on his hand that was sweeping them
languorously.

"Oh, Rosa," he said, "you are a beautiful and lovely woman."

"Go on with you. I'm no longer young; I have three grown up children."

"And you have thighs like the full-blown inner tube of a car tyre--just
as firm and smooth and beautifully rounded! Oh, if he would only die, we
could get married, Rosa, and be together always, and do this every day,
every day."

"He won't die. The likes of him never do. He will live to bury us all;
so you must be very careful, my love."




CHAPTER 7


Faris Deeb found it difficult to settle down to any work that morning.
He pretended, before Mitry, to be going through some old accounts, but
not even the fascination of figures that represented his profitable
transactions and symbolized his astuteness, power and modest wealth
could divert his mind from the strange experiences of the night before
and the disturbing desires and speculations they had given rise to. He
ordered two or three cups of Turkish coffee from the caf near his shop,
and smoked more than half the packet of American cigarettes which the
estate agent in Tripoli had presented him with the day before. Twice he
left the shop, as though going on important business, but merely walked
through the village in the direction of the hotel, then came back. Even
if he saw her by daylight, he doubted whether he would recognize her;
and he wasn't sure that he wanted to see her by daylight. By midday he
had made up his mind, while returning from his second walk towards the
hotel, that he did not want to see her again at all, that he would not
go to the pool that night even if he was sure that she was going to be
there. Instead, he would go to Tripoli and clinch the deal with the
estate agent; at least he would tell him that he was going to buy the
land, perhaps pay him a deposit. And that would make the agent take him
to the cabaret again. He would take with him twenty-five pounds in
addition to the deposit money. He would have that Egyptian dancer. She
was there to sell her body, wasn't she? And he could afford to buy it.
It was a commercial transaction which, strange as the cabaret world was
to him, he could understand. He might feel awkward about it, but it did
not frighten him like the experience at the pool.

On his way back to the shop, he stopped at Yusef's garage to ask if
there were any cars going to Tripoli in the afternoon.

"Where's Yusef?" he asked one of the boys who worked in the garage.

"He's gone out on a job," said the boy. "Will be back soon."

"I never find him here when I want him," growled Faris Deeb. "Where the
hell does he keep buzzing out to?"

"Don't know. Was it about the lorry for the grain you wanted to see
him?"

"No. Are there any cars going to Tripoli after lunch?"

"Don't know."

"There isn't a single cursed thing you do know, is there? Let Yusef send
me word when he comes back, do you hear?"

At that moment Yusef walked into the garage, whistling a gay tune. He
had left Rosa ten minutes before.

"You seem to be very pleased with the world," said Faris Deeb, turning
to face him. "Must have been a very profitable job you were out on."

Yusef stopped his whistling abruptly, startled to see Faris Deeb in the
garage.

"It is you, Abu Mitry, who make all the profit in this village. The rest
of us just scrape along," he said defensively.

"Ah, you don't do too badly, Yusef, judging by the price you charged me
for that lorry."

"The lorry!" said Yusef, his alarm allayed. "By Almighty God, you still
owe me a pound for that lorry!" The loud protestation of his financial
grievance against the cuckold caressed him with its pleasing irony.

"Never mind about the lorry," said Faris Deeb. "Do you know of any cars
going to Tripoli this afternoon?" The embarrassing purpose for which he
wanted the car made him less aggressive than usual.

"No, all the Tripoli cars have gone now."

"And the 'buses?"

"There are none to-day."

Faris Deeb had feared this, but his desire for the Egyptian dancer was
so urgent now that he was prepared to surmount the transport obstacle by
a method he had never resorted to in his life before. For no purpose
whatever had he once hired a whole car for the journey to Tripoli. He
had always travelled by 'bus, or paid for one seat in a car that took
several passengers. By these methods of public transport the journey
cost the trifling sum of forty or fifty piastres. A whole car would cost
at least four times that amount, and if only a large car was available,
six times.

"I've got very important business in Tripoli," he said. "I will hire a
whole car. Can you let me have one?"

"A whole car?" said Yusef amazed. "Single journey, or return?"

"No, single journey; I shall be staying there a few hours. I shan't want
to keep it all the time. I can always find a seat for the return."

"It must be very important business indeed," said Yusef, quickly working
out in his mind a figure that would make up to him his loss on the
lorry.

"Not so important that I will let you fleece me," said Faris Deeb, with
a return of his aggressiveness and afraid that he had betrayed too much
eagerness. "The matter can wait till to-morrow, but I'd rather go to-day
if your price is reasonable."

"I don't think I can spare you a car," said Yusef, determined to make
most of the situation, psychologically and financially. To torment the
old bully in this way was almost as agreeable as sleeping with his wife!

"What about the Buick, there?"

"That's promised for another journey at four o'clock."

"It could take me to Tripoli and be back here before four."

"Scarcely; and certainly not if it had a breakdown on the way."

"Who's it promised to?"

"Some people at the hotel; they want to go up to the cedars."

"What people?"

"A party of Americans. What time were you thinking of starting?"

"Round about two--just after lunch."

"That makes it out of the question. The car couldn't go to Tripoli and
return in two hours." Yusef felt his power growing. To his amazement
Faris Deeb was becoming almost humble. He looked embarrassed, confused.

"I could leave a little earlier. I'll give you a pound for the trip."

"A pound for the Buick, all the way to Tripoli! No, Abu Mitry, you'd
better wait till to-morrow and go by 'bus. You say it is not a matter of
great urgency."

Faris Deeb's aggressiveness returned. "Come on," he commanded, "let me
have that Buick. I can't spend the day bargaining with you. I'll give
you a pound and a quarter, and that's my last word."

"Two pounds."

"By God, you're presuming too much. Don't make me angry, I tell you. I'm
having that Buick for a pound and a quarter. Here it is...." He took
out his wallet and produced the money.

At this stage, Yusef felt that he had gone far enough. And the
presentation of the money ensured him against default.

"By Almighty God," he said, but in a relenting tone, indicating that he
had accepted the price, "it is too little."

"Come on, come on, it is quite enough," said Faris Deeb, becoming almost
amiable now that he had secured his object. "And I'll tell you what, if
your driver can pick up another passenger on the way, I shan't mind
sharing the car, and you'll get the extra fare."

"God be with you, Abu Mitry," said Yusef, unable to resist the irony,
"it is good of you to share what is yours with others."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Faris Deeb arrived in Tripoli soon after three and made straight for the
estate agent's office. He had shaved, put on his best Sunday suit, and
brought with him one hundred pounds--seventy-five to be paid, if
absolutely necessary, as a deposit on the land, and twenty-five to be
spent with the estate agent in celebrating the conclusion of the deal,
in the manner indicated by that artful salesman.

There were many questions that still troubled him. For instance, where
would they go after the cabaret, and the drive in the car? To the
dancer's rooms? To a hotel? To the estate agent's flat? And when would
he be required to pay the money? He was not going to be made a fool of.
He would only pay at the end, if he had got what he wanted. And how
exactly was he going to get it? He still did not know, could not
envisage the precise sequence of events in these matters. He supposed
that at the cabaret, when they invited the girls to sit with them (there
would be _another_ girl for the agent; the Egyptian was going to be
his), they would talk and drink, becoming gradually merrier, more and
more intimate. Then, he supposed, Khawaja Jamil would intimate to the
girls that they wished to have their company after the show, say
something about a drive in his car. That was the procedure Khawaja Jamil
had suggested; and he had more or less offered him the Egyptian girl.
Well, he must make sure that in the car he had her to himself in the
back seat, while the estate agent had the other girl in front with him.
Then.... Here Faris Deeb's imagination faltered, knowledge failed
him, but an instinct deeper than knowledge came to his aid--the
awareness of an urge which somehow or other would cause him to begin, to
take the girl's hand, to make the first contact with her body. He would
have had a few drinks. That would give him courage. Then.... Curse
her, she was there to take his money in return for her services! He
should not be afraid to demand what he was going to pay for. She herself
would offer it, would help him along....

He was bitterly disappointed to find that the estate agent was out. His
clerk said that Khawaja Jamil had gone to see a property in a village a
few miles outside Tripoli.

"But he will be coming back?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Maybe he will, maybe not. He said if he wasn't back by six, I was to
lock up and go. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, I want to see him personally; I will wait."

"Please take a seat. Boy, fetch a cup of coffee for the gentleman--or
would you rather have a coca cola?"

"Please don't trouble yourself."

"But you must. Khawaja Jamil would be angry if you had nothing."

"All right; coffee, then."

"From what village does Your Presence come?" asked the clerk, while
Faris Deeb was waiting for his coffee.

"Barkita," said Faris Deeb, stung by the fact that the clerk had seen,
even through his best clothes, that he was not a man of the town.

"It is my misfortune that I have never been to it. They say it is a
lovely place, with a river and a pool in the valley."

"Yes, it is not a bad little place."

"And the new hotel is doing very well--very popular with the Americans
and the English of the I.P.C. and the Tapline. Got many of them staying
up there now?"

"Quite a few." The memories of the previous night, which for some time
had lain quiescent in his mind, subdued by thoughts of the Egyptian
dancer, quivered into activity again--image after image, movement after
movement, teasing him with their vanished sweetness. He lit a cigarette
and sipped his coffee in silence, glad that the clerk had stopped
talking to him.

Four o'clock came and there still was no sign of Khawaja Jamil. Faris
Deeb had been waiting nearly a whole hour. Outwardly, he registered the
entrance and exit of several clients who came to see the estate agent,
had a few words with his clerk and left; the appearance of two or three
beggars in the doorway, one of them a Moslem woman, all dressed and
veiled in black, carrying a sickly-looking infant; the clerk, working at
his papers, occasionally answering the telephone or hammering a few
lines on the typewriter. But the whole time, his inner thoughts and the
vision of his mind remained fixed--or rather moved in a see-saw fixation
between the girl in the pool and the cabaret dancer.

"Khawaja Jamil is being a long time," he said at last.

"I am very sorry," said the clerk, looking up from his files. "Did you
have a definite appointment with him?"

"Not exactly, but he was expecting me to get in touch with him. It's
about a property I want to buy in Tripoli; we saw it together yesterday,
and I said I'd think it over and let him know my decision. That's why
I've come to-day."

"Have you decided to buy then?"

"Not exactly. I want to discuss the matter further with him."

"Well, if he knows you may be coming to-day he will probably be
returning quite soon. Here are some newspapers; they will help you to
pass the time. Would you like another coffee?"

"No, thank you." Faris Deeb took the newspapers and began to glance at
them. There was little in the first two that held his attention. But the
moment he looked at the third, he stiffened in his seat with a shock of
amazement. On the front page there was quite a large picture of the head
and shoulders of a young woman, whom he instantly recognized as the girl
in the pool. The fact that it was a black-and-white picture and that the
eyes were in deep shadow, as he had seen them the night before, leaving
the face to appear as a piece of sculpture in which only projections and
depressions and general outlines formed the image, made it much more
recognizable than if he had seen the colour and expression of the eyes,
the paint on lips and cheeks. What he had seen in the night was a
pattern of light and shade, and this was what he saw now.

"Anyone you recognize there?" asked the clerk, who happened to look at
him just then and notice the fixed expression with which he was gazing
at the pictures.

"Oh, no! I'm just looking."

"That girl there is an American film star--you haven't got a cinema at
Barkita, have you?"

"No, but I've often been to the cinema in Tripoli and Beirut," said
Faris Deeb, anxious to let the clerk know that he was a cultured man.

"Ever seen her there? Jeannette Waverley?"

"No, never seen her."

"She's been in the Lebanon for a few weeks, playing a part in the film
they're making at Baalbek. Now, she's gone to have a quiet holiday
somewhere in the mountains before she returns to her country. Maybe she
will come to you at Barkita!"

"What would bring her there," said Faris Deeb, jealously, fearfully
guarding his secret.

"She doesn't want people to know where she's gone. They say she's a
woman of mystery and likes to be by herself; and when she was here and
in Beirut, my, my, you should have seen the crowds that swarmed around
her!"

Another client came into the office, and the clerk became engaged with
him in a business conversation. Faris Deeb put the newspaper down with a
gesture of pretended indifference, and lit another cigarette; but his
eyes kept going back stealthily to gaze upon the picture. American or
European film stars, as such, had little glamour for him since he did
not know much about them. When he went to the cinema in Tripoli or
Beirut, it was to see Arabic films featuring mainly famous singers.
Also, what the clerk had told him destroyed, in a sense, the magic of
the previous night. The woman he had seen in the pool was an impersonal
being, the creature of a dream. To see her picture now in a newspaper,
to know her name, to be told who she was--all that came between him and
the vision he had seen. The Egyptian dancer was different. He had seen
her in public, on the floor of a cabaret; and she was still the person
he had seen--a semi-prostitute to be had at a total cost of twenty-five
pounds or so, if only Khawaja Jamil would come. Faris Deeb began to feel
a mounting animosity towards the estate agent for his continued absence.
At five o'clock, he accepted another coffee from the clerk; and while he
was drinking it and smoking another cigarette, his hopes that he was
going to be rewarded for his long wait revived for a while, but, as five
minutes after five minutes slipped past on the clock, they began to
dwindle again, and his gloom deepened into bitter frustration.

At five to six, the clerk said: "It doesn't look as though Khawaja Jamil
was coming," and he began to tidy up his papers for the night.

"No; I will be going," said Faris Deeb.

"If you'd only made a definite appointment with him for this afternoon,
he wouldn't have gone out of town, I'm sure, or he'd have been back
before now. I'm very sorry you've had to wait all this time to no
purpose. Will you be coming again to-morrow?"

"No. I have work in the village to-morrow. I will get in touch with him
later. Good night."

Faris Deeb had come to a very daring decision. He would go to the
cabaret by himself. He would dispense with the introductory services of
the cursed estate agent. After all, it was the money that mattered, and
he had that in his pocket. He might even feel less awkward if he went
alone. He would take a secluded table, give his waiter a good tip and
let him fix things up for him. He would hire a taxi for the drive after
the show. The girl must have her own rooms, and when she saw how lavish
he was with the drinks and the tips everything would be all right.

But the cabaret didn't open till eight, so he had another two hours to
while away. He walked about for some time, then went to a caf and
ordered himself a flagon of arak. As he sipped the drink, his resolution
became stronger and stronger, his hopes of success brighter, his
recurring anxieties dimmer. Under the influence of alcohol, the time
passed much more quickly than during his dreary hours of waiting in the
estate agent's office. The minutes became a pleasant stream down which
he floated, between verdant banks, towards eight o'clock.

He left the caf a few minutes before eight and arrived at the cabaret
just as it was opening. A waiter advanced helpfully towards him. "Where
would the Bey like to sit?" he asked. "These tables here are reserved,
but all the others are at your disposal."

Faris Deeb selected a table at some distance from the dancing floor--a
table with two chairs--and sat down with some awkwardness.

"What would the Bey wish to order?" asked the waiter.

"Whisky."

The waiter withdrew, and Faris Deeb cast his eyes about. The show had
not started yet. The Egyptian dancer was not to be seen anywhere. But
the cabaret was rapidly filling with its patrons, and Faris Deeb was
glad that he had arrived so early. He would make sure that nobody
invited her before he did.

In a moment the waiter was back with the whisky. The price was five
shillings, but Faris Deeb, scarcely believing what he was doing, said to
the waiter, "Keep the change," as he gave him the equivalent of a whole
pound in the local currency.

"_Merci_," said the waiter with an immediate increase of attentiveness.
"Is this table to your satisfaction? Would you like me to bring you a
few more chairs before they're all taken? Are you expecting friends?"

"This other chair is enough, thank you," said Faris Deeb.

"You're expecting one friend?"

"Yes."

The waiter, well-versed in these matters, and noticing his patron's
awkwardness and country manners, was quick to understand the situation
and the opportunities it gave him--opportunities which the size of the
tip he had just received made plainer still. He said, confidentially:

"Which is the one you want?"

"I don't understand," said Faris Deeb, plunged into confusion by the
starkness of the question.

"I mean," said the waiter, knowing that the clumsy countryman was
suffering from embarrassment and not from lack of understanding, and
trying to help him by a more tactful approach, "which of the young
ladies you wished to invite to sit at your table, because I could convey
your invitation to her before she accepts another. Or perhaps you
haven't seen them yet? Have you honoured us with a visit before?"

"Yes, I have been here before," said Faris Deeb, assuming the air of an
_habitu_.

"I thought so," said the waiter flatteringly, as though recognizing the
manner, then, as two young men sitting at another table called him, he
said, "Excuse me a minute, please; I will come back to you."

As the waiter departed, Faris Deeb cursed himself for his craven
faltering. The waiter had as good as offered him what he wanted on a
plate, just like the glass of whisky he had brought him, but instead of
taking it promptly he had fumbled and hesitated. The waiter, like the
clerk in the estate agent's office, must have seen that he was a
villager and not a man of the town. The Egyptian dancer would see that
too. He would not know how to set about matters, like the knowledgeable
townsmen she was used to. If he could just take her without these
preliminaries, without speech and social courtesies and the intermediary
offices of a pimp-waiter! But, curse her, he couldn't! He could have
done that the night before, at the pool, when the lonely bather came out
of the water. That would not have required any of these awkward social
preliminaries. It only required the courage of a virile man. But even in
that he had been deficient. An Egyptian holiday-maker at Barkita, the
summer before, had told him all sorts of things about American and
English girls. He had told him that some of them, who came to Cairo, got
Cook's dragomen to make love to them by moonlight behind the Pyramids.
Why should he not have been as acceptable as a Cook's dragoman? Fool,
fool, he had thrown away an opportunity that usually came only in
dreams!

These bitter memories and reflections were cut short by the appearance
of the impresario on the stage to make the first announcement of the
evening. This was to the effect that the evening's programme, a
spectacle of unprecedented attraction, was just about to be opened by
the world-famous Egyptian dancer, Miss Nadia Fahmi, in an entirely new
and original dance called "The Slave of the Sphinx." The announcement
was greeted with a loud clap from the audience, and the clapping became
thunderous when the slave of the Sphinx herself appeared, wearing what
was intended to be an ancient Egyptian costume of black and gold drapery
that hung from her waist, leaving her belly and breasts completely
uncovered, except for the nipple-caps of tinsel and glass beads, and
half-revealing her thighs as she put forward first one foot and then the
other, and swayed her body backwards and forwards. Faris Deeb sought
courage in a gulp (which, he reckoned even while he drank it, had cost
him four or five shillings, taking into account the tip he had given the
waiter) from his whisky and soda. If this creature was the slave of the
Sphinx, then Faris Deeb's most urgent wish at that moment was to be the
Sphinx--even if the Sphinx had to pay for a bottle of champagne and a
lot more to secure the ministrations of his slave.

While the dance was in progress, the waiter, having delivered another
order in the neighbourhood, paused at Faris Deeb's table.

"Is the whisky to the Bey's taste?" he inquired.

"Yes. It is good whisky," said Faris Deeb, taking another gulp and
hoping the waiter would pursue his solicitous inquiries in another
direction.

Not disappointing him, the waiter said: "And the dance? Are you enjoying
it?"

"She dances well. What did the man say her name was?"

The waiter repeated it in a low voice, adding, "Would you like to invite
her? I'll see what I can do about it."

"And another whisky, please," said Faris Deeb, putting another pound
into the waiter's hand to encourage him on his mission, which he had so
obligingly volunteered to discharge, thus relieving Faris Deeb of the
embarrassment of asking for the girl in so many words.

The waiter sped away. The dance came to an end. The applause was
tempestuous. The slave of the Sphinx bowed repeatedly (and Faris Deeb
noticed that even when she did so, her breasts did not droop, like
Rosa's), scattered smiles and kisses among her admirers, and withdrew.
Faris Deeb's embarrassment burned hotly at this demonstration of the
dancer's popularity. All eyes would follow her when she came to sit at
his table, would look at him. He was seized with something like panic. A
shame greater than desire urged him to get up and slip out of the place
before any further developments took place. But then the tide of desire
came back, submerging shame, and he remained seated, waiting. Desire and
a truculent pride. He would make these townsmen jealous. He had the
money, hadn't he? And that was all that mattered. Or, was it? Would she
accept his invitation? Desire, made sick by fear of denial, consumed
him. He waited. And just when his hopes were at their lowest, his
emissary reappeared. Had he been successful? Curse him, he had had a
pound and a half from him already, and doubtless he hoped for more.

"She has accepted your invitation," whispered the waiter, depositing the
whisky and soda. "She will be with you in a moment. I've given her the
number of your table."

Faris Deeb's mind reeled. For a moment it was as if he had become aware
of the spinning of the earth on its axis and was terrified of being
flung off its surface. The incredible had happened. The unattainable was
his. The queen of the cabaret, the beauty whose naked belly and breasts
he had seen, and would be caressing before the night was out, was coming
to him. He straightened his coat, pulled at his tie and waited,
rehearsing nervously a few opening phrases.

In a moment she appeared, fully clothed in a tight dress that emphasized
all that it was supposed to hide, and threaded her way to his table. The
waiter came back just in time to hold her chair for her as she
approached. Faris Deeb rose in a trance. She gave him a restrained
smile.

"Do me the honour to sit down," he said.

"Thank you," she said, sitting down languorously. Her lips, naturally
full, were amplified by the lipstick she wore, and the make-up
lengthened the almond points of her eyes and added blackness to her
eyelashes. A strong perfume, such as Faris Deeb had never smelt before,
came with her, sat with her and, like a sweet, magic drug, caressed more
than his sense of smell. She was no longer a mere cabaret dancer, a
semi-prostitute, the slave of the Sphinx. She was a divinity.

The waiter remained, waiting for the order, and Faris Deeb, recovering
sufficiently from the daze of the first few seconds, said:

"Ask the lady what she would like to drink?"

"Champagne," said the goddess.

"Champagne," repeated Faris Deeb.

The waiter withdrew nimbly. The goddess gave Faris Deeb another smile of
limited significance. Another number was now in progress, and the
audience was looking at the stage. Faris Deeb, relieved at the sense of
privacy this gave him, said:

"The lady is a great artist."

"Your Presence likes Egyptian dancing?"

"Yes, I like it. I hope you like our country?"

"Very much; the country and its people." The amplified lips and the
black-ringed eyes stretched again amiably. Faris Deeb's heart thumped
more tensely. If he had been completely sober, he could not have faced
the reality through which he was living--the reality of the goddess
sitting at his table, talking to him, smiling at him. But the arak and
whisky he had already drunk blurred the situation sufficiently to make
it just bearable--to make him capable of handling it, at least on this
level of general, polite conversation. He said:

"And we too like the Egyptians. They're always welcome here."

"The people of the Lebanon are also welcome in Egypt. Has Your Presence
ever been to Egypt?"

"No; it is my misfortune that I have not."

"You must come soon, then."

"God willing."

"Is Your Presence from Tripoli or from the mountains?"

"From Tripoli," he lied, suspecting that she had recognized him as a
countryman.

The waiter returned with the champagne, and the bill. It was for three
pounds. Faris Deeb paid the price, then gave the waiter a fourth pound,
saying: "This is for you." The size of the tip to the servant in her
temple would indicate to the goddess the amount of tribute she herself
would receive for the favour that was going to be asked of her--the
favour she must already know was expected of her; for surely, she did
not think he merely wanted her to sit and drink with him, drink
champagne at that fantastic price! She would not have come and asked for
champagne unless she were willing. The estate agent had said this was
the way these things were arranged. But how, when it came to the point,
was he going to ask her? His imagination still failed him when he
reached that final and delicate edge of his speculations.

"To your health," she said, raising her glass.

"The lady's health," he said, and they drank.

"This is a good dance, too," she said, turning to look at the
performance in progress.

"Yes, it is a good dance, but you dance better."

"What is it you like about my dance?"

"Everything," he said, in some confusion, thinking of her belly and
breasts.

"You praise me too much," she said, showing only a tepid interest in his
compliment, and drinking another sip of her champagne. He took a large
gulp of his and said:

"The lady is modest. I speak the truth."

"If another artist was sitting with you now, you'd say the same thing to
her," she said, turning her eyes from the stage to look at him again.

"But I did not invite another artist; I invited you."

"Your Presence is very generous."

"I am grateful to the lady for accepting my invitation." He emptied his
glass, feeling the fumes rising pleasantly to his head. The waiter
appeared promptly and refilled his glass. While he was doing so he
masked the dancer, who quickly seized the opportunity to tip out the
remainder of her drink into the ice-bucket. The waiter then turned and
refilled her glass. Faris Deeb did not notice this little operation. He
did not know that cabaret girls had to pretend to drink much more than
they did, so that their hosts should pay for as many drinks as possible,
and get drunk themselves if they wished, while the girls retained their
sobriety, both in order to be able to dance again and to handle the
client to the maximum advantage in any situation that might develop.

"Is the champagne to the Bey's satisfaction?" inquired the waiter, now
profuse with his attentions.

"Yes, it is good champagne," said Faris Deeb, and this time it was he
who raised his glass first. The intoxicating sparks flying about his
head gave him a confidence that was becoming more and more exhilarating.
A man who was entertaining another dancer at a table not far from them
was fondling her arm and playing with her fingers. Faris Deeb had been
watching him for some time, at first feeling enviously and helplessly
incapable of taking such liberties himself. But after a few drinks from
his second glass of champagne, his courage caught up with his desire,
and the cunning of which he was a master in business transactions came
swiftly to help him in this situation that was so new to him. The
goddess had just put her glass down, after another little sip, and let
her hand drop onto her knee.

"That's a beautiful ring you're wearing," he said, and, as his heart
reached a new crescendo in its wild beating, he put out his hand and,
for the first time, his flesh touched hers. It was the only woman's
flesh--apart from Rosa's--that he had ever touched in desire; and the
touch gave him a rapture which Rosa's whole body could not give him now.
He lifted the hand, soft and slender, as though to admire the stone.

"It must be an expensive ring," he said. "How much did you pay for it?"

"I did not buy it myself. It is a present." She began to withdraw her
hand, but he held it tightly. The miser in him was fighting a desperate
battle against the intoxication and overwhelming impulse of the moment.
Wasn't that a clear hint from her--the way she said it? But he was not
going to be made a fool of. They were no longer goddess and worshipper,
but buyer and seller; and he was giving nothing in advance--except the
champagne. Only a promise; and what was there binding about a promise
like that? He would fob her off with some little trinket.

"I could buy you a present too," he said at last. "There's some nice
jewellery to be picked up in Tripoli."

"Is there?" She allowed him to keep her hand and start caressing her
arm.

"Yes. I know a good dealer. Perhaps to-morrow I may be able to see him."

"No, no, you must not put yourself to such expense."

"It will be a pleasure. I like to give pleasure to those who give
pleasure to me, as the lady is doing this evening. But you are not
drinking."

"This glass has become tepid; it is so warm to-night. I only like
champagne when it is very cold. Will you permit me to empty it into the
bucket and have another glass from the bottle?" This was a tactic she
resorted to when the waiter was not there to mask the operation with his
body.

"Of course," said Faris Deeb, horrified at the thought of so many
shillings' worth of good and monstrously expensive drink being thrown
away because its temperature had risen by a few degrees. But he was
caressing the dancer's arm, and she was as good as pledged to him now
for the night, and the champagne he himself had drunk was singing in his
veins and--well, he was willing to pay the price of all that. He
refilled her glass and his. She gave him a smile, and they drank again;
she, another cautious sip; he, a gulp that half emptied his glass. As
the liquid entered his body, it seemed to create a sunny, sparkling sea
under him and around him, on which he floated dreamily, caressed by its
gently dancing waves, freed from gravity, from all burdens of
inhibition, fear and doubt, towards an enchanted and perfumed island
where all desires were fulfilled and all dreams came true.

But if Faris Deeb was a cunning customer who did not intend to give the
dancer that ring until she had earned it, Miss Nadia Fahmi was no less
astute, and had no intention whatever of earning it in the manner her
admirer desired. She would get it (and a few bottles of champagne for
her and the management) at a far lower price--her company at his table
for a disagreeable half-hour or so every night until she left Tripoli,
letting him take her hand and caress her arm (she might go so far as to
allow him to put his hand on her knee), giving him a few smiles, and
vague promises every evening for the following night. She would madden
him into capitulation by alternately arousing his hopes, and dashing
them; accepting his invitations, and refusing them; offering herself
then withdrawing. And now, the time had come to withdraw herself. She
had given him enough of her presence for the first evening. Disengaging
her arm from his hand, she said:

"I regret I have to leave you now."

"Leave me? Where are you going?"

"There is another number in which I have to appear. I must go and
prepare myself for it."

"But you will come back after the number?"

"I'm afraid I cannot."

"I thought you accepted my invitation for the evening," he said, meaning
"the night."

"Oh, no; I am sorry if there has been a misunderstanding. I have other
engagements after the next number."

He swallowed with difficulty and said:

"But after the programme?"

"I regret. Perhaps some other time." She gave him a smile not devoid of
favour and promise.

"To-morrow?"

"I cannot promise, but maybe, if you come. Good night." She rose, smiled
at him again and departed. He followed her retreating figure with
smouldering eyes, no longer floating on his pleasant sea, but sinking
like a stone into its dark depths. The enchanted island had been
snatched from his sight. The perfume had gone out of the air. The soft
arm was no longer in his hand. And gradually, his thwarted desire was
turning into rage. He had been made a fool of. Paid six pounds for
nothing! So that a glorified prostitute should drink a few sips of
champagne with him and let him stroke her arm, then slip like an eel out
of his grasp! Fool! Fool! Did she really think he was going to buy her a
ring if she gave him nothing more than that? Let her wait, the accursed
bitch!

He poured himself another glass of champagne and drank it in quick
gulps. Subtly, slowly, returning hope and enhanced desire began to allay
his wrath. Perhaps he had expected too much from the first encounter,
had been unreasonable to expect everything immediately. After all, she
had had no notice of his intentions, had not known he was coming to
invite her that night. She had probably told the truth when she said
that she had other engagements. It would be surprising if she didn't,
seeing how lovely and popular she was--the star of the show! The thought
that she might be going to spend the night with some other man burned
him with jealousy. But the jealousy only increased his desire and
determination. He would have her before she left Tripoli. He had not
made a bad beginning. She had not refused his invitation. She had sat
with him for nearly an hour, she had let him caress her arm, she had
said, "perhaps some other time." She had given him smiles showing
favour. Even if she were free that night, to have given herself to him
at the first request would have made her look cheap. The hard dealer in
him respected a seller that did not show too much eagerness to sell.
Besides, she was not really a prostitute; she was an artist. She had her
pride. He would buy her a ring, not an expensive one but something
presentable, and he would intimate that a more costly one would follow.

Just then, Khawaja Jamil walked into the cabaret. His appearance gave
Faris Deeb a start. He did not wish to be seen by the estate agent at
that moment. He no longer needed him as an intermediary in the venture
upon which he had embarked. Indeed, the estate agent's intrusion into it
at this stage might spoil everything by depriving him of the privacy he
needed to pursue the matter, and throwing him into embarrassment and
confusion. The champagne bottle was still on the table. Khawaja Jamil
would know that his client had been entertaining one of the dancers; he
would become inquisitive. Quickly, Faris Deeb rose from the table and
made his way out unobtrusively, while Khawaja Jamil was talking to a
friend at another table.

The dancers' dressing-room was close to the cabaret exit and had a
window opening onto the street Faris Deeb had to go through on his way
out. As he approached the window, he heard a girl's voice saying:

"Who was that clumsy customer you were drinking champagne with?"

Faris Deeb's feet stopped in their stride, and his ears waited for the
answer, which came in the voice of Nadia Fahmi. She said:

"My dear, a donkey from the mountains, but laden with gold. He wanted me
to spend the night with him!" A low, mocking laugh, in which the other
girl joined, followed this speech.

"I say, pretty forward for a peasant like him!"

"It was the champagne, love. I bet he'd never tasted it before in his
life; you could see that by the expression on his face when he took the
first sip." There was more laughter, then the other girl said:

"Well, you take the gold, and keep him dangling. Send him back to his
village without his load. All you have to do with a donkey is to lead
him on with a carrot."

"That's what I'm going to do, light of my eyes; he's going to buy me a
ring."

"Be sure to make it a diamond, dearie. They say there are some lovely
sparklers here these days, coming from Sierra Leone. The Lebanese
merchants there smuggle them through.... Be an angel, and pull this
zip for me."

"Angel!" growled Faris Deeb in his heart. "She-fiend, daughter of sixty
dogs, harlot, prostitute!" A black fury filled him, compounded of
cheated lust, wounded pride and bitterness over wasted money. He turned
back a step or two on an impulse of savage revenge, wanting to force his
way into the room from which the voices had come, to kick and smash
everybody and everything in it. But as he approached he saw Khawaja
Jamil in the entrance hall; and walking towards him, having just emerged
from the dressing-room, was the Egyptian dancer, wearing a new costume
and a broad smile. Had he seen the girl first, he would have rushed
straight at her and slapped her in the face, but the sight of the estate
agent, while adding to his fury, inhibited his purpose. He spun round
and walked away swiftly from the door, anxious not to be seen, not to
have his furtive and humiliating amatory adventure exposed before that
accursed agent who had brought him to this vile place and laughed at him
to hasten the conclusion of the deal. The deal! Not one square inch of
land would he buy through that agent. Let him wait for his commission!
Let the harlot wait for her diamond ring! They were all out to fool him,
but now he was going to fool them all! He had given nothing in advance,
except that bottle of champagne, and anyhow he had drunk most of it. Let
them wait for the donkey from the mountains to come back laden with his
gold. Let them see who was the donkey!

With such thoughts Faris Deeb allayed his rage as he made his way to the
town centre to get a seat in a car going to Barkita. But as he waited
for the car to start, and then slowly on his way back to the village,
the sweetness of his dubious revenge turned once more into the
bitterness of defeat and lust left unsatisfied, after it had been led to
the very threshold of fulfilment, after its desirable object had almost
come into his grasp--_had come_ into his grasp. The hand with which he
had stroked the dancer's arm itched with remembered sensations, strayed
in imagination over the charms he had seen but was not to touch. Even
the poor alternative of Rosa would be now denied him, for the cow would
be asleep at this hour, as she had been the night before; and once she
was asleep, nothing would wake her.

It was at this moment in his cogitations that the bright vision and the
dark desire from which he had fled to Tripoli and the cabaret assailed
him again. They came with a fierce and tormenting challenge. The bather
in the pool--if she came again that night--would not be in a position to
deny him what he wanted, to ask for a bottle of champagne and then walk
away and jeer at him. No begging, no paying of money, no waiting and
maddening uncertainty. No awkwardness in public. No talking even. Just
taking. What had he to fear? Nothing. Even if she was not willing, she
would have to yield. If she shouted, nobody would hear her from the well
of the valley at that hour of the night. And afterwards, she would not
have the face to complain. A woman who did that sort of thing could not
complain of anything that happened to her. And the clerk in the estate
agent's office had said that she liked solitude and privacy, that she
had gone to the mountains to be alone and unknown. She would not want to
go to the police. And, well, even if she reported it to the police, they
wouldn't know who it was. She did not know him, wouldn't be able to
prove anything....




CHAPTER 8


Barely an hour later, Faris Deeb stood, dazed and quietly trembling at
the edge of the pool, with the naked body of the bather lying at his
feet in the crumpled stillness of death. For, in his calculation of the
risks he was taking, there was one possibility he had entirely
overlooked--that his victim would struggle and compel him to use a
ferocious violence in overcoming her resistance. It had all happened so
quickly. She had slapped his face, pounded him with her fists, kicked
him, screamed. And even in the lonely well of the valley, her screams
had frightened him. Her resistance had enraged his desire. He had struck
her blow after blow, clawed her with his long nails, put his hand on her
mouth, clutched her by the throat, and suddenly become aware that he had
killed her, as the vigour of her struggle was succeeded, in a brief
moment, by utter limpness.

At first, not fear but anger and a raging sense of injury filled his
brain. The stupid, vicious fool had brought in all on herself. She had
made him kill her, and she deserved what she had got! All women deserved
to be killed--that cow, Rosa, and the cheating prostitute of the
cabaret, all! all! Raped and killed, raped and killed! He gazed upon the
dead body with a baleful animosity. He would push it into the pool, and
when it was discovered, the next day, everybody would think that she had
got drowned while bathing--bathing naked without shame, no better than
the cabaret prostitute!

For a moment he continued to look at the body, unable to move. Then, the
first alarm bell rang in his brain, piercing through the turmoil of his
other feelings. He must get away quickly from that place, or someone
might see him walking away from the orchard, some late homecomer on the
main road he had to cross, or on the footpath up the hill. He was
startled at the thought that Antoine did late evening duty at the hotel
on some days and did not come home till midnight. Was that one of his
late evening days? He could not remember. But on no account must his son
see him returning that way, or, when the body was discovered the next
morning, the boy might remember and perhaps see some connection. The
awareness that he was now afraid of his son, that the relationship of
fear between them was strangely reversed, came upon him with a shock. A
vulnerability he had never known sickened his heart. And another fear
assailed him--that it might not be safe to leave the body in the pool,
where it was bound to be discovered on the morrow, in case of an unlucky
encounter with someone who knew him, on his way home from the direction
of the pool at that unusual hour. This fear was immediately confirmed by
another--that the police and the doctor might be able to tell that the
woman had not died from drowning, but had been assaulted and killed
before she was thrown into the pool. He remembered reading in a
newspaper about a case like that on the beach at Tripoli. He bent down
and examined the body, and what he saw left him in no doubt that his
fear was justified. There were bruises and scratches on the body, on the
face, on the neck. The corner of the mouth had been slightly cut and
there was a little blood around it. His feet felt weak. He sat down
behind a rock to think. Even if no one saw him going home, things might
get awkward for him if the body was discovered immediately and murder
suspected. The pool was close to his orchard. The police might start
asking him questions, might get on to the driver of the car that had
brought him back from Tripoli and discover that the owner of the orchard
had been deposited near it an hour before midnight. Rosa, who never woke
up in the night when he wanted her to, might, just to spite him, wake up
as he entered the house, and notice the time. The police might find out
from her that he did not get home till an hour and a half after he had
reached the village. He felt the same fear of her as he had felt a
moment before when he had thought of Antoine. He could be at their
mercy.... "No!" he fiercely reasserted the power which for an instant
he had felt slipping from him. "She wouldn't dare breathe a word, nor
would Antoine. They would still be afraid of me. By God, they would not
dare! But I must conceal this body--bury it, so that it will not be
found to-morrow, so that it will never be found! And if it is never
found nobody will ever know what happened to the woman."

Around the orchard was a low wall of loose, uncemented stones. Faris
Deeb had built it with his own hands in his younger days. He knew that
under it the earth was, in some parts, sandy and soft and stood four or
five feet above the rock shelf that formed its bed on this side of the
mountain. Buried under that wall, the body would not leave a trace. All
he had to do was to remove the loose stones for a distance of two yards
or so, dig a deep trench, bury the body in it, then replace the earth
and stones. The earth that formed the floor of the orchard was rough,
dry, broken earth that had been turned only a few weeks before. No trace
of the night's digging would show on it, and the continuity of the wall
could be restored without showing any sign of where it had been broken.
Only, he needed a spade to do the digging, and a few hours in which to
complete the job. It could be completed before dawn if he could get the
spade quickly. But to get the spade he had to go to the house. And if
the body was not going to be discovered the next morning--or ever--there
was no danger in his being seen walking back from the orchard. Even if
he met Antoine there would be no danger. No danger, only a dark
discomfort of the heart, which he wished to avoid. He would wait another
half hour to make sure that his son had got back home even if he was
doing late duty. He felt for his watch in his waistcoat pocket. It
wasn't there. The chain hung loosely from the buttonhole through which
it passed into the pocket on the other side. After a moment's
bewilderment, the explanation flashed into his mind. In her struggle,
the woman must have wrenched the watch off the chain. He looked around
him on the rocks, among the stones, but could not see the watch
anywhere. He got up and searched for it as far as the edge of the pool.
It wasn't there. It must have fallen into the water, from which he could
not retrieve it at that dark hour, even if it was near the edge and had
not sunk to the bottom. That made it all the more imperative for him to
bury the body. If the body was discovered the next morning floating on
the pool, and his watch was found by the police at the bottom, he'd be
as good as hanged. But if the body disappeared, it didn't matter about
his watch. Nobody would look for it; he would be able to recover it at
his leisure. The time was passing. He reckoned it must be already past
midnight. Antoine would be home by a quarter past twelve at the latest.
If _he_ arrived at half past twelve he should be quite safe. The spade
was in an outhouse in the garden. He could get it without being heard or
seen by anyone in the house, and be back at the pool by a quarter to
one. That would give him three or four hours before daylight. And if
Rosa woke up when he was getting into his bed at dawn, he could
say--curse the cow, he was not afraid of her! He could go and come when
he liked. He had never had to account to her for his movements. All the
same, he could say that the car in which he was coming back from Tripoli
had broken down on the way, that he had had to walk half the night. As
long as the body disappeared, none of these things mattered.

He found that he was perspiring. His handkerchief, with which he had
tried to stop the bather's screams, lay beside him on a stone, close to
the bather's own pile of discarded clothing. He picked it up and mopped
his face, and when it became too wet to absorb any more moisture, he
took one of the dead woman's garments and put it to the same use. It had
a faint, elusive perfume, not like the heavy scent used by the cabaret
girl. The smell of it gave him a feeling of nausea, which increased his
sweating. He had never known the perspiration of fear--never since the
day when, as a boy of twelve or thirteen, he had broken his father's
bottle of arak, trying to taste a sip of it. And now, he would not admit
the cause of his sweating. It was just the physical struggle he had had
with the woman--the accursed fool! What right had she to come so close
to his orchard and show herself naked, shameless American harlot? Yes,
by God, worse than the cabaret dancer, who at least did it in public and
wore a few clothes! He tried to light a cigarette, but failed several
times because of the unsteadiness of his hand. That too was the result
of the struggle: his hand was just a little tired, and there was a
rising breeze which made the matches go out quickly. A large cloud
sailed before the moon, and the valley darkened with its shadow. He felt
a little more comfortable in this passing darkness. The dead woman's
body ceased to gleam when he looked at it. Its reflection in the pool
was extinguished. The pool itself turned from silver to lead, and he
preferred it so. Of course, he was not afraid, but he preferred the
darkness to the light: that was only sensible caution--he was less
likely to be seen.

He heard footsteps in the distance--footsteps of more than one
person--and the comfort which the darkness had brought him was snatched
away. He strained his ears to determine the direction of the noise. It
seemed to be coming from the hotel towards the pool, and it was
accompanied by voices. Faris Deeb sat up rigidly and his brain worked
quicker than it had ever done before in his life. Suppose the woman had
told someone at the hotel that she was going to bathe in the pool, and
they had become worried at her long absence, sent out a search party to
look for her? These could be their footsteps and voices coming towards
the pool. He must flee from both the body and the pool, push the body
quickly into the water and flee. He could hide in the shadow of the wall
between the orchard and the road until the searchers were at the pool on
the other side, and then slip out and make his way home, taking a chance
on not being seen, on the police finding nothing to connect him with the
body, even if they suspected that the cause of death was not drowning.
And they might not suspect that at all; they might think the bruises and
scratches on the body had been caused by her slipping and falling down
the rocks around the pool, or--at this point the extreme cunning of
which he was capable suggested an altogether new idea: would not his
best defence be to attack? to call for help, to tell the searchers that
as he was passing by his orchard on his way home he had heard screams
for help coming from the pool; that he had rushed down and found the
woman drowning, jumped into the water to rescue her, had to struggle
with her because he could not swim and she was frantic with terror and
hit at him wildly, so that he had to hit her back and clutch her under
the chin to save her and prevent her from drowning him with her. That
would clear him completely, explain the watch, save him from the task of
spending half the night burying the body. Only, his clothes were dry. He
must jump into the pool to wet them. That would completely prove his
story... or would it? The question made him pause at the edge of the
pool as he was about to go into it. There would be the medical evidence.
He did not know how much the doctors could tell in a case of rape, what
invisible injuries he had caused to the woman. Might he not be putting
his head straight into the noose by trying to be too clever?

As he was debating these crucial questions with himself, he became aware
that the footsteps and voices were receding. Nobody was coming to search
at the pool. It had been a false alarm. The beating of his heart slowed
down again to its normal rhythm and his original purpose returned. He
would go to the outhouse in his garden and fetch the spade. But in his
absence he must not leave the body exposed to view where it lay. He must
conceal it temporarily. Behind him there were three rocks leaning
against each other in such a way as to make a small, dark cavern
underneath. He picked up the body, which surprised him by its lightness,
and pushed it into the cavern, then he took the woman's few garments and
stuffed them in after it. In the shadows, their creased shapes and
colours blended dimly with those of the rocks. Fool! he thought with
savage anger at all the trouble she was going to put him to. Why did she
have to struggle like a wild cat? Is it better like this?

He made his way through the orchard cautiously, halting repeatedly as he
approached the wall that bordered the main road. Having satisfied
himself that the road was empty on both sides, he climbed quickly over
the wall and lowered himself without a noise onto the road. There still
was nobody to be seen, and in a moment he had crossed the road and was
walking along the footpath that led up the hill to his house. Apart from
the noise made by the crickets in the pine trees, all was still, and not
a light burned in any of the houses he had to pass on his way. Antoine
by now would be home and fast asleep, and no other member of the family
was likely to be awake at such an hour. In Barkita, apart from the
hotel, everybody was in bed by ten, and it was now, he guessed, after
half past twelve. All these thoughts were reassuring, but for the first
time since he had become a man, Faris Deeb approached his house
noiselessly and with timid caution, like a thief afraid of all the
sleepers. He started when the garden gate creaked mildly as he opened
it, and waited for a moment before going in, then with great care he
shut the gate after him.

Fortunately for him, the outhouse was at the bottom of the garden, well
away from the house. To reach it, he would not have to pass near any of
the bedrooms. He could walk all the way round, hugging the garden wall,
and any noise he made in opening the outhouse or looking for the spade
would be too distant to wake any of the sleepers. He felt in his pockets
to make sure that he knew where the matches were which he would need in
his search for the spade, then he began to walk in the shadow of the
garden wall, on the side that was not lit up by the moon. Again he
noticed that his heart was pounding uncomfortably, and he stopped
abruptly several times, imagining that someone was astir in the house;
but it was only his father's loud snoring, and he was grateful to it as
a symbol of the profound slumber of the whole family. His nervousness
was subsiding as he reached the outhouse. The first part of his plan had
gone without a hitch and was on the point of completion. In another
moment he would have the spade.

He stopped with a great shock as he was about to open the door. There
were voices in the outhouse, whispering, caressing voices--lovers'
voices. He listened. He caught a word, a phrase, a name. It was
Genevieve, his daughter and her young man! The young man he had
forbidden her to see, he had thrashed her for going about with! His
immediate impulse, coming from a primitive, unthinking reaction of rage,
was to storm into the outhouse and beat the life out of his daughter and
her lover. But even as he reached for the door handle his purpose was
stricken dead. Swift recollection came back of his own need for secrecy.
He stood checked by a fear greater than his rage. If he broke into the
lovers' den and beat up the culprits, his daughter would run into the
house howling, the whole family would wake up, it would become
impossible for him to take the spade and go back to the pool. He would
have to wait until they were all asleep again, and the passing of the
hours might be fatal to him. These were the concrete thoughts, coming in
quick succession, that caused him to pause. But he was inhibited by a
great, intangible fear as well--the fear of being discovered at all at
that particular moment, of having to encounter the whole family in the
glare of sudden light, when he needed secrecy and darkness to cover the
rawness of his crime. In the morning it would be different. Now, he was
fresh from his deed, and though the blood on his hands was invisible, he
shrank at the thought of the hands being seen.




CHAPTER 9


Breathing heavily, he stood still at the door of the outhouse, not
daring for a moment even to retreat lest he should make a noise. He
heard more whispers, more sighs. The tyrant's fury and the father's
jealousy, impotent to act, came out of his nostrils like the snorting of
a chained bull. His very torment made him eager to hear every word.
Without moving his body, he lowered his head so that his ear came closer
to the keyhole. If he could not disclose himself and catch and thrash
the bitch red-handed, he must at least know everything she was saying,
doing. There would be a time later to make her pay for her disobedience
and the filth of her vice. He would appal her, when his own danger had
passed, by confronting her with what he was going to hear now. That
would show her he had a power over her which she could not escape, even
in the depth of night when she thought he was asleep and she was safely
beyond the reach of his eyes and ears and hands! Yes, now he could
hear----

"Take it off, please take it off," said his daughter's lover.

"I'm afraid."

"Then I will."

"No, no, please don't."

"Why? Don't you love me?"

"You know it isn't that. If I didn't love you, I shouldn't be with you
here to-night. My father beat me for going about the village with you.
If he knew what I was doing now he would strangle me. Doesn't that show
you how much I love you. I said I would marry you, didn't I? I said I
would run away with you when we had saved up enough money."

"I love you, Genevieve. I want you."

"And I want you, my love. Only, we must be patient for a little while.
Don't make me take it off. I shouldn't have asked you to come here
to-night if I had known you were going to be so naughty."

"But what's the harm in it? Your father isn't going to know, and it's
much nicer to lie together without any clothes on, isn't it?"

"I don't know. It's very nice like this. I'm happy enough to lie close
to you and feel your strong arms around me."

"But you'll like it better when you've taken everything off."

"How do you know? Have you tried it before with another girl?"

"You know I haven't. You don't learn these things from experience. Your
blood tells you when the time comes. When a baby is born it turns to its
mother's breast by instinct. Take it off, Genevieve, please. Don't be
afraid, my darling. I won't do anything you don't want. Can't you trust
me?"

"No. Yes. I mean, it isn't just you I don't trust. I don't trust myself.
I don't trust our feelings. I don't want to start having a baby before
we get married, before we are ready to leave the village. I believe my
father would really kill me if that happened."

"But it won't happen, my love. We will not let it happen. We will be
very careful. Please take it off."

"All right, if you promise. Only you must not switch on your torch till
I'm dressed again. I will not let you see me undressed. I am shy."

Shy? Bitch! Harlot! Daughter of Satan! Again, Faris Deeb for a second
forgot his peril, whipped into an avenging fury by what he had heard, by
what was taking place, by what he knew was about to take place in the
outhouse. The urge to assert his outraged power, at that supreme moment,
became irresistible. He shifted a foot and seized the handle of the
door, and his mouth opened to let out the blast of his rage. But his
will was paralysed instantly by the next thing he heard. Genevieve said,
"What's that? Didn't you hear anything outside?" Her dread of discovery
struck the walls of his mind and boomed back with a terrible echo. The
fear in her whisper was transferred to him. His hand silently released
the handle of the door, and he listened, scarcely daring to breathe.

"It's nothing," his daughter's lover reassured her. "You're imagining
things."

"I thought I heard something," she said with weakening conviction.

"The night is full of strange noises. It could have been a branch of the
mulberry tree scraping the roof," said her lover.

"I suppose it could."

"Do you hear anything now?"

"No. It was only for a moment."

"You see that it couldn't have been anybody. No more excuses now. Take
it off."

"But you promise you won't switch on your torch? Where is it? Give it to
me. I don't trust you."

"What's the difference between my touching you and my seeing you?"

"I don't feel so shy in the dark. I haven't got a fashionable figure."

"I don't care for fashionable figures. They're all skin and bone."

"The American girl who is staying at the hotel has a lovely figure. I'm
jealous of her."

"You've only seen her in her clothes."

"You can tell."

"Anyhow, she isn't my girl friend; she is Antoine's."

"Poor Antoine, she spoke a few words to him and he fell in love with
her!"

Faris Deeb could not bear to hear any more. Picking his steps with the
noiselessness of a cat, he retreated from the door and walked round to
the other side of the outhouse, where he sat behind the trunk of the
mulberry tree to wait for the lovers to come out of their hiding place
and give him access to the spade. Let his bitch of a shameless daughter
take off her clothes and receive, naked, her lover's caresses! Let him
take her and make her pregnant! Let them leave the village! No! he would
not wait for them to leave of their own accord. He would give her the
beating of her life and kick her out of the house before they were ready
to leave, and the whole village would witness the power of his
wrath--the wrath of a father bringing to justice a daughter who had
dishonoured herself. Justice! The word boomeranged unexpectedly against
him, but it only brought fear, not remorse. And once the body was
buried, he would have nothing to fear. So that young fool, Antoine, was
in love with her, was he?--another shameless woman whose destruction,
though he had not willed it, was another act of justice. Was he not a
man of flesh and blood, subject to their temptations when provoked
beyond control? It was the woman that deserved to be punished, not the
man. By God, the Moslems had been right to veil their women and lock
them up. Give them liberty, and this is what they do--the woman whose
body lay lifeless in the cavern among the rocks, and his daughter in the
outhouse! In the outhouse, just beyond the wall at which he was looking,
and he not daring to stop her, afraid to make the slightest noise! He,
in greater dread of her than ever she had been of him!

He was afraid even to light a cigarette lest the striking of the match
should be heard in the outhouse. There was a window in the back wall of
the outhouse, and though it was shut there were cracks in it through
which even faint noises might be heard--faint noises such as he heard
coming from the lovers' couch. He steeled himself against their meaning,
and waited. The minutes passed, prolonging themselves into eternities,
as the moon slowly declined towards the east, marking the passage of the
night and the inexorable approach of the dawn. In a few hours it would
be daylight. Labourers would be coming out of their houses, going to
work. If by then he had not been able to bury the body, it would be too
late.

Slowly, a lump of catarrh began to gather in his throat, irritating it
into an urge to cough impossible to suppress. Yet, a cough from where he
sat might be fatal. Or would it? The guilty couple would be too
terrified of discovery to come out and investigate the source. And they
would be too frightened by this second alarm to remain much longer in
the outhouse. Faris Deeb, having been stifling his cough for a few
moments with his handkerchief and letting it out in little whimpering
driblets, removed the handkerchief from his mouth and relieved his
throat with a noise loud enough to be heard in the outhouse. Apart from
physical relief, the action restored his morale. For a moment, he ceased
to be the fugitive, and became the attacker. His sense of power
returned. He could still frighten his daughter, even though by this
anonymous means. And it would not be long now before the spade was in
his grasp.

All noise from the outhouse ceased instantly. Not even a whisper could
be heard. Faris Deeb's triumph was complete as far as the initial
reaction to his move was concerned. He waited in complete silence again.
The heavy moments dragged by with unbearable slowness. The moon seemed
fixed in the same position above the hill on the opposite side of the
valley. A dog barked in the distance and was answered; then, from the
carter's house next door, a donkey began to bray. Profiting by the
protective chant of this animal, Faris Deeb crept closer to the window
of the outhouse. He wanted to know what whisperings were going on, what
decisions were being taken inside, as a result of his cough and the
silence that followed it. He wanted to make sure that the silence had
not given the lovers new confidence, that his cough had not overreached
its purpose and frightened them into an indefinite wait before they
tried to escape. Either result was possible, and either would be
disastrous to him. As he put his ear close to the cracks in the window,
he heard the door on the other side being faintly and slightly opened,
and his daughter's lover saying to her, in a whisper from the partial
opening, "There's not a soul anywhere, I told you."

"The cough came from the other side," said the girl.

"Well, whoever it came from isn't sitting there waiting for the sun to
rise. It must have been somebody walking along the footpath."

"I could have sworn it was someone in the garden, just under the
mulberry tree."

"A thief?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid it was someone from the house. Perhaps my
father looked into my room and saw I wasn't there. He may have heard me
coming out."

The door of the outhouse was shut again with the faintest noise, and
Faris Deeb heard his daughter's lover picking his steps carefully back
to where Genevieve was speaking from. When he was back with her he said:
"Don't get frightened, my love. I swear you're imagining things. I swear
there isn't a mouse in the garden. Everybody's asleep in the house."

"I think I'd better go back to my bed now, and you go home," she said.

"Oh, not yet. I tell you there's nothing to be afraid of. Didn't you say
that you had put the bolster under your blanket and your cut hair on the
pillow to make it look that you were asleep in the bed?"

Genevieve giggled, saying, "Lucky my mother made me keep my hair when it
was cut!"

"Well, then, if your father looked into your room, he would have seen
this lovely body and head where he expected them to be. And if he had
come out for any other reason, we'd be very foolish to stir until we
made sure that he had gone back. Isn't that so?"

"We'll stay a little longer, then; but only a few minutes."

Faris Deeb waited. The minutes passed. He looked again at the moon. It
had begun to dip behind the rim of the hill. That suited his purpose.
Soon, there would be little light left in the sky. The risk of being
seen and recognized by anyone would be eliminated; and the dawn would
still be two or three hours away.

"Let's go now," said his daughter, after a while.

"But why?" whispered back her lover. "Don't you see that your fears were
groundless. It couldn't have been your father."

"He may have gone out to look for us in the village, on the hillside.
Please, let us go."

"If he's discovered you're not in your room there will be trouble
anyhow; let's get the most in return for it. It's still a long time till
morning. You could always say you spent the night with your cousin
Selma. She'd back you up. And that's less risky than going back now."

"No, no, please. I'm afraid. I am going back to my room; and you go
home, but be very careful on the way, especially when you leave the
garden. He may be ambushing you just behind the gate. Oh, my love, he
might kill you if he saw you going out. He's stronger than you, and
you've got nothing to defend yourself with. I'll come with you. I'd trip
him up if he attacked you; I could do that!"

"Don't worry on my account. I can look after myself."

"But you are unarmed, and he may be carrying his stick. Take something
with you from here. There are some garden tools in the corner behind
you. Take the spade."

"But, sweetheart, it isn't really necessary. I'm sure your father is
fast asleep in his bed."

"All the same, take the spade; it will put my mind at ease."

"And if it's wanted in the morning? How am I to bring it back?"

"Have no fear, it won't be wanted. I'll smuggle it back to-morrow
evening after dark. Do take it."

"All right, to please you."

"I'll watch you until you've gone out of the gate."

Faris Deeb was not a religious man, but he had a few superstitions, and
he now became convinced that Satan was hitting at him with peculiar
malevolence, using his daughter and her lover to obstruct his urgent
purpose, having perhaps used the cabaret girl and the bather in the pool
to make him do the thing he did. The feeling that he was struggling
against a mighty and evil enemy unnerved him even more than the thought
that the spade was going to be snatched away from his reach. There
seemed to be a diabolical purpose behind the fact more sinister than the
fact itself. Helplessly, he heard the door of the outhouse open and, a
moment later, he saw his daughter's lover, with the spade in his hand,
walking down towards the garden gate. Genevieve herself he did not see,
because she remained standing on the other side of the outhouse. Could
he ignore her, pretend that he knew nothing about the clandestine
meeting in the outhouse, pretend that he did not know who the young man
was, just storm after him, crying, "Thief!" and wrench the spade from
his hand? But would the boy let go of the spade? Or would he hit him
with it and compel him to hit back, bring Genevieve rushing to his
rescue, shattering all secrecy? He stood behind the outhouse, unable to
move, watching the cautious progress of the escaping lover in the shadow
of the wall, watching the spade going away, away, away. His brain was
dull. No more ideas came to his rescue. He just watched, and in a moment
the young man had reached the bottom of the garden. There, he paused for
an instant, then, opening the gate and looking carefully to either side,
he slipped out and was on the road. The next moment, Faris Deeb heard
his daughter moving away from the outhouse. The young bitch had made
sure that her lover was safely out of the garden, and in a few seconds
she would be back in her bed. The idea which had come to Faris Deeb a
moment before, but which he had been too frightened to put into
execution, became actively urgent again in this altered situation. He
waited until he heard the kitchen door open with a faint creak and knew
that his daughter was inside the house, then he tore down the garden and
was on the road himself in a moment. Here, there was no danger of a
noisy scene that would rouse the whole household. This was his last
opportunity to get the spade, and a safe opportunity. The young man had
not gone far, and Faris Deeb, running after him shouted, "Who's that?
Thief! What have you stolen from my garden?"

His plan achieved instant success. The young man, wishing above all to
avoid recognition and to escape unknown, dropped the spade and sprinted
away at a pace which he knew would leave his pursuer far behind. "Thief!
Dog!" shouted Faris Deeb after him, calling off the pursuit as soon as
he had reached the spade. He picked it up, watched the running figure
until it disappeared, then headed for the pool.

When he got there, the moon had declined below the hill, and he felt
safer in the greater darkness. Not a sound was to be heard from any
direction except the occasional barking of a dog and the gentle
gurglings of the river. There was no danger whatever of anyone coming
upon him while he was engaged upon his task. Only, he had to work
quickly, very quickly.

He chose that section of the loose stone wall under which he knew the
soil to be light, and began removing the stones, piling them up on the
orchard side of the wall. He reckoned that if he made a breach of some
six feet, he would be able to dig a long enough trench in which to bury
the body safely--long and deep enough to make sure that no suspicious
smells came out of it. Four or five feet deep should be safe enough.
Besides, smells of putrefaction were not uncommon in the valley, coming
from a dead cat or dog. Still, he must take every precaution.

It took him about half an hour to dismantle the wall, but to him it
seemed like an hour and a half. If only he had his watch! He needed to
know the time desperately. He looked at the sky, at the plough and other
constellations he knew. But their positions gave him only a very rough
idea. Curse the woman, how had she been able to wrench out his watch! He
had not felt it go.

He started to dig, lifting large clumps of earth and making of them
another pile close to the stones. The soil was harder than he expected
to find it. He had to push the spade in with all his strength. The sweat
poured out of him and, as his mouth was half open with his panting, the
salty rivulets streaming down his cheeks ran into it. He spat them out
and mopped his face on his shirt sleeves. And he went on digging, afraid
to waste time in resting. But his back began to ache and his breathing
became so uncomfortable that he had to pause for a moment, leaning on
the spade. The trench was now about a foot deep, and he did not know how
long it had taken him to dig that fraction of it, but the thought that
he would have to repeat his effort another three or four times almost
overwhelmed him. In a panic, he began to doubt whether he would be
through before daybreak. Still panting, he began to dig again, promising
himself another moment's rest when he had excavated another foot--only a
moment, a moment after each foot. But his vigour was slowing down, and
each foot would take longer than the one before. The night was passing.
The plough had moved quite a distance since he had last looked at it.
And each time he lifted a spadeful of earth, his bones groaned with
their increasing ache. Perhaps three feet would be deep enough. Surely,
no smell would reach the surface from under all that weight of earth.
And if it did, he could camouflage it by spreading animal manure in the
orchard near the spot--not on the spot itself, since that might be
dangerous, but near it.

As he was digging the spade in after his second short pause, when the
trench was just over two feet deep, the implement struck a stone. He
pushed the handle forward in order to force the blade behind the
obstruction. The ground resisted. He leaned on the spade more heavily,
thrusting the handle another inch forward; and, as he did so, the handle
broke. He heard it crack and felt it going limp in his hand, and his
heart turned faint with the realization of what had happened. Carefully,
he pulled the spade out, hoping that it might be possible to bandage the
broken wood with his handkerchief, using a couple of twigs from his
trees as splints. But the moment he examined the damage, he knew that
this was impossible. For although the wood had not parted completely,
and the blade came out with the handle, the fracture was at the very
base and there was no length of intact wood above the metal to provide
the necessary grip for a bandage.

"Cursed, rotten wood!" he growled, throwing the handle out of the trench
and starting to dig with the blade alone, stabbing and scraping the
earth feverishly. This was going to take him much longer. But he must
make the trench deep enough, he must! It was now deep enough for his
crouching body not to reach its top. He clawed at the earth like a
savage animal, racing the minutes of the night. And every few minutes he
stood up to throw out the earth he had scraped. His back did not trouble
him so much now that he was on his knees, but his wrists and arms were
becoming exhausted, almost nerveless with exhaustion, yet aching
unbearably with the pain of a thousand nerves. In the trench, it was so
hot now that he could no longer bear to have his shirt on. He took it
off and put it beside his discarded coat. He was about to go on his
knees again inside the trench, when he stopped and began to roll his
trousers up, up above the knees. Fool, fool! He should have thought of
that before. The earth on the floor of the trench was now moist from its
proximity to the river. Rosa might notice its marks on his trousers
knees. Even if he tried to clean them, he might leave smudges. He could
hear Rosa saying, with her usual sarcasm, "What have you done to your
trousers? Knelt in them to pray on the river bank? What were you doing
there in the middle of the night?" He pulled himself sharply out of this
momentary fright. He must not lose his nerve. That would be a more
dangerous thing than soiling the knees of his trousers. Let Rosa think
or say what she damn well liked. As long as the body disappeared, he
would not have to worry about anything like that. The river ran past his
orchard. It was natural for him to go there, possible to stumble on his
knees in the wet soil. All the same, it would be better if no one knew
that he had been there that night. He must guard himself against all
possibilities. Not lose his nerve; only be careful. He had never made a
false step in a buying or selling transaction, and he was not going to
do it now. Now your trousers are rolled up above your knees, dig, dig,
Faris Deeb! You still have another foot to go, and the night is passing.
Already, there is a faint light in the sky. Pay no heed to your aching
wrists and arms. Anyhow, you're not sleepy, are you? The fumes of the
arak and whisky and champagne you've drunk have floated away from your
brain. Your mind is alert and thinks of everything. Only, dig, dig! Dig
and curse the estate agent and the Egyptian prostitute and this
shameless and foolish American woman lying there under the rocks, and
soon to be lying for ever--if you make it deep enough--in this trench
you're digging. Curse them all for provoking you to do what you've done.
It was their doing, not yours. You never touched a woman in your life
that way; never thought of doing it, not to any real woman, anyhow, only
to dream women that filled your mind sometimes when you imagined
yourself a sultan having a slave girl, or a conqueror seizing a captured
beauty. But dig, dig! The day is approaching, and you must make the
trench deeper, deeper, and your hands are getting numb and slow, and you
still have to rebuild the wall when you have buried the woman.

Each time he stood up to shovel out the earth he had scraped, he
measured the depth of the trench against the height of his body. For a
long time it seemed to be level with his waist. Then, almost suddenly,
there was a sinking in it, the edge was rising towards his shoulder. He
was not a tall man, but he reckoned that once the edge reached his
shoulder, it would be deep enough. It would have to be deep enough. He
could not dig any more. He must preserve some of his strength for
rebuilding the wall. And the plough was no longer visible, which meant
that dawn could not be more than an hour or so away.

As he stood leaning against the edge of the trench for another moment's
rest before his final effort, he became aware of a great thirst which
had been growing upon him, unheeded, for some time. His body was drained
of moisture, his throat was like a sponge that had been left out in the
sun for a year. He could not make another move without drinking, and the
pool was only a few yards away. It was now completely dark--a patch of
ink under a lightless sky. Faris Deeb climbed out of the trench and,
possessed only by the raging desire to drink--greater even than that
other desire that had brought him to the water's edge a couple of hours
before--made for the pool. His was not a mind sensitive to associations.
The pool now was just water and nothing else. He went down on his knees
on a flat stone just above the water's edge and, lowering his head until
his mouth touched the surface, began to gulp. As the cold water flushed
his gullet, he experienced an immediacy of pleasure which, for the
moment, excluded from his mind all the events of that night and all
thought of the labours and dangers that lay ahead of him. He drank, and
drank; and he would have drunk like that and continued to drink until he
had quenched the fire in him, even if all the police in the land were
advancing on him, even if this was to be his last hour on earth. When he
had finished drinking he stood up and thought dully, "Men are stupid to
want women. A draught of cold water when you are thirsty is sweeter than
any woman; and you don't have to beg for it, to pay for it, to kill for
it!" Then memories came back and he thought, "You can be thirsty for
women as you are for water. Why can't you have them when you want them,
as you can drink when you're thirsty? Why?... Why?... Why?"

Upon this note of philosophic speculation--a rare occurrence for him--he
went back to complete his job.




CHAPTER 10


Dawn was just breaking when Faris Deeb reached his house for the second
time that night. He had buried the woman and her clothes under four feet
of earth, and reconstructed the wall so that nothing in its appearance
would draw attention. These loose stone walls of the mountain orchards
and vineyards were, anyhow, so irregular, with a bulge here and there in
the side and a cavern here and there on top, that nobody would notice
any disturbance in their structure.

And nobody had seen him on his way back; life in the village had not yet
begun to stir, and everybody in the house would be fast asleep. It
would, he guessed, be about half past four. He could slip into his bed
and have a couple of hours' sleep before Rosa and the others began to
get up. And he needed that sleep as urgently as he had needed a drink a
little while before. An overwhelming fatigue had come over him, and he
could surrender to it now that he had accomplished his task and there
was nothing more for him to do. Nothing. He had even cleaned the knees
of his trousers and washed his hands at the pool. His back and arms were
almost too numb to feel the ache that had been racking them. His hands
and fingers were sore and blistered. In one hand he carried the handle
of the spade; in the other, the severed blade. He opened the outhouse
and caught a whiff of the scent his daughter used--the bitch, the
stinking harlot! He had given her one fright already that night, and he
was going to give her a bigger one in the morning, when he told his
story of the thief of the spade. And that would give him an alibi, if an
alibi were needed; it would focus the attention of the family on the
incident of the "thief," and that would form a barrier between their
thoughts and the other thing he had done that night. Not that he needed
any such barrier. The woman had just disappeared, and there was nothing
whatever to connect him with her. Still, it was good they should all
think he was chasing a thief in the middle of the night, when talk of
the woman's disappearance started. Somebody chasing a criminal would
never be suspected of committing a crime himself at that very hour,
would be thought of as the injured victim of lawlessness himself,
defending his property, helping the police in their task.

Having dropped the spade handle and blade on the floor of the outhouse,
he made his way quietly into the house and entered his room. Rosa, as he
had expected, did not stir, and as he began to take his clothes off he
had no suspicion that she had opened her eyes, seen him undressing, seen
the light of dawn framed palely in the window, and wondered what had
kept her husband out all night.

He took his coat off first, then his shoes, and it was only when he
started unbuttoning his waistcoat, and mechanically pulled at his watch
chain and found it slack and weightless, that he remembered the loss of
his watch. It gave him a little start. Of course he would recover it the
next morning, but in the meantime nobody must know of its temporary
disappearance that night. He took the chain out of the buttonhole of his
waistcoat, and put it under his pillow, where he always kept his watch
at night. Rosa, through the slit of her barely open eyes, saw him doing
this, saw that the watch was not there, and felt slightly puzzled--not
only at the absence of the watch but at the fact that her husband was
putting the chain alone under his pillow. Then, with this trivial but
curious fact still unexplained in her mind, she drifted off into slumber
again.

Faris Deeb got into his bed with as little noise as possible and, for a
moment, the luxury of rest after cruel exhaustion filled him with its
sweetness. His limbs stretched in horizontal bliss between the sheets,
his nerves and muscles relaxed, his fingers sank softly into the pillow
and, with equal softness, his whole being was sinking into the deep,
caressing embrace of sleep, down, down into its gently closing arms,
when the memory of something Rosa had said stirred in his consciousness,
like a fish that has been lying still and invisible on the sea-bed, then
rises suddenly, causing a cloudy disturbance in the tranquil water. He
became widely awake as the words echoed in his mind. She had said: "They
all hate you. They all wish you dead." She had been speaking of the
children, but he knew she meant herself too. When she had spoken the
words, they had not worried him, though he knew they were true. Wishing
somebody dead never killed him. But if those who had the wish--though
they would never dare to kill, themselves--discovered something that
would do the killing for them, without making murderers of them, without
putting them in any danger? All they had to do, if they discovered it,
was to inform on him--a simple and easy way of seeing him dead! of
getting rid of him! The vague fear he had felt once or twice when
thinking of Rosa and the children since the murder became hideously
concrete at this thought. The hatred in the dark house around him,
impotent until now, loomed up as an enemy that might stumble upon a
noose to put round his neck. The shape of Rosa, asleep beside him,
became that of a potential executioner. Perhaps he should try to
cultivate her goodwill, hers and that of the children--just in case;
stop beating them, give her a little more money, leave Antoine and
Genevieve all their earnings; tell Genevieve that she could marry her
young man in a year's time--she was sleeping with him already, anyhow,
so why not make a respectable woman of her?--and promise her a little
dowry; let Mitry go to Brazil, give him the fare? He faltered for a
moment, like a despot about to take the pen that was being handed to him
for signing the deed of his abdication, or at least a reform law that
would strip him of all his powers. Then, on a violent recoil, he refused
the pen. Why sign? Why abdicate? He was in no danger; they would
discover nothing. And if he began abdicating, would they not be puzzled,
sense his fear and see the meaning of any little fact they might
discover, which otherwise would pass unnoticed? "Faris Deeb," he said to
himself sternly, "you must not fear them. If you begin to fear them you
will be lost. You must keep them afraid of you." Still, there was no
harm in being a little politic. He would not extort any more money from
Antoine for his keep. He might even give Rosa some money for a new
dress; she was about due for one. He... his thoughts dissolved
finally into sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, it was broad daylight and Rosa was not in
the room. He heard her talking to Genevieve and Antoine in the kitchen.
His father was on the terrace, saying something to Mitry. He put his
hand under his pillow, then remembered, even before he touched the
chain, that the watch was not there, remembered why it was not there. He
got up quickly, dressed, and put his watch chain through his waistcoat
buttonhole, each of its loose ends resting invisible in a pocket. No one
would know that the watch was not attached to it, and on his way to the
shop he would go to the pool and recover it; it must be among the stones
near the water's edge. As he was putting on his coat, Rosa and the two
younger children joined his father and Mitry on the terrace.

"You had better be going to open the shop," said Rosa to Mitry. "Your
father is having a long sleep."

"Must have had a tiring journey to Tripoli and back; was he very late
coming back?" said Abu Faris.

"I don't know," said Rosa. "I went to sleep before ten. I didn't wake up
when he came back."

"There's no hurry about opening the shop," said Mitry, "but Antoine,
you'd better make haste or some other waiter might pinch your American
girl-friend from you!" He spoke in a tone of friendly teasing, and
Genevieve laughed. They never spoke and laughed like that when their
father was present. Faris Deeb was just about to open the bedroom door
and come out, but at the mention of the American girl he stopped and
remained standing rigidly behind the door.

"What American friend is that?" asked Rosa.

"Hasn't he told you?" said Mitry. "There's an American beauty staying at
the hotel, the daughter of a millionaire, and your son is getting on
famously with her."

"Stop talking nonsense," said Antoine, shyly but not angrily.

"You never know," pursued Mitry, in the same bantering tone. "These
Americans take strange fancies, sometimes, and they're democratic, not
like the English. She might marry Antoine and take him to America with
her. Why, her own father might have started life as a waiter. They think
nothing of a thing like that in America. Will you pay me my fare to
Brazil, Antoine, if she marries you?"

"I told you stop being silly," said Antoine.

"These things happen only in cinema stories," said Rosa. "They certainly
won't happen to us."

"You'd better drop this idea of going to Brazil," said Abu Faris. "Your
father will never let you go." He drew at his _argileh_, and the water
in it bubbled solemnly.

"We're jesting, Grandpa, we're jesting," said Mitry bitterly. "Can't we
even jest in this house?"

"How long is this American girl staying here?" asked Genevieve.

"Only a few more days," said Antoine, trying to conceal the sadness in
him.

"Well, she may give you a good-bye kiss," said Mitry. "I'll tell you
what, take her for a moonlight walk before she leaves. The valley and
the river and the mountains make women feel sentimental at night, don't
they, Genevieve?"

"Shush!" Rosa uttered the warning quietly, then, in a louder tone, she
asked her father-in-law, "Is your _argileh_ still drawing, Abu Faris, or
would you like another ember on it?" She had an uncanny way of knowing
when her husband was going to appear on the scene.

"No thank you, my daughter; it's all right. I wonder if Faris concluded
that land purchase yesterday. It seems to have kept him quite late in
Tripoli. Couldn't have had much sleep, or he'd have been up long before
this."

Faris Deeb came out of the bedroom and arrived on the terrace as his
father was concluding this speech.

"How could I have had much sleep when we had a thief in the house?" he
said gruffly.

"A thief?" said Abu Faris. "What are you saying? When?"

"In the middle of the night; after I got back from Tripoli and went to
bed."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" asked Rosa.

"Wasn't necessary. I can deal with a thief single-handed." He sat down
in a chair beside his father.

"What happened?" asked Mitry. "Did you catch him?"

"No. I chased him, but he got away, son of a dog."

"Did he steal anything?" asked Antoine.

"Only the spade from the outhouse. When I ran after him, he threw it
away and broke its handle. Didn't you hear anything, any of you?" He
looked at them in turn.

"I didn't hear anything," said Mitry.

"Nor I," said Antoine.

"Where was he when you saw him?" asked Abu Faris.

"Slipping out of the gate, carrying the spade in his hand. I'd heard
noises and got up to find what they were."

"Why should he want to steal a spade?" said Rosa. "It's not a valuable
thing."

"What's the matter with you? Why have you turned so pale?" said Faris
Deeb, speaking to Genevieve, who would have given all she possessed to
any magician that could have made her disappear at the first mention of
the spade.

"I'm frightened... I'm terrified of thieves," she said.

"Well, I can promise you this particular one won't come again," said her
father, "or if he does I'll break his neck, so you needn't fear _him_
any more; and I'm going to have a new lock put on the outhouse door...
and you, Mitry, when are you going to get that dog of yours from Anees?
If we had had Antar still, no thief would have dared come near the
house."

"Ay, it's a shame Antar died. A house should always have a dog; dogs are
the best watchmen," said Abu Faris.

"I'll get him to-day," said Mitry. "He's quite a big fellow now, and
Anees has trained him well. He told me yesterday I could have him any
time."

"Well, then, get him. You like dogs, don't you, Genevieve? Give me a
whiff of your smoke, Father," said Faris Deeb.

Abu Faris passed his son the _argileh_ mouthpiece, saying:

"There's something in what Rosa said: why should a thief want to steal
just a spade? You wouldn't think it was worth his trouble."

"He could have been trying to break into the house to steal money," said
Faris Deeb, "but when he heard me stirring, bolted, snatching the spade
from the outhouse to hit me with if I caught up with him."

"Could have been that," said Abu Faris.

"Did you get close to him?" asked Mitry. "Would you recognize him if you
saw him again?"

"No, I didn't get close enough to him for that. But he was a youngish
fellow; a little shorter than you, and slight of build."

"What was he wearing?" asked Antoine. "Did you see his clothes?"

"I just saw a pair of running trousers; couldn't see their colour, or
what was above them." He puffed at his father's _argileh_, extracting
the smoke with a long, sustained whiff, then blowing it out with a
short, sharp exhalation.

"And which way did you say he made off?" asked Rosa.

"He turned right on getting out of the garden, and ran up the hill."

"But there are houses there. Didn't you shout? Neighbours might have run
out and caught him," said Rosa.

"Of course I shouted, but nobody heard." He became awkwardly conscious
that, having started with the intention of frightening his daughter and
explaining the accident to the spade, he was now on the defensive,
having to answer questions, to explain all sorts of things. That
business about the spade, for instance--both Rosa and his father had
seized upon the unlikelihood of a thief stealing such a common and
worthless object. He had been clever enough to give them a prompt and
plausible explanation, but it nettled him that he was called upon to
give explanations. And the shouting--it was true that he had called
after the young man, but it certainly was not the kind of shouting
calculated to rouse the neighbours from their sleep. The last thing he
had wanted was to rouse the neighbours, and his shouts had been
deliberately subdued and addressed to the culprit alone. Perhaps that
dog, Ramiz, had noticed that and been puzzled by it. Perhaps when he and
Genevieve met afterwards and compared notes, certain discrepancies would
appear to them. So what? They still wouldn't have the remotest clue, and
they would be so frightened on their own account, and so grateful that
the chase had ended as it did, that they wouldn't give a thought to
anything else. Shaking his temporary awkwardness off, he said to Rosa:

"How long are you going to keep me waiting for my coffee?"

"I was only waiting to hear your story," she said.

"Well, you've heard it now. I want my coffee."

"And a smoke, I suppose?"

"No. I'll share Abu Faris's." He was anxious to go down to the pool and
look for his watch.

"Well, I'll be going to open the shop," said Mitry rising. Antoine and
Genevieve rose too, and the three of them walked out of the garden
together. Rosa went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Abu Faris said:

"Where's the spade now?"

"Where do you think? In my pocket? It's in the outhouse, in two pieces."

"Could it be mended?"

"No. It needs a new handle."

"Well, that shouldn't cost much. It's a good thing he didn't steal
something valuable and get away with it. There's a lot of thieving going
on these days. People are not as honest or God-fearing as they used to
be, and the police aren't much good. Did you buy that property in
Tripoli?"

"No. I've decided against it."

"Well, you know best."

Without speaking, Faris Deeb handed his father the _argileh_ mouthpiece
again. The old man put it in his mouth, saying: "You can have it back
when your coffee comes," and began to draw at it in rapid succession to
make the most of his turn. The gurgling of the water came in short,
merry bursts. A withered vine leaf floated down from the trellis
overhead. The old man looked up and said, "The grapes are
ripening."--"Ay," said his son without looking. The old man thought of
the vineyard on the hillside, which used to be his but which he had
weakly surrendered to Faris. Rosa came back with the coffee, and as she
handed it to her husband, asked, "What's the time?" Faris Deeb sipped
his coffee, pretending not to have heard, and his father handed him
again the mouthpiece of the _argileh_.

"What's the time, Abu Mitry?" Rosa repeated her question, in the same
casual manner.

"I don't know," said Faris Deeb, speaking with less than his usual
aggressiveness. "My watch has stopped. Go into the house and have a look
at the clock if you want to know the time."

"All right," said Rosa, walking back to the house, where the old
pendulum clock, in its gothic architecture of wood, hung on the wall of
the living-room. What, she wondered, was this little mystery about her
husband's watch? For now her suspicion that there was something curious
about its disappearance became confirmed. If he had lost it, why not say
so? Why put the chain so carefully under his pillow when he went to bed
in the early hours of the morning? Why have the chain now across his
waistcoat, pretending that the watch was in its usual place? And where
had he been all the night?

After drinking his coffee, Faris Deeb went down to the pool. Again, in
the frank light of the morning that made everything look its familiar,
unenchanted and unforbidding self, the orchard and the pool were not the
place he had known by night. There was neither magic in them, nor
terror; and it seemed incredible to him that anything out of the usual
should have happened there only a few hours before. Seeing the apple
trees, he remembered how the whole thing had started, how he had seen
the shadowy figure behind the trees and thought it was someone who had
come to steal his apples. He had come down to defend his property. And
now he had killed a woman and buried her in his property. He looked for
the place, and was greatly reassured when he did not spot it
immediately. As he had expected, the wall and the earth around it showed
scarcely any sign of having been disturbed. Perhaps two or three stones
obtruded a little too much. He kicked two of them further into the wall,
and manipulated a third into a more normal position. Then, he noticed
that though a few apple tree leaves had fallen during the night on the
earth around the reconstructed part of the wall, their density there was
less than it was elsewhere. With his feet he effected a slight
redistribution of them. Satisfied that nobody could notice anything now,
he walked down to the water's edge and began looking for his watch. He
could not find it either among the stones above the water's edge or in
the shallow water below them. He walked round the pool twice without
seeing anything. He moved a few stones about, but still found nothing.
Then, as he looked further, towards the centre of the pool, he saw it.
It was lying on its back, and the dial winked at him with its refracted,
but clear, image, through the limpid, green water. It winked at him from
the bottom of the pool, from a depth of six or seven feet. He stared at
it with fear and impotent anger. For, as far as his ability to reach it
was concerned, it might just as well be lying on the floor of the ocean.
He could not swim, and he saw at once that the watch was too far out and
too deep down to be reached and pushed up with a stick, a bough, a bit
of wire. Well, he'd have to leave it there, and pretend that he had lost
it. But not leave it exposed to view; that might be dangerous. He would
try to cover it by throwing some stones into the middle of the pool.
With a bit of luck, one of them might land straight on it, or several
form a pile that would bury it sufficiently to make it invisible. Curse
the woman, wrenching it out with such violence that it bounded off the
rocks and fell into the middle of the water! A good watch too! It would
cost him several pounds to replace it, with prices being what they were
now. He picked up a stone and threw it into the water, aiming at the
spot which he reckoned was just above the watch. He watched it sinking,
but to his dismay, it fell wide of the mark, leaving the dial of the
watch winking at him teasingly. He threw another and another without
scoring even a near miss. Small stones were useless, and the larger ones
were too heavy to be flung with any accuracy half way across the pool.
He went on trying.




CHAPTER 11


When Antoine arrived at the hotel, hoping again to pick out the best
fruit of the day for his American friend, he found quite a commotion
awaiting him round the proprietor's desk in the hall. There was the
proprietor himself, Khawaja Bishara; the manager, Khawaja Rasheed; two
chamber maids and the errand boy; and Khawaja Bishara was saying to one
of the maids, a buxom mountain girl called Linda:

"Are you sure the bed wasn't slept in?"

"Can't I tell the difference between a bed that has been slept in and
one that hasn't? I'm telling you the bed hasn't been touched."

"Whose bed?" Antoine inquired in an aside from the other maid, Marie.

"The bed of the American lady in number five," said Marie.

"But couldn't she have made it herself this morning, after sleeping in
it?" asked the manager.

"Are you suggesting that she wasn't satisfied with the way I was making
her bed?" said Linda.

"Now, don't be silly and get angry," said the proprietor. "Khawaja
Rasheed didn't mean anything of the sort. But these Americans have
strange whims."

"Making beds wasn't one of number five's whims; nor tidying her room
first thing in the morning before going out. I tell you she couldn't
have been in her room at all last night. Ask Marie. Come up and see the
room for yourself, if you won't believe me."

"The room was exactly as we'd left it last night," said Marie, enjoying
the general excitement over the disappearance of number five, and
sensing a scandal behind the mystery--the very thing Khawaja Bishara was
anxious to avoid. He said:

"Well, we needn't get all excited about it. There may be a very simple
explanation. She may have gone out for a drive with some of her American
friends from Tripoli, and had a breakdown in the middle of the night.
Antoine was on late duty yesterday, weren't you?"

"Yes," said Antoine, "but I didn't see her leaving the hotel."

"When did you see her last?" asked Khawaja Bishara.

"Sitting on the terrace after dinner, reading a book."

"Well, she could have left after that, without your seeing her, couldn't
she?" persisted the proprietor.

"Of course, she could, but I don't remember any cars arriving after
dinner."

"But you weren't near the door all the time."

"No. I was in and out of the bar a good deal."

"I didn't see any cars, either," corroborated the errand boy. "Not after
dinner."

"You!" said Khawaja Bishara. "You're so fast asleep sometimes that a
tank wouldn't wake you up!"

"Anyhow, if she'd had a breakdown," said the manager, "she'd have rung
up by now."

"And what about the missing towel?" said Linda.

"What missing towel?" asked Antoine.

"I've told them," said Linda, "one of her towels isn't there this
morning. Why should she have taken a towel with her, if she was going
out for a drive?"

"You're determined to bring the American Sixth Fleet to Tripoli?" said
Khawaja Bishara with some impatience, covering up the anxiety he was now
beginning to feel. "The towel could have easily got mixed up with her
clothing somewhere in the room. It'll turn up. Go back and have another
search for it, you and Marie. And listen, all of you, not a word of this
to the other patrons! We don't want any foolish gossip here. Patrons are
free to come and go as they please, by day or night. Do you understand?"

"Me, gossip!" protested Marie. "Forceps shall not extract a word from my
mouth. Let her spend the night where she likes. What business is it of
mine?"

"I don't care if the American Sixth Fleet comes to Barkita!" said Linda.
"I only told you because I thought you'd like to know, and now you seem
to be angry with me, as though I'd done something wrong myself."

"Nobody has done anything wrong," said Khawaja Bishara, "and I'm not
angry with you. You did right to report it to me and Khawaja Rasheed.
Only, it'll give the hotel a bad name if the patrons think we're
spreading stories about them. Now, go and look for that towel again, but
if you don't find it, don't say anything about it to Miss Bright when
she returns, as I'm sure she will any moment now."

As the two maids turned down the corridor to go back to room number
five, Marie asked her companion: "What is the American Sixth Fleet?"

"Don't you know?" said Linda. "It's one of these things they keep firing
at the moon. I suppose they've fired five so far; that's why they call
the next one the Sixth Fleet."

In Antoine's mind, something had begun to stir from the moment the towel
was mentioned--a vague association going back to his conversation with
Miss Bright two days before, like the shape of something one sees in the
distance but does not recognize immediately. Then, a moment after the
maids had gone out, and as he himself was leaving for the dining
terrace, recognition came, vivid and frightening. He stopped for a
second, then turned and came back to the reception desk.

At the desk, the proprietor and the manager were still in conference.
Khawaja Bishara had just said: "We'll give her till ten o'clock; if she
hasn't returned or phoned by then, we'll have to tell the police and the
American Consulate; she may have had an accident, not a breakdown."

"Khawaja Bishara," said Antoine, "I've thought of something."

"What is it?" said the proprietor, turning round.

"It may be just a silly idea, but the mention of the missing towel
reminded me of something Miss Bright said the morning before yesterday.
She had been out for an early walk and discovered the pool in the
valley, near my father's orchard; and she said she would like to bathe
there one day by moonlight... I mean, if she took a towel with her,
perhaps she went there to bathe last night and... and...." He was
too overcome by the pain of the thought to utter the word.

"And got drowned, you mean?" said Khawaja Rasheed.

Antoine nodded.

"Or slipped down the rocks around the pool and knocked her head against
one of them--lost consciousness," said the manager. "It's quite
possible."

"Anything is possible with these Americans; they do the maddest things,"
said the proprietor.

"Shall I go and see?" said Antoine, his distress at his own fearful
thought somewhat relieved by the manager's alternative explanation. If
she had only lost consciousness, or perhaps just broken a leg and
couldn't move, he could carry her and bring her back to the hotel. The
idea of such a rescue filled him with a sweet, exciting glow.

"Yes, go," said the proprietor, then turning to the manager, he added,
"You'd better go with him. It would take two to carry her--if that's
what's happened--and in a case like this it's safer to have witnesses.
We don't want to have any trouble with the American Consulate... and
take a blanket with you to wrap her in if you find her, and a large
towel lest the blanket get wet."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was as Antoine and Khawaja Rasheed were approaching the pool through
the valley, that Faris Deeb had started throwing stones into the pool to
bury his sunken watch. He heard their voices and footsteps after he had
thrown, without success, the fourth or fifth stone. He recognized
Antoine's voice even before he saw him and his companion, and, he was
sure, before they saw him. A cluster of weeping willows, dipping their
long tresses into the river, made quite a dense screen on that side of
the pool. Faris Deeb, who had been just about to pick his next stone
when he heard the noises, stopped with a violent fright, and moved away
quickly in the direction of the orchard. His first impulse, before
reflection, was to sever all connection between him and the pool, and
pretend to be inspecting his apple crop. But reflection came swiftly
upon the heels of this impulse. If they were coming to look for the
missing woman in the vicinity of the pool--and he was certain now that
they were, that they knew she had come to bathe there the night
before--it might be very dangerous for him if they accidentally saw his
watch at the bottom. To eliminate that danger, he must pretend that his
watch had fallen into the pool just then, that he was trying to recover
it when they arrived. That would put him in the clear as regards the
night, and that was all that mattered. Snatching a long broken branch
that lay withering beside the orchard wall, he therefore stepped back
quickly to the edge of the pool and, though knowing that the branch
could not reach the watch, began making a show of probing the water,
stretching his arms out as far as he could, and moving from rock to
rock. While he was thus engaged, Antoine and Khawaja Rasheed emerged
from behind the weeping willows facing him on the other side of the
pool.

"That's my father," said Antoine to his companion. "He's looking for
something."

"Good morning, Khawaja Faris," said the manager. "What are you looking
for?"

Faris Deeb stood from a crouching position, as though he had only then
become aware of the presence of company.

"Good morning," he said. "My watch has just fallen into the pool. The
chain got caught in a twig up there as I was jumping off the wall, and
the next thing I knew was that the watch had been wrenched out of my
pocket and was bouncing off these stones into the water. Been trying to
reach it with this branch, but it isn't long enough, curse it! And what
may you be doing down here at this hour? Has Antoine brought you to pick
a few apples before breakfast? The crop is sold, you know!" He meant
this speech to sound like a gruff pleasantry.

"No, Abu Mitry; I would not dream of touching your property without your
permission. We come upon a different errand. But I can see, thank God,
that we are not going to find that for which we came. It would have been
a sad discovery." He then explained to Faris Deeb the reason of their
coming to the pool, adding, "We were afraid of finding her drowned, or
dead of a broken neck among these stones."

"Well, thank God you haven't found her," said Faris Deeb, standing
barely ten yards away from the spot where the woman lay buried.

"I was relieved the moment I saw you," said the manager. "I knew nothing
like what we feared could have happened, or you'd have been the first to
find her; and there you were, sitting at the water's edge, fishing for
something with a stick. I thought to myself, 'Well, he's not fishing for
a dead body, and anyhow dead bodies float, and Abu Mitry wouldn't be
looking like that if he'd just discovered a dead or dying woman.' So,
you see, Abu Mitry, you were a sight of good omen. I expect the woman
will turn up soon. She's probably been having a gay time with some of
her friends in Tripoli. But what about your watch?"

"There it is," said Antoine. "I can see it!"

"The problem is not to see it, but to get it," said his father. "I've
seen it from the beginning."

"I'll get it for you," said Antoine. "I'll dive for it." It was the
challenge of the sport that moved him to make his offer--not his
father's need, or any desire to please him. He began taking off his
clothes.

"Leave it," said Faris Deeb, afraid that the watch had stopped when it
was flung into the pool in the night, and not wanting his son to notice
the hour at which this had happened.

"Why?" asked Antoine.

"You might catch cold; you haven't got anything to dry yourself with.
I'll get one of the village boys to fish it up for me later."

"We've got a towel inside this blanket," said Antoine. "We thought we
might need it if we found the American lady. I'll get you the watch in a
minute." He proceeded with his undressing.

Faris Deeb felt helpless. He could not very well forbid the operation;
it would seem odd.

"You'll be lucky if it's still going," said Khawaja Rasheed. "Watches
are very delicate things."

"Ay," said Faris Deeb, as Antoine stripped off his last garment and
plunged into the water. His father watched him anxiously, saw his hand
reach out for the watch.

"He's got it," said Khawaja Rasheed. "By God, he's a good swimmer!"

"Ay," said Faris Deeb, as Antoine flipped his way deftly back to the
surface, holding the watch in his left hand and, to his father's relief,
not looking at the dial.

"Is it still going?" asked the manager.

"Don't know," said Antoine with indifference. "Can't see."

"Accursed, interfering son of a bitch!" thought Faris Deeb. He stood
close to the water and held out his hand, as his son came out, balancing
himself precariously on the stones that lined the sides of the pool. In
response, Antoine put forward his left hand, and the watch passed from
it into his father's, but in the brief instant of its passage, his eyes
caught a glimpse of the dial, and the position of the hands registered
mechanically on his mind, without at first causing him to note the
significance of what he saw. Faris Deeb took out his handkerchief and
rubbed the watch dry.

"Is it still going?" The manager repeated his question.

Faris Deeb looked at the dial for a moment, holding the watch
half-covered in the cup of his hand, so that it was invisible to the
other two, then, seeing that it had stopped at half past twelve, he put
it to his ear and pretended to listen for a few seconds, after which he
said, "Ay, seems to be going still all right," and slipped it into his
waistcoat pocket.

Khawaja Rasheed, who had noticed the old-fashioned look of the watch,
said:

"By God, they knew how to make watches in the past. Craftsmanship, real
craftsmanship, not like the flimsy things of to-day!"

"Ay, it's a good watch; I should have been sorry to lose it," said Faris
Deeb. "My father gave it to me when I was twenty-one."

"And your son has brought it back to you. Well, Antoine, our walk here
has not been in vain, and thank God we didn't find what we came to look
for. I must say, I didn't think it was likely she'd actually come here
to bathe in the middle of the night."

"She said she'd like to," said Antoine, defending his theory as an
intellectual proposition, but glad, very glad that it had proved wrong.
He had finished drying himself and was putting on his clothes again,
when the image he had seen on the face of the watch came back to his
mind. With a prick of recognition, he saw its significance. The watch
was not going; it had stopped at half past twelve. Why had his father
lied about it? When had it fallen into the pool. Trivial points, he
supposed, but they puzzled him. He paused for a moment before continuing
to button his trousers.

While waiting for him to finish dressing, Khawaja Rasheed was trying to
make conversation with Faris Deeb. After complimenting him on the
condition of his orchard and the good crop it had given him, he went on:

"Now, take another case of the decay of craftsmanship--that wall round
your orchard. Beautifully built, beautifully built! Why, you'd think
that bit there was built only yesterday"--the manager took a few steps
towards the part of the wall that had so aroused his admiration, and
Faris Deeb's heart missed a beat--"yet, how old is it?"

"Fifteen years," said Faris Deeb. "I built it myself."

"See what I mean?" said the manager. "You could build like that
yourself, without being a land worker, but to-day even those born to it
have lost the skill. Ah, it's an age of machines, and shoddy work, and
trashy goods! Come on, Antoine, let's go back. Miss Bright may already
be back at the hotel, clamouring for her breakfast, and you know she
likes _you_ to wait on her. Good-bye, Khawaja Faris."

Faris Deeb, left to himself, felt a weakness come over his legs. He
walked back slowly to the orchard wall and gazed at it. Yes, perhaps he
had rebuilt it a little too well, a little too regularly. Making sure no
one was near, he shifted some of the stones this way and that,
particularly along the joins where the rebuilt section merged into the
rest.

Gradually, his confidence returned. The hotel manager's comment was just
a casual remark that meant nothing. Even if a little difference showed
in the wall, how could Rasheed or anyone else see the significance of
it... and he had managed that business about the watch very cleverly.
Of course, he would have to send the watch to Tripoli to be mended,
but he could pretend that it had stopped after being recovered from
the pool. The main thing was to have made those two believe that the
accident had happened in the morning and not in the night.

But as he made his way through the orchard to his shop, a new fear
flared up in him. The police, put on the scent by his own son, might
come themselves to search in the vicinity of the pool, and they might
not content themselves with a casual look around. Damn the boy, he would
go on reiterating that the woman had told him she wanted to bathe in the
pool by night! And he would insist on diving for the watch. Had he by
any chance seen the face of the watch, noticed at what hour it had
stopped? The night before, Faris Deeb had been afraid of meeting Antoine
on his way to the house. Now, he feared his son for other, more deadly
reasons. Now, he was in dread of him, as he had been of Genevieve and
her lover when he discovered them in the outhouse, as he had been of
Rosa when he crept into their bedroom at five in the morning, when she
asked him what the time was and he had pretended that his watch had
stopped--pretended that his watch had stopped, that it wasn't going at
seven in the morning, then half an hour later pretended to Antoine and
his companion that it was going! Hell and damnation! He must be careful
not to be caught out in such inconsistencies! Antoine would be sure to
say something at home about his recovery of the watch, how it was still
going; then Rosa would say, "If your watch was going, why did you tell
me this morning that it had stopped?" Well, so what? Watches could stop
and start going again, especially after receiving a blow. Or he could
just say to Rosa, "Mind your own business. I told you my watch had
stopped because I couldn't be bothered to tell you the time when you
asked me. I'm not your timekeeper. I get tired being asked the time by
everybody. There's a clock in the house...."




CHAPTER 12


Genevieve worked in the shop of the village haberdasher, and her young
man at the grocer's not far away. Both tradesmen knew that the young
couple were courting against the wishes of Faris Deeb, and as they had
little love for the latter, they joined in a benevolent conspiracy with
their respective assistants to facilitate their meeting in the two
shops. The grocer's shop in the lunch hour was the more convenient place
for this purpose, as the grocer lived above his shop and went upstairs
for lunch, leaving Ramiz to have his in the little store-room behind the
shop, where the stocks of olives, olive oil, cooking fat, arak, cheese
and pickled cucumbers were kept. Here, Genevieve, bringing her own
lunch, often joined Ramiz, and the two had their meal together and half
an hour or so to themselves.

On the day after the episode in the outhouse, and after hearing her
father's account of his chasing of the "thief," Genevieve was anxious to
see Ramiz as soon as possible. There were certain things that puzzled
her, and which she wished to discuss with her lover. On her way to the
haberdasher's shop, she dropped in at the grocer's for a brief moment to
tell Ramiz that she would be coming to have her lunch with him.

"Ramiz," said the genial grocer, "let her have some of the crushed
olives we received yesterday, and a pickled cucumber. I know she's
partial to pickles."

"Thank you, Uncle Milhem, but I shall have my own lunch," said
Genevieve.

"Now, now no silly pride, Mademoiselle Genevieve! Of course I know you
will have your lunch with you. Do you suppose I think your mother would
send you out without anything to eat in the middle of the day? But
crushed olives and pickled cucumbers go well with anything. And this is
not a disinterested invitation, because, you see, I am a clever
salesman, and I want to advertise my goods. You eat what Ramiz gives
you, and then go and tell your mother about it. How's your father been
of late?"

Genevieve shrugged her shoulders and gave a little sigh of despair.

"Never mind," said Uncle Milhem--a titular uncle by virtue of his age
and village custom, and not a blood relation--"you be patient, my
daughter. One day you'll be old enough to do as you please; and in the
meantime," he winked slyly at the door leading into the store-room,
"there are always ways and means, and you're always welcome here."

"Thank you, Uncle Milhem. You're so good. I wish you were my father.
Suppose he asks you if I come to see Ramiz here? What will you say?"

"You come to see Ramiz here?" said the grocer in mock astonishment.
"This is the first I've heard of it! Now be off with you."

At half past midday Genevieve and Ramiz were alone in the store-room.

"So he chased you last night?" said Genevieve. "I was terrified when he
talked about it this morning. At first I thought he'd recognized you,
from the way he looked at me."

"What did he say?"

"He said he saw a thief taking the spade away, and that he ran after him
shouting, and that you threw the spade away and its handle was broken."

"That I threw the spade away?"

"You know what I mean--the thief. But he gave me such a menacing look."

"I didn't _throw_ it. I just dropped it, and I'm sure _that_ didn't
break its handle. It would take a mighty big smash to do that."

"Did he throw it after you?"

"No. He stopped chasing me the moment he got it, and he stopped calling,
'thief!' Funny, isn't it? I mean, how did he know I had not taken
anything but the spade, if he thought I was a thief? How did he know I
had not got into the house and stolen money or jewellery? You wouldn't
think he'd have been content just to recover the spade. What's the value
of a spade? I was afraid he was going to rouse the whole neighbourhood
and get me caught."

"Thank God he didn't do that!"

"But it's queer, isn't it? I mean, it isn't like your father. And now,
he says I broke the handle, which is a lie. _He_ must have broken it. I
wonder why? What could he have done with it?"

"Listen. There's something else that's queer about this business. I've
been thinking about it ever since he told his story this morning. When
you left the outhouse, I stood there and watched you, as I said I would,
until you had walked out of the gate and disappeared. Then I walked into
the house and got into my bed. But I didn't hear my father go out of the
house--no opening of doors, no footsteps. If he had seen you from inside
the house, as you were getting out of the garden, and rushed out to
chase you, I should have heard him."

"You mean he was already outside the house, somewhere in the garden,
when I walked down to the gate?"

"Looks like it, doesn't it? I told you when we were in the outhouse that
I heard noises, and somebody coughed. That must have been him."

"But if he was already in the garden when I left the outhouse, he'd have
seen me at once. Why didn't he start chasing me till I was out of the
garden?"

"That's what's puzzling me. He didn't set off after you till you were
out of the garden, and I was inside the house. If he had started from
the garden while you were still in it and I was watching by the
outhouse, we should both have heard and seen him, shouldn't we? And if
he had started from the house after I'd got in, I should at least have
heard him. I've been working it out in my head since the morning, and I
can't understand it."

"Seems as though he'd specially waited until I'd got out of the garden
and you'd got inside the house, but that doesn't make sense."

"Unless he knew it was you, and that we'd been in the outhouse
together.... Perhaps he did. He's going to have a new lock put on the
door of the outhouse, and he wants Mitry to get his dog from Anees
to-day. He looked at me in particular when he said that, and I had a
feeling he knew it was us."

"Don't be silly. Knew it was us and did nothing about it! Said nothing!
Waited until I'd gone and then pretended he thought me a thief! Not your
father, he wouldn't. There'd have been the devil of a scene."

"Perhaps he was afraid of the scandal. The neighbours would have heard.
Everybody would have known what we had done. Oh, Ramiz, are you quite
sure it was safe? I don't want to start having a baby."

"You won't start having a baby."

"Are you sure? I'm afraid."

"Of what? Doing it like that won't give you a baby."

"A girl the other day said it could."

"Not if you're careful."

"And you're sure you were careful?"

"Of course." He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly and with
returning desire, forgetting the episode with her father, thinking only
of the joy they had known in the outhouse. "It was wonderful, wasn't
it?"

"Yes. I didn't know it could be so beautiful. Whenever I thought of it
before, I thought of father doing it to my mother, and that always
seemed horrible. Is it only because father is like that, or does it
always seem nasty to children when they think of their parents doing it?
What do you feel about your parents doing it?"

Ramiz giggled. "Now that you mention it," he said, "it seems absurd to
think of your parents doing it. I know they do, or did, but I just can't
imagine it, if you know what I mean. Doesn't seem real to me."

"It must have been real enough to give them seven children, not counting
the miscarriages!" They both giggled.

"I expect they've stopped doing it by now," said Ramiz.

"I hope my mother doesn't let my father come near her that way any more.
It must be awful to hate your husband and have to sleep with him."

"But when you love each other, there's nothing sweeter than that in the
whole world, is there? Didn't you think so last night?"

"Yes, I did, until we had that fright, and now I'm afraid to do it
again. Anyhow, we can't use the outhouse anymore, if he's going to have
a new lock put on it and shut it up in the night."

"We'll find somewhere else. But you aren't eating, and it'll soon be
time for you to go back. Here, have some of these olives; and this is
the best cucumber in the jar. What have you brought with you?"

"Some meat balls and fried aubergine." She spread out her lunch, and
they began to eat. After a moment she said:

"There was another queer thing about last night."

"What?"

"I didn't go to sleep for an hour or more after you'd gone, but I didn't
hear my father come back. If he wasn't chasing you, what was he doing
all that time? If he didn't come back straight to the house, where did
he go?" She sliced the cucumber and nibbled at a finger of it.

"How do I know? Perhaps he went to the police post."

"If he did, why didn't he mention it. He said nothing about that, and
although I was scared stiff when he was talking, I had a funny feeling
that he was scared himself about something."

"About what?"

"Don't know. Just had that feeling. Never known it before with him.
Somehow, I felt he was lying--though it was true enough about you and
the spade--and that he was afraid I might know he was lying."

"I say, you don't think your father has a girl-friend in the village?
Perhaps he was going out to pay her a visit, eh? Or--yes, by God!--she
was coming to him, and he wanted to use the outhouse himself!"

"What woman would want him for a lover?"

"Some women have a queer taste in men, just as some men have a queer
taste in women. My mother is always saying that. Besides, he's got
money, and there are women who don't care what the man is like, as long
as they can get something out of him. How else do you think bad women go
in for that kind of trade?"

"Can you imagine father giving money to a woman?"

"Even misers lose their heads over women sometimes."

"Not father. He wouldn't. No, it doesn't make sense."

"But I say it does. Listen. Suppose he had a woman, and he brought her
to the outhouse and then, just as they were about to come in, he heard a
noise inside. Now, that would explain why he didn't smash his way in at
once, wouldn't it? Even if he guessed it was us, heard our whispers or
something, he still wouldn't have wanted to go for us, would he?"

"Because he was afraid his own secret would be discovered?" said
Genevieve, beginning to see possibilities in Ramiz's ingenious
explanation.

"Of course. And also, because he wanted to be able to use the outhouse
himself. If he'd gone for us, there'd have been a scene, the family
would have been roused, his girl-friend would have had to run away, and
his little bit of fun in the outhouse would have been snatched away from
him. So, what does he do? He tries to get us out of the outhouse without
openly disclosing himself--by giving us a fright; coughing, making faint
noises while hiding with his woman behind the outhouse and waiting until
we've got the wind up and cleared out stealthily, so that they can get
in without anybody knowing anything about it! Don't you see, love, that
explains why you didn't hear him going back into the house!"

"I'm beginning to think you're right. It's very clever the way you've
worked it out, and it seems to explain everything--what happened last
night, and father's manner this morning. He wanted to frighten me, but
he was afraid himself because of his own secret. But wait a minute. If
you're right, why should he have bothered to chase you at all? Just for
a spade, whose handle he broke afterwards?"

"No, sweetheart. To give us a real fright. He wanted to make sure we'd
never again go near the outhouse, see? He wanted it not only for that
night, but also for other nights, and he wanted to make certain he'd
always have it when he wanted it, and that nobody would disturb him.
Why, it all makes sense!"

"You're very clever, Ramiz. I couldn't have thought of all this in a
hundred years."

"Mind you," said Ramiz, acknowledging his sweetheart's admiration with
becoming modesty. "I'm not saying I'm right. It's just an idea that came
to me, and it seems to explain things. There are much stranger things
and cleverer ideas in the mystery and police stories I read, and in the
films I see in Tripoli. My, how I'd have liked to be a detective!"

"I'm sure you'd have made a wonderful one. You've got lots of brains
Ramiz, and you're wasted here, with all that...." She pointed
indignantly at the tins of olives and olive oil, at the cheeses and jars
of pickles.

"You know, it's only you that keep me here. I won't go without you. But
one day, we'll go together--to Tripoli or Beirut, and maybe I could then
join the police force and become a detective. How would you like to be
the wife of 'Chief Detective Ramiz Mansour,' eh?"

"You're such a dear, Ramiz. I love you when you boast. You do it so
sweetly."

"Who's boasting? I didn't say, 'Commissioner of Police,' or 'President
of the Republic'--only 'Chief Detective.' Now, that's modest, isn't it?
And then, there will be a conspiracy to assassinate the
President--there's bound to be one--and Chief Detective Ramiz Mansour
will unearth it, and be awarded the Order of the Cedars, Third
Class--not Second, or First, only Third Class. Now, that's modest again,
isn't it?"

They both chuckled, as Ramiz carefully rolled a hunk of cheese with some
pickles into a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth, causing his
right cheek to swell out with a bulge the size of a ping-pong ball. Then
he began chewing it with great gusto, his eyes twinkling at Genevieve.




CHAPTER 13


At the house of Faris Deeb, they did not hear of the disappearance of
the American woman till the evening, when Antoine came home. It was his
evening off and he came home early, having done late duty the night
before. His mother and Genevieve were in the kitchen, preparing supper.
Mitry was watering the flower beds round the terrace. Abu Faris was
sitting on the terrace, counting the beads of his old rosary, looking up
at the ripening grapes overhead (the sight of them always caused him to
regret having parted with his vineyard), and exchanging an occasional
remark with Mitry.

"Where's father?" asked Antoine.

"He's fixing the new lock on the door of the outhouse," said Mitry.

"You'd better call him," said Antoine. "The police are coming here
shortly to make a few inquiries."

"The police?" asked Mitry. "What, about that thief and the spade?
Surely, he didn't report a trivial thing like that? And what can the
police find out about it?"

"No, it isn't about the thief and the spade. Something else, more
important."

Rosa and Genevieve came out of the kitchen.

"What are the police coming here for?" asked Rosa. Genevieve stood close
behind her.

"The young American lady staying at the hotel has disappeared," said
Antoine gravely. "And her real name is not Miss Bright; it's Jeannette
Waverley--the film star. She came here for a quiet rest, and didn't want
people to know who she was."

"What do you mean, 'she has disappeared?'" asked Rosa. "How did she
disappear?"

Faris Deeb was coming back from the outhouse, having finished his job,
when he heard the last sentence. He stood still behind the corner of the
kitchen, invisible to the family on the terrace, and listened tensely.

"That's what the police want to know," said Antoine, "and the American
Consulate in Beirut. The telephones have been buzzing all day between
here and Tripoli and Beirut, and the police have been coming and going,
and the American Vice-Consul from Beirut has just arrived with the
Assistant Commissioner of the Sret. They want to ask everybody in the
village if anybody saw her last night."

"Has she been missing since last night?" asked Mitry.

"Yes. She had dinner at the hotel, but nobody has seen her since then.
She did not sleep in her room. And when I arrived at the hotel this
morning, Khawaja Bishara and Khawaja Rasheed were making inquiries about
her. Hasn't father told you?"

"Your father? What does he know?" said Rosa.

"He saw me and Khawaja Rasheed looking for her at the pool behind the
orchard this morning."

"The pool?" asked Rosa.

"Yes. She'd said to me a few days ago that she'd like to bathe in the
pool by moonlight, so I thought she might have gone there and got
drowned, or hurt herself and couldn't walk back, and Khawaja Bishara
sent me and Khawaja Rasheed to look for her. We didn't find her, but
father was there. His watch had fallen into the pool, and I dived and
got it back for him."

"When did his watch fall into the pool?"

"Just then, before Khawaja Rasheed and I arrived. He said it had got
caught in a branch over the orchard wall and was flung into the water.
We found him trying to fish it out."

Faris Deeb, hearing the talk about his watch, decided to make his
appearance on the terrace in the middle of this conversation. "Ay," he
said, coming round the corner of the kitchen with his slow and heavy
step, as though just returning from the outhouse and hearing only the
last few words on his way, "he's a good diver, Antoine. I shouldn't have
been able to get my watch back without his help."

"God's name be upon him," said Abu Faris. "He's smart in every way."

Rosa refrained from asking any questions about the watch. Instead, she
turned to Antoine, saying:

"Tell your father about the police."

Antoine repeated what he had told the rest of the family, adding,
"They'll be arriving any moment now."

"They'll be welcome," said Faris Deeb, then to Rosa. "You'd better go
and make coffee, you or Genevieve."

"What can we tell them?" said Abu Faris. "We don't know anything about
it."

"I suppose none of you saw this missing woman in the village last
night?" said Faris Deeb.

"What would make me see her?" said Rosa. "I was here all the evening,
and I've never set eyes upon the creature."

"The police won't expect all the people of the village to have seen her
before. They will just give a description of her and ask if anyone
looking like her was seen out late last night."

"I didn't see a soul after sunset," said Mitry. "I was here too, doing
up the week's accounts."

Genevieve remained silent, and Rosa said, speaking to her husband, "Only
you and Antoine were out late last night."

"I've told you, and I told the police, I didn't see her after dinner,"
said Antoine. "There was no one on the roads when I came home."

"What time did you get home from Tripoli?" Rosa asked her husband.

"Here they come," said Mitry, and Faris Deeb did not have to answer his
wife's question. That gave him a few minutes' respite before he had to
answer it to the police. Of course everyone knew that he had been to
Tripoli and had not come home till late in the evening, but what did
that matter? He advanced to meet the police officers, who had opened the
garden gate and were coming towards the terrace. One of them he
recognized as Elias Effendi, the officer in charge of the village police
post, but the other he did not know.

"Welcome to the Effendis," he said. "Do me the honour to come in. How's
Elias Effendi?" He still carried in his hand the hammer, chisel and
screwdriver with which he had been fixing the new lock on the door of
the outhouse, glad of the opening they gave him to tell the men of the
law that he had been the victim of housebreaking the night before.

Elias Effendi expressed his thanks, and deferentially introduced his
companion as Captain Jubara of the Sret Generale in Beirut. Captain
Jubara conscious of his superior status, bowed a little stiffly as he
shook hands with Faris Deeb.

"I am honoured," said Faris Deeb. "You will excuse me for carrying these
tools. I have just been fixing a new lock on the door of my outhouse. We
had an attempted robbery here last night."

"You don't say!" said Elias Effendi, effusive with professional concern.
"An attempted robbery? How? Why didn't you report it?"

"It wasn't worth reporting," said Faris Deeb, "and there was little
information I could give you to work on. But please, sit down."

After the usual introductions and handshakes, they all sat down.

"Tell us more about this attempted robbery," pursued Elias Effendi.

"I heard noises in the garden soon after midnight," said Faris Deeb,
"and when I got up to investigate their source, I found a man stealing
out of the outhouse, carrying a spade he had found there. I chased him,
and he threw the spade away and disappeared up the hill. He ran faster
than me and I could not follow him. I am not as young as I used to be,
or I should have caught him and brought him to you. That's all."

"He broke the handle of the spade in two when he threw it away," put in
Abu Faris. "A good spade it was."

"Ah, it was an old spade; the wood must have been rotten," said Faris
Deeb.

"It wasn't rotten; I used it only the other day," muttered Abu Faris
under his breath.

"I don't think the condition of the spade can be of any interest to the
officers," said Faris Deeb. "It's a very trivial matter."

"Can you give me a description of the man?" pursued the village officer
with a show of zeal and thoroughness calculated to impress his senior
colleague from Beirut. "Height? Approximate age? Clothes?"

"Just an ordinary-looking young man, in ordinary clothes--nothing
special about him," said Faris Deeb. At this point Rosa and Genevieve
came out of the kitchen. The former carried a tray with glasses of
mulberry syrup on it, the latter followed her with the coffee. The two
officers stood up as Faris Deeb introduced his wife and daughter, and
the refreshments were served. Genevieve, hearing her father's answer to
the police officer, experienced a sense of complete and final certainty
that Ramiz was right in thinking that her father had recognized him,
that he knew they had been in the outhouse together. Her father
obviously did not wish the matter of the "burglary" to be taken up by
the police, did not want the identity of the "thief" or the
circumstances of his presence in the garden to be discovered. Again,
Genevieve had that dual feeling of being frightened of her father
because he knew what she had done, and of somehow holding a threat over
him which made him afraid of her, and shielded her from his usual anger.

"That's unfortunate," said Elias Effendi. "You're sure he didn't steal
anything of value from the house? Have you made a careful search?"

"No, there's nothing missing from the house," said Rosa.

"He never got inside the house," said Faris Deeb. "I chased him away
before he had a chance to do so."

"Antoine, fetch the cigarettes from the sitting-room," said Rosa.
"Perhaps the officers would like to smoke." Antoine got up to do his
mother's bidding.

"Well, I'm sorry my colleague can't help you in this little matter of
the thief," said Captain Jubara, "but perhaps you can help us in our
inquiries about the missing American young woman from the hotel. Of
course you've heard about it from your son?"

"Ay," said Faris Deeb. "Antoine has told us."

"It's a very serious matter, particularly as the lady is an American,"
continued the Sret officer.

"American or no American," put in Elias Effendi with local concern,
"it's a very serious matter for the hotel and the village. It will give
Barkita a bad name if a holiday-maker disappears like that."

"That will be only if something happened to her in the village," said
Mitry. "Antoine was saying that she wanted a quiet rest and had come
here under a borrowed name, seeing that she is so famous. Perhaps she
found that someone had recognized her, and left the village in a hurry
for some other place, without telling anybody about it."

Antoine, who had come back with the cigarettes and was offering them to
the officers, said:

"But she wouldn't have gone away without her clothes and belongings."

"Besides," said Captain Jubara, with the importance of one who had been
conducting inquiries at a high level, "we know that she was due in
Beirut at midday to-day to keep an important appointment. She did not
turn up for it, nor send a message cancelling it. I'm afraid we have to
reckon with the possibility of foul play."

"Holy Virgin!" said Rosa. "You mean somebody has killed her?"

"I didn't quite say that, but we have to investigate every possibility,"
said Captain Jubara.

"Naturally," said Faris Deeb, forcing himself to speak, as he felt his
lack of contribution to the conversation might become noticeable.

"Was she wearing a lot of jewellery, or carrying much money on her?"
asked Abu Faris.

"Not as far as we know," said Elias Effendi.

"But there are other motives for attacking a woman than robbery," said
Captain Jubara.

"Indeed, indeed," said Abu Faris.

"But if anything had happened to her in the village," said Rosa, "she
would not just have disappeared. I mean, somebody would have found her
by now, dead or alive."

"Not necessarily," said Captain Jubara. "Sometimes these things don't
come to light immediately."

Faris Deeb was finding it impossible to join in these speculations, or
indeed to say anything at all. He was not a slick hypocrite, not a good
actor, and the weight of his guilt and fear lay heavily on his tongue.
All that he could do was to pretend that he was thinking deeply, with
the aid of a cigarette and frequent sips of coffee, while the rest of
the company were talking and conjecturing, without knowing it, about
what he had done the night before. Yet, there seemed to be such a chasm
of time and identity between the happenings of the night before and the
conversation on the terrace, that he was only half aware of the reality
of his position. His mind was echoing Captain Jubara's last sentence,
and he was reassuring himself that in his own particular case the thing
would never come to light (it only came to light if you were fool enough
to throw the body into the sea, or a disused well, or to cover it
superficially with a little earth and leaves and twigs, not if you had
the sense and thoroughness to bury it a few feet deep under a wall),
when Elias Effendi gave him another comfort by saying:

"Besides, it need not have happened here in the village; she might have
taken a car and gone for a drive."

"She might have gone to Tripoli after dinner," said Mitry.

"Ah, these Americans are capable of doing anything," said Abu Faris.

"What we're here for," said Captain Jubara, deciding that the time had
come for him to interrupt these speculations, "is to find out if anyone
saw her leaving the hotel after dinner; and if so, in what direction she
was going. Were any of you in the village last evening? Did any of you
go out of the house?"

"I was in Tripoli," said Faris Deeb, feeling that that would give him an
alibi for most of the evening anyhow--an alibi which the episode of the
thief more or less completed at the other end.

"And Antoine was at the hotel, but all the rest of us were here the
whole evening," said Rosa.

Captain Jubara turned to Faris Deeb. "What time did you go to Tripoli?"
he asked.

"Soon after lunch," said Faris Deeb.

"And you got back?"

"Quite late. Between eleven and twelve."

"Where did you leave the car that brought you back from Tripoli?"

"At the bottom of the hill, near the footpath that leads up here."

"Did you see anybody on the road?"

"No, the road was empty."

"And you came straight up the hill to your house?"

"Yes."

"You didn't meet anyone on the footpath, either?"

"No, not a soul."

"And you didn't hear any voices or footsteps? Any shouting? Any
screams?"

"No. The night was very quiet."

"When you got out of your car, did any other car pass you? Did any car
overtake you before you got out of yours?"

"I remember a car overtaking the one I was in just before it stopped."

"Did you notice how many people there were in it? One, two, more?"

"It seemed full of passengers like the one I was in."

"Seemed? You aren't sure?"

"I think it was full, but I wouldn't swear to it on the gospel," said
Faris Deeb truthfully but thinking at the same time that the expression
of a little doubt, suggesting a respect for veracity, would make a good
impression on his questioner. Of course, they weren't asking him these
questions because they suspected him. They merely thought he might be
able to give them useful information. But the mere fact that he was out
at that time of night, when few villagers were not in their beds, might
put ideas into the head of the detective from Beirut, and it was just as
well to make a good impression on him.

"Did you recognize the car itself as being one of the village cars?" put
in Elias Effendi. "Or was it a car from outside?"

"I couldn't tell. I didn't notice it specially."

"You said you arrived in the village between eleven and twelve,"
continued Captain Jubara. "You couldn't put it more definitely?"

"I didn't look at my watch, but it must have been close on midnight. I
didn't leave Tripoli till well after ten." As he mentioned the watch, he
happened to glance in the direction of Antoine, and was perturbed by a
strange look that came into the boy's eyes; then he caught sight of
Rosa's face, out of the corner of his eye, and saw her looking at
Antoine. Something in her expression too frightened him.

Here Captain Jubara cleared his throat and said: "You won't think it
impertinent of us if we ask you where you went in Tripoli, and if you
saw anyone there who can confirm your statement that you went there soon
after lunch and did not leave till after ten?"

Elias Effendi hastened to add, with some embarrassment: "You understand,
Khawaja Faris, these are routine questions we have to ask, particularly
to satisfy the American Consulate that we have made all possible
inquiries and checked all the information we obtained. Of course, we
know that you are telling the truth, but these are the regulations. This
is a small village, and most of the villagers go to bed early, so if we
know of anyone who was out late last night, we must make a report of
where he was. It's just a formality."

"Let me add my assurances to those of my colleague that no offence
whatever is meant," said the Sret officer. "Elias Effendi has told me
that you are one of the prominent men of the village, and as far as I am
concerned the answers you have given us are more than enough. But it is
our duty to ask for confirmation wherever possible."

As far as the happenings at the pool were concerned, Faris Deeb was glad
that the police officers had asked this last question. He could easily
satisfy them that his statements about the journey to Tripoli and the
time of his return were true. But to do so he would have to tell them,
before his family, that he had been to the cabaret, mention the waiter
at least as witness, if not the Egyptian bitch. And from that he
recoiled with an initial reaction of shame and repugnance, feeling that
in mentioning his visit to the cabaret he might be revealing the motive
that had taken him there--a motive that was also connected with his
later visit to the pool and what had happened there. Fortunately for
him, however, the lengthy apologies of the two officers had given him
time to think of a respectable and satisfactory explanation of the
cabaret alibi. So, when the officers had concluded their speeches, he
said:

"Of course, I understand your duty in such matters, and I am glad that I
can help you." He gave them the details of his visit to Tripoli and when
he came to the cabaret part he said that he had gone there in the hope
of finding the estate agent, who was known to patronize the
establishment, and whom he was very anxious to see that night.

"And you waited there till nearly ten before leaving?" asked Captain
Jubara.

"Yes, but I had no better luck there than in his office. He didn't come,
so I gave it up and left."

"Ah, you should have stayed on," said Elias Effendi jocularly. "They
have a very good programme this week. I've seen it myself."

"I don't care much for that sort of thing," said Faris Deeb.

"And did anyone see you there? Anyone who can confirm that you were
there till ten o'clock?"

"Yes; one of the waiters, who served me with a drink or two while I
waited. If you want me to go with you any time so that he may identify
me, I shall be at your service."

"That is very kind of you, Khawaja Deeb," said Captain Jubara, "but I
don't think it will be necessary. It is enough we know that what you
have told us can be verified if required. One more point: when you got
home, were all the members of your household asleep? I mean did any of
them wake up and notice what the time was?"

"They were all asleep," said Faris Deeb in a tone that settled the
matter, then as though apologizing for having presumed to answer for
them, he added with a gesture pointing in the direction of Rosa and the
others. "But perhaps you would like them to answer for themselves? Some
of them may have been awake." He looked, as though accidentally, at
Genevieve, who quickly averted her eyes.

"I'm always asleep by ten o'clock," said Rosa, "and nothing can wake me
before dawn." She looked at her husband as she spoke the last word, and
he wondered in some alarm what she could have meant. He said:

"Ay, Rosa sleeps like a log."

"I didn't wake up," said Abu Faris.

"Nor I," said Mitry. "I'm a heavy sleeper, and an early one, like my
mother."

"I didn't get home till quite late myself," said Antoine, "as I told
Your Presence at the hotel when you were questioning me about Miss
Bright--I mean Miss Waverley. It could have been before my father
returned, or after; I don't know which, as I went to sleep straightaway,
and didn't wake up till the morning."

"And you?" said Faris Deeb, looking at Genevieve.

"I was asleep," she said. "I didn't wake up."

"Well, it's of no importance," said Captain Jubara. "If we could have
had confirmation of the time of your arrival home last night, it would
have tidied up our report nicely. But we must accept your word, and go
on to make inquiries elsewhere now. Forgive us for having taken up so
much of your time."

"You have honoured us," said Faris Deeb.

"May God prosper your inquiries," said Rosa.

"Ay, we don't want a bad name coming to the village," said Abu Faris.
"God be with you."

Genevieve watched the retreating figure of Captain Jubara with a look of
dreamy aspiration. His appearance, his status, the authority with which
he spoke, the level on which he moved had impressed her enormously.
Perhaps Ramiz, one day, would be in a similar position--Captain Ramiz
Mansour!

"Well, come and have supper now," said Rosa. "It was ready when they
came."

They went into the "hall," where they had their meals, and sat round a
table covered with an oil cloth. From the kitchen, Rosa and Genevieve
fetched plates of black and green olives, curd cheese in oil, lentils
and fried onions, and a stack of round, flat loaves.

"Fetch me the bottle of arak," said Faris Deeb. He thought he had come
through the interview with the police officers very well. His hard,
rough exterior, his laconic manner of speech and lack of effusiveness,
well-known to Elias Effendi, had been very useful in hiding his inner
disquiet, in making unnoticeable his long silences in the conversation
when everyone else was speculating or asking questions. People often
said, "Faris Deeb's expression never changes," or "he has a face of
granite," or "you never know what he's thinking." Well, those police
officers couldn't have known what he was thinking, couldn't have seen
any change in his looks, any more than the people he dealt with in
business could tell anything from his face when he was conducting a
transaction. And he had given them a satisfactory account of his journey
to Tripoli, which they could verify. They had accepted his statement
that he came home straight from where the car had dropped him. There was
nothing for him to fear, nothing except.... He watched Rosa as she
came back with the bottle of arak. He remembered her speaking of the
dawn, and the look she had given him when she mentioned the word. Could
she have seen him coming into the room, undressing? Wondered why he had
been so late? Could she be wondering now, after hearing the story of the
missing woman? His confidence faltered, but his face remained impassive.
He held out his hand to take the bottle of arak.

"What have you done to your hand to get all those blisters?" said Rosa,
handing him the bottle.

He started slightly behind his walls of granite, but he was prepared
with his answer, for Mitry had asked him the same question in the shop
earlier in the day.

"That cursed car that brought me from Tripoli had a puncture," he said.
"I helped the driver unscrew the nuts on the wheel. They were very
stiff." He poured himself a large tot of arak, added a little water from
the snout of the earthenware jug on the table, and took a gulp. Then,
with a faint approach to amiability, prompted by a sudden sense of
isolation and insecurity, he said to his wife, "Have a drop yourself."
He extended the invitation to his father and Mitry, adding, "Antoine and
Genevieve are too young to drink yet." Even in this exclusion, there was
a touch of friendliness, a suggestion that certain severities might be
relaxed as the children grew up.

"You weren't too young to drink," said Abu Faris with a smile such as
rarely passed between him and his son, "when I caught you having a swig
at my bottle of arak, and you not fourteen yet! Do you remember that?"
Abu Faris looked across the years, scarcely able to believe that there
had been a time when Faris could be afraid of him.

"Ay, I remember," said Faris Deeb. "But Rosa has brought the children up
to be better behaved than I was."

"Thanks be to God and the Holy Virgin," said Rosa, "that you sometimes
see something good in your wife and children. You'll be buying me a new
dress next, I suppose?"

"If you need one, you shall have it. I have never denied you or the
children anything necessary. But I don't believe in waste. That is all."
While the substance of what he said contained this element of
propitiation, his manner had returned to its usual sternness. He was not
going to make, he was incapable of making, any further concessions to
his fear, to the claims of diplomacy.

Abu Faris, always anxious to allay the conflicts and hatreds that
poisoned the life in his son's house, hastened to make a contribution to
the comparative friendliness that had come over the supper table. He
said:

"Ay, Faris has provided well for you. He works hard. He is successful.
One day all the fruits of his labour will come to you. Why does a man
strive and sweat to amass money but for his wife and children? Glory be
to God, this is the way he has ordered the world." Having delivered this
homily, Abu Faris lifted his glass of arak, saying, "Your health, my
son."

"Your health, Father," said Faris Deeb, taking another gulp himself.

"The health of all of you," said Abu Faris, pointing with his glass at
the other members of the family. "Let Antoine and Genevieve have a drop,
Faris. It won't do them any harm."

"All right," said Faris Deeb. "Just the width of a finger."

"Which finger?" asked Mitry, with a mischievous smile, sharing in the
mild friendliness that had infused itself into the family, as it rarely
did in the presence of his father. "The thumb, or the little one?"

"The middle one, the middle one," said Abu Faris, in the tone of a
judicious arbitrator settling a controversy with a reasonable
compromise.

"I don't want any," said Genevieve. "I don't like it."

"How do you know?" asked her father. "Have you tried it in secret?"

"I can tell from its smell," said Genevieve.

"You can, can you?" said her father. "Children do things behind their
fathers' backs, thinking they can get away with it, but sooner or later
they're caught out!" At the back of his mind echoes from the little
speech his father had made the moment before were still sounding....
"One day all the fruits of his labour will come to you"--one day! They
would come immediately in certain circumstances. Mitry would have the
money to pay his fare to Brazil. Genevieve would have a nice little
dowry to bring to Ramiz. Rosa would become her own mistress. She too
would have a nice little dowry, for a widow. Wouldn't surprise him if
she married again. She was still young enough, and not bad looking. She
had no pleasure with him as a husband. She might want it with someone
else. As long as he lived, she wouldn't dare. But if he was out of the
way.... A dark jealousy mingled with his fear, and for some time he
ceased to listen to the talk round the supper table. He only came to
when Mitry said:

"Just imagine that we had a celebrated film star staying in the village
and didn't know anything about it until she disappeared!"

"Holy Virgin, let no harm befall her," said Rosa.

"I just can't think what happened to her," said Antoine. "One moment she
was there, sitting on the terrace after dinner, and the next she was
gone!"

"By God, it seems very mysterious," said Mitry.

Faris Deeb drank his arak silently. The alcohol gave him a dreamy
feeling, enhanced by his fatigue and lack of sleep the night before. He
listened with a brain sufficiently dulled to keep drifting away from its
memories, and from his connection with the thing they were talking
about.

"I still believe she started by wanting to go and bathe in the pool,"
said Antoine. "Why else did she take a towel with her? They searched all
the day at the hotel for that towel, but they still couldn't find it.
She must have taken it out of her room."

"It could have been stolen by one of the maids at the hotel," said Faris
Deeb. He had to kill that idea of the pool.

"But it was the maids themselves who reported its disappearance," said
Antoine. "Two of them."

"Are there no other maids at the hotel but those two?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Of course there are, but----"

"Well, one of the others could have stolen it."

"But even if she went to the pool, what could have happened to her?"
said Mitry. "She wasn't drowned."

"Ah, all this talk of her going to the pool is nonsense," said Faris
Deeb, with a mixture of authority and derision, and making his
pronouncement during one of those moments when he felt so unconnected
with the subject as to be able to speak about it.

"But she said herself she'd like to bathe in the pool by moonlight,"
persisted Antoine.

"Don't contradict me," shouted Faris Deeb, his rage and alarm flaring up
at his son's doggedness. "Don't be a donkey!" Then, feeling afraid that
he might have betrayed himself by this outburst, he went on in a calmer
tone, "People say they would like to do all sorts of crazy things, but
they don't do them."

"When a woman vanishes like this," said Abu Faris, "it's nearly always
the same story." Then, addressing himself to Genevieve, he added, "Be
careful, my daughter. Never walk by yourself at night, except where
there are lights and a lot of people about. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Genevieve, "I never do it."

"Ay," said Faris Deeb, seeing with great relief the prospect of an
avenue of thought that led thousands of miles away from the pool, "there
are criminal gangs that kidnap women and take them to South America for
immoral purposes. They say many a wretched girl has gone that way, and
never been heard of since. White Slave Traffic, they call it. There was
a case last year in Beirut. I read about it in a newspaper."

"God protect us," said Rosa.

"I didn't mean only that," said Abu Faris, but, to Faris Deeb's relief,
before his father could say what else he meant, footsteps were heard
outside on the terrace, and Yusef's voice called, "Good evening, Abu
Mitry. I'm sorry to disturb you at your supper. There's someone here who
wants to see you, but we'll wait outside till you've finished eating."
Yusef walked to the window and beamed at the company inside the room,
adding, "Good evening Sitt Rosa, good evening to you all."

"That won't do," said Faris Deeb, expansive with relief at this
intrusion that put an end to the talk about the missing woman and the
pool. He presumed Yusef was bringing him a client, and that a business
transaction was going to follow. "Come in with the gentleman and join us
in a bite and a glass of arak."

Rosa's blood warmed and her heart beats quickened at the sound of her
lover's voice. Any nervousness she might have felt at Yusef's coming to
the house when her husband was there--a thing he rarely did--was allayed
by the tone of Faris Deeb's welcome to the visitors. Wondering what
could have brought Yusef on this visit, and who his companion might be,
she hastened to reinforce her husband's invitation:

"Of course you must have a bite," she said. "Do come in. I'll get some
more chairs." She left the table and hurried into the sitting-room. She
knew the children and Abu Faris liked Yusef, and, in spite of the
priest's admonitions the day before, she was sure they suspected
nothing.

"Thank you," said Yusef coming in, followed by the other man. "We've
both eaten, but a drop of arak is always welcome. Before the meal, it
stimulates the appetite; with the meal, it lubricates the throat--pardon
me for using the language of the garage--and after eating it's good for
the digestion, eh Fareed?"

When Faris Deeb saw the man addressed as Fareed, he felt the blood drain
suddenly out of his heart, and as though never to return. It was the
driver of the car that had brought him from Tripoli the night before.
What had he come for? And why, in the name of all the devils, had you,
Faris Deeb, not thought of some other explanation of the blisters on
your hand than that lie about the punctured tyre? Some remark now, some
question, and they would all know that he had lied because he didn't
want them to know what had caused the blisters. He stood up with an
effort to welcome the visitors. Rosa had returned with two extra chairs.

"Good evening to you," said the car driver. "Please forgive me for
interrupting your supper."

"You're welcome," said Faris Deeb.

"There's no interruption at all," said Rosa. "Do us the honour to sit
down." She placed the chairs as close to the table as possible, and the
two men sat down. In passing Yusef, her leg had touched his knee, and he
moved his knee cap slightly to give her a little clandestine caress. She
responded with an instant's pressure from her leg.

"You've honoured us," said Faris Deeb, pouring out two tots of arak and
picking up the water jug. He was trying to think quickly of the reason
that had brought the car driver to see him.

"No water for me, if you please, Abu Mitry," said Yusef, smiling
naughtily, as it were, at his reputation for hard drinking, and proud to
confirm it with this jocular boast.

"Yusef wants arak, not milk!" said Mitry, referring to the whiteness of
the diluted drink.

"Ah, there's a young man who understands!" said Yusef. "Eh, Mitry? They
say 'don't mix your drinks.' Well, I don't like mixing my arak with
water!" His ruddy face beamed with a large smile at his own joke. Mitry
laughed, and Abu Faris gave a little chuckle, in which Rosa joined
discreetly.

"In that case, you must have some more of the arak," said Faris Deeb,
adding a few drops to Yusef's glass. His fear made him anxious to be
propitiatory all round, and he wanted to keep the conversation away from
the subject of the previous night's journey, though obviously that was
going to come up. What else had the driver come for? But what was it?
What was it?

"By God, Abu Mitry, your generosity is in flood to-night!" said Yusef.
"But it's going to be richly rewarded, on my honour. Here's to your
health, and the lady's too--everybody's health!" He drank and smacked
his lips. "Yes, by God, it's good arak!"

"Do have something to eat with it," said Rosa, "some olives, a slice of
cucumber or tomato--and the Khawaja there." She passed a few plates in
the direction of the visitors.

"Thank you. May God increase your prosperity," said the car driver,
helping himself.

"In a moment, it will be Khawaja Faris who will be thanking you," said
Yusef. "And by God, you will have earned his thanks. Such honesty is
scarce in the world to-day."

"Don't you remember me?" asked the car driver, looking at Faris Deeb.
"I'm the driver who brought you from Tripoli last night. I was passing
through Barkita on the way to my own village."

"I thought I'd seen your face before," said Faris Deeb. "But I wasn't
sure, because it was in the dark."

"Yes, and that's how you made your mistake, and also why I didn't notice
it at the time."

"My mistake?" said Faris Deeb, trying urgently to trunk of what the man
was talking about.

"Well, you see, instead of giving me a one-lira note, you gave me, when
you got out of the car, a five-lira note. I only discovered the mistake
when I got home. Here's the note you gave me."

"He didn't know who you were," explained Yusef, "so he came to my garage
now and told me the story. He told me where he had put you down, and
described you to me, and I knew you had gone to Tripoli in the
afternoon, so I guessed it must be you, though by God, Abu Mitry, I
found it difficult to believe that you would make such a mistake!
Haven't you counted your money since last night?" Yusef expressed his
astonishment with a malicious twinkle of his large, black eyes. He knew
that he could have a dig at his mistress's husband with impunity, since
Faris Deeb would be too delighted to get back the excess money he had
paid to take any notice of the jibe.

"No one but God is above making a mistake," said Faris Deeb. "I must
have miscounted the money in my purse, but if our conscientious friend
here is sure----"

"Yes, I am sure, Khawaja Deeb. This is the note you gave me."

"I'm very grateful to you," said Faris Deeb. "God will reward you for
your honesty, but I thank you for the trouble you took to bring me back
this note. Here is your lira." Having taken out his purse, he extracted
a one-lira note, which he gave the driver in exchange for the one
returned to him. Never in his life had he made such a mistake before. It
was the drink he had had at the cabaret, and the lavish mess he'd got
himself into with his money, paying for the drinks and tipping the
waiter, and the desire for something other than money that consumed him
as he got out of the car.... Yusef's jibe had not hurt his finer
feelings. It had only given his self-confidence a momentary jolt.
Delighted at the recovery of his four liras, he was still anxious to get
rid of the car driver quickly lest the fiction of the tyre be exposed.
So he went on:

"I have put you to a lot of trouble, and you must not lose any more time
and fares on my account."

"God be praised that there are still men of honour and conscience in the
world," said Rosa.

"Well, one good turn deserves another," began Abu Faris. "Faris
helped----"

"Enough!" said Faris Deeb severely, and quick as lightning to prevent
the exposure he feared. "I did nothing. Let us just be thankful to this
decent man for his noble action." He tried to sound as though
magnanimously demanding that no mention should be made of the little
service he had rendered the driver. Abu Faris, thus checked, left his
speech unfinished. Rosa looked at her husband, slightly surprised. Such
explosions from his mouth were not unusual. But delicacy of sentiment
was never their cause. She would rather have expected him to say himself
to the driver, "Well, I helped you with that tyre; now we're quits." Why
had he so sharply silenced Abu Faris?... Why had he lied about the
watch and the hour of his return to the house? Perhaps that story about
the thief and the spade was a fabrication too... why had he invented
it?

"Come, come Abu Mitry," said Yusef, noticing that Faris Deeb was trying
to get rid of him and the driver, and thinking that it was merely in
order to save himself from having to offer them a second drink, "you're
not going to get off so lightly, you know. Four liras are worth the
reward of at least one bottle of arak. But we shan't insist on that.
Just remove that cork and pour us out another tot. By God, Sitt Rosa,
your olives are delicious. I wager their likes are not to be found in
the village."

"And this curd cheese in oil," said Rosa, glad to have her lover for a
little while longer, enjoying his baiting of her husband. "Have you
tasted it?"

"I've tasted everything you have. It's all delectable," said Yusef
innocently.

Rosa smiled, trying to look very natural, though her heart had jumped at
the hidden meaning in her lover's remark. To emphasize the ostensible
meaning, she said:

"You men know that housewives like to have their table praised. You know
how to flatter!"

"By Mar Maroun, I do not flatter," said Yusef. "I call Abu Mitry to
witness. You are eating off the same table, Abu Mitry. Isn't everything
on it delicious?"

"Ay, Rosa is a good cook and housewife," said Faris Deeb without much
enthusiasm, pouring more arak into the glasses of Yusef and the driver.
Suddenly, he put the bottle down, and glowered at Yusef.

"What was that you said?" he demanded in a menacing tone.

"I?" said Yusef, taken aback, realizing to his amazement that Faris Deeb
had slowly seen through his irony.

"Yes, you, what did you mean about Rosa? Rosa, what did he mean?" He
rose slowly from his seat, breathing heavily. Various little things he
had seen and not taken in, words he had heard without comprehending,
Yusef's mocking insolence towards him disguised as jocularity, Rosa's
physical aversion for him during the past two years, the way her leg
touched Yusef's knee a few moments before, which he had seen but paid no
attention to--all clicked together now in his brain into a pattern whose
significance blasted from it everything else.

"Faris, shame on you!" said Rosa. "Speaking to me like that, and to our
guest! What do you mean?"

"I was only complimenting the lady on the nice things she was offering
us," said Yusef uneasily.

"Liar!" said Faris Deeb. "Swine! Get out of my house before I break your
bones!"

"Faris! Faris!" pleaded his father. "Have you gone mad? What is this you
are saying, my son? I heard what Yusef said. There was no offence in
it."

"I said get out!" said Faris Deeb, ignoring his father's intervention
and continuing to glare at Yusef, who had remained seated, slightly
stunned by Faris Deeb's outburst, and hoping to brave out the crisis by
a show of incomprehension and injured innocence.

The driver rose and murmuring an awkward "Good night," began to withdraw
from a scene in which he felt his presence would be embarrassing to
everybody.

"Very well," said Yusef with an air of tense dignity, rising after the
driver, "if this is my reward for rendering you a service, I will go. I
have never stayed in a house where I wasn't welcome, Khawaja Faris. But
I don't want the lady to be misunderstood on account of anything I said.
On my honour----"

"Damn your honour, and leave the lady out. I will know how to deal with
her!"

"Oh, disgrace! Oh, dishonour!" wailed Abu Faris, as Yusef's figure began
to retreat. "Follow him, my son; beg his pardon. Don't let it be said
that you kicked a guest out of your house for no reason, for a madness
in your mind. What has come over you?"

"Faris Deeb, you're a fool!" said Rosa. "You think yourself very clever,
don't you? You think you've discovered secret meanings in innocent
words. You think you understand everything. Well, you don't! You're
nothing but a stupid bully. And you're attacking my honour, even before
my children, because you have a secret of your own you want to cover up.
Isn't that so? Where were you last night? You did not come home till
dawn. And the night before? You pretend that you go to Tripoli to see
the estate agent, but God knows what you have been doing. People don't
transact business till midnight!"

"Shut up!" shouted Faris Deeb, shaking with an anger that only just
masked his fear. He did not know whether Rosa was hinting at any
connection between him and the story of the missing woman, or just
vaguely accusing him of improper conduct. But even if only the latter,
her references to the previous night were enough to make him panic. The
last thing he wanted was that the Sret officer should come to know
that he had not got home till dawn.

"I will not shut up," retorted Rosa, feeling that her counter-attack had
somehow gone home, though she was not thinking of the missing woman at
all. "It wasn't a piece of land you went to see. It was a woman! A
woman! And after that, you have the face to insult me before strangers,
before your father and my children!"

"Quiet, my daughter, be quiet!" said Abu Faris. "What has come over you
all to-night?"

"Ask your son," said Rosa, sensing a strange retreat of the spirit in
her husband, which confirmed her suspicions. She did not mind his being
unfaithful to her. In her outburst of self-defence, there had been no
jealousy or anger. She hoped her suspicions were right. Perhaps, he
would leave her alone then, be always afraid, as he seemed to be at that
moment.

"Maybe I spoke too hastily," said Faris Deeb, trying to pacify his wife,
and indeed thinking that perhaps he had jumped to unwarranted
conclusions. "But I did go to Tripoli to see the land and the estate
agent. Every word I said to the police officers was true. I did get home
by midnight."

"Why didn't you come to bed till dawn, then? I woke up for an instant
and saw you entering the room. The light of daybreak was in the window."

Faris Deeb was in a cleft stick. To answer Rosa satisfactorily he would
have to pretend that she saw him in the light of dawn when he was
re-entering the room after having left it to chase the thief. But then,
Genevieve would know that he was lying, for it was long before dawn that
she and her lover had left the outhouse. Quickly however, and before
Rosa had finished speaking, he decided to risk this latter danger, for
he feared Rosa more than he feared Genevieve.

"Have you forgotten about the thief?" he said, assuming an aggrieved
tone. "Didn't I tell you I had to get up and chase him? And why didn't
you say anything if you woke up when I came back into the room?"

Antoine and Mitry looked at each other. Abu Faris looked at his son.
There was general surprise and relief at the sudden calming down of
Faris Deeb's anger, at the conciliatory, almost plaintive tone of his
voice. Rosa said:

"It's true; I'd forgotten the thief. Was it so late in the night, then?"

"Ay," said Faris Deeb.

Rosa knew that he was lying. When he had entered the room, he was fully
dressed. A man did not put on all his clothes, and a watch chain to
which no watch was attached, when he got up in a hurry in the middle of
the night to investigate suspicious noises. His bed too had not been
disturbed. She had noticed that when he lifted the pillow to put the
watch chain under it. She became convinced that the whole thief story
was a fabrication, that the hours of the previous night concealed a
secret which her husband was trying to cover up--and that that secret
could only be a woman, a woman he had gone to keep a tryst with on his
return from Tripoli, perhaps in the orchard, by the pool.... Why,
that would explain why his watch had fallen into the pool, and why he
didn't want it known that he had lost it in the night; why he pretended
that it had fallen into the water the following morning, just before
Antoine.... Her thoughts, until then fluid and moving quickly from
one fact to another, suddenly froze with a shock--the shock of
remembering why Antoine and the hotel manager had gone to the pool, what
the American woman had said to Antoine about wanting to bathe in the
pool by moonlight. In that instant Rosa, for the first time, glimpsed a
possible connection between the woman's disappearance and her husband's
movements the previous night and the lies he had told since the morning.
But what could that connection be? Where was the woman? What had
happened to her? The shape of the answers to these questions was still
dark and confused in her mind, a shape to which she was not able to give
names in so many words. She looked at her husband and found him avoiding
the eyes of the whole company around the table. She knew that he was
afraid, afraid of them all, afraid of something terrible which placed
him in their power, particularly in her power. For the moment, however,
she refrained from exposing his lie, fearing the extremes to which such
exposure might drive him, and feeling in a curious way that her new
power over him would be greater if he continued to fear exposure than if
she actually exposed him. She was like one who has discovered a secret
weapon but prefers for the time being to keep it secret.

Genevieve too knew that her father was lying, but her knowledge
suggested nothing beyond the clever explanation Ramiz had thought of.
That explanation was now confirmed by her mother's outburst. Her father
must have brought a woman into the outhouse after she and Ramiz had left
it. How clever Ramiz had been!

Abu Faris, recovering from his surprise at his son's sudden change of
manner and all but complete withdrawal of the accusations he had made,
pursued the advantage of the moment by saying:

"It is good, my son, that you have been quick to see the mistake you
made. But it isn't enough to admit your mistake to Rosa. You must follow
Yusef and ask his pardon too. He was your guest, eating bread and salt
with you, and you insulted him; you turned him out of your house. Follow
him, I pray you, my son, and make it up with him."

"It can wait," said Faris Deeb. "I'll see him to-morrow."

"As you please," said Abu Faris, "but they say there is no time like the
present for doing what is right. Don't make an enemy gratuitously, even
for one night. It doesn't do a man good to make enemies, and you already
have many enemies in the village."

"All right, I will go," said Faris Deeb. Yusef could be a dangerous
enemy. He had already made contact with that driver. He might hear from
Mitry or Antoine the story of the tyre, and find out it was a lie,
wonder why.... The lies Faris Deeb had told were like scorpions lying
under stones all around him, and he did not want any of the stones to be
upturned. Rosa's noticing of the blisters on his hands worried him. When
the police failed to discover the missing woman, they might guess that
she had been killed and buried. Digging caused blisters... and after
all, he had probably wronged Yusef. Yusef was afraid of him. He would
not dare make love to his wife, even if the bitch was willing. He had
been foolish to flare up as he did at Yusef's words, to see such hidden
meaning in them, to imagine that the brushing of Rosa's leg against
Yusef's knee was more than an accident.

He found Yusef back in his garage, preparing to lock up for the night,
having already dismissed his assistants.

"What do you want, Khawaja Faris?" asked Yusef, a little haughtily. "You
kick me out of your house, and then you come to my garage?"

"That is why I have come," said Faris Deeb, with the awkwardness of one
not accustomed to making apologies.

"Do me the honour to sit down," said Yusef, still unbending.

"Thank you, but what I have come to say will not take long. I have
misjudged you, Yusef. I... I misunderstood your words; and you know,
I am a hot-tempered person. I am sorry for what happened."

"Praise be to God that you came to see your mistake so quickly," said
Yusef, astonished at the change that had come over Faris Deeb since the
scene at his table half an hour before, astonished to hear him utter an
apology. "How could you imagine such a thing?"

"Everyone can make mistakes."

"Give me your hand, Abu Mitry. I am not one to bear a grudge. As you
say, we all make mistakes, but it is only the generous-spirited that
make amends for their mistakes."

Faris Deeb held forth his hand, and Yusef grasped it. Faris Deeb winced
slightly.

"What's the matter with your hand, Abu Mitry?" asked Yusef. "It's hot
and swollen. Been working as a labourer?"

"Ah, it's nothing," said Faris Deeb, frightened more than before at the
mention of his blisters. But he wasn't going to repeat the story of the
tyre; and to invent other explanations might be equally dangerous. He
had to reckon with chance remarks being exchanged, inconsistencies
discovered accidentally. It wasn't twenty-four hours since the thing had
happened, but so many awkward little things had occurred and been
noticed, demanding explanations from him, involving him in a web of
contradictions.

"Tell you what?" said Yusef. "Let's go to the caf and water the
replanted flower of our friendship with another glass of arak. We may
pick up some news of the missing woman. The Sret people have been
going round the village. I suppose they came to you?"

"Yes. I have seen them," said Faris Deeb impassively, then changing from
the singular pronoun to the plural, continued, "Unfortunately we were
not able to give them any assistance."

"Nor was I. Nobody seems to have seen her out in the village last night.
By God, it's a mystery. But they say this Captain Jubara is a very
clever detective and can unearth any mystery, no matter how deeply
buried. What say you, shall we go to the caf?"

Yusef's fortuitous choice of metaphor in describing the abilities of the
Sret man chilled Faris Deeb's heart for a moment. He declined Yusef's
invitation to the caf and set off for home, urgently anxious to know if
Antoine and the hotel manager had mentioned to the Police their
encounter with him at the pool, told them about the incident of the
watch.




CHAPTER 14


Meanwhile, someone else was anxious to know more about that watch
incident. Ever since Rosa had glimpsed that first possible connection
between the American woman's disappearance and Faris Deeb's movements
and behaviour since the day before, she had been doing some very hard
thinking and coming to some astonishing and fearful conclusions. The
dark shape of the answers to the questions she asked herself was
becoming clearer, illuminated by sudden flashes of light in her mind. It
was acquiring names provided by a series of simple, inevitable
inferences. If there was any connection between the two things, it meant
that her husband had caused the woman's disappearance, and how could he
have done that except... except by killing her and disposing of her
body in some way--throwing it into some ditch in the valley and covering
it with earth and stones. The valley was deep and rambling, and there
were many caverns in its jagged sides where a body might be concealed
and not found for a long time, if at all. Her husband might have carried
it into some obscure spot before disposing of it. A long journey like
that would explain his not coming to bed till dawn. And the terrible
thing he had done would explain his lies and the fear she sensed in him.
But why had he killed her? Well, there could be only one explanation, a
natural enough explanation--the reason why many women were murdered in
lonely places at night. Rosa was horrified at the procession of these
speculations in her mind, each arising from the one before it, and
leading to the next. But her horror was on account of the murder she
suspected, in itself, and not because the person she suspected was her
own husband. Her hatred of Faris Deeb prevented her from feeling
personally involved in the horror. Nor did her conclusions shock her or
seem incredible. The man who could beat his wife and children as Faris
Deeb did, might easily go a step further if his victims hit back, if he
was thwarted in the accomplishment of some urgent desire.... But,
Holy Virgin, how terrible it was to have a murderer in the midst of the
family, living under the same roof, sleeping next to her at night! A
strange fear came upon her, a fear she had never before felt towards
Faris Deeb--fear not of him, but of the thing she suspected he had
become, of the thing that--if she were right--had entered him like some
gruesome deformity or disease. Yet, while she experienced this dark,
primitive fear on one level of her mind, on another level the awareness
that it was her husband who now feared her and the rest of the family
was steadily growing, and with it her sense of power over him. If she
could only satisfy herself that her suspicions were true, if she could
have proof! Already he was showing an astounding meekness, withdrawing
his accusations against her, following Yusef to apologize to him. Had
they really succeeded in making him believe that Yusef's words had been
innocent--oh, foolish, foolhardy Yusef to say a thing like that!--or was
it just that he was afraid now because of the thing she suspected. But
suspicion was not enough. She must find out more.

Finding herself alone with Antoine for a few moments during her
husband's visit to Yusef, she said:

"So your father told you that his watch had fallen into the pool this
morning?"

"Yes," said Antoine, who was still trying to work out his own puzzle
about the watch. "Why do you ask?"

"Was the watch going when you fished it out for him?" asked Rosa.

The boy looked at his mother with a strange perplexity.

"No. There's a little mystery about that watch. It had stopped. The
hands were pointing to half past twelve. But he pretended it was still
going. Why did he do that? It's been bothering me all day."

Rosa remained silent, wondering whether to give her son any intimation
of the suspicion that had come to her, and which was now startlingly
confirmed by what he had told her about the hour at which the watch had
stopped.

"Mother, you know something about that watch. What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, my son."

"Yes, there is something; I want to know what it is."

The urge to have some secret communion with her son, to sow in his mind
a seed of her own suspicion became irresistible. After some hesitation,
she said:

"Your father did not have the watch on him when he came to bed last
night, but he tried to deceive me as he tried to deceive you. He
pretended to have it."

Antoine stared at his mother for a moment, then said:

"It must have fallen into the pool last night--at half past twelve, soon
after his return from Tripoli! But what could have taken him to the pool
at such an hour?"

"How would I know, my son."

"And why has he told all those lies?"

"Perhaps he's afraid of something."

"Of what?"

"I don't know any more than you do. Do you still believe the American
lady went to bathe in the pool last night?"

"Yes. At least, I can't think of any other----" began Antoine, then he
broke off suddenly, and a look of slow, fearful comprehension darkened
his eyes. "Oh, Mother, No!" he cried in horror and anguish.

"I don't know, my son; I don't know what to think. It is no more than a
suspicion--a dreadful suspicion. It occurred to you as it occurred to
me. We will talk about it later, but no more now. Here's your father
coming back. He's just opened the garden gate."

"I don't want to see him," said Antoine, with a shudder of repugnance.
"I'll go to the caf; I'll follow Mitry."

"As you please."

"Have you told Mitry about the watch?"

"No. There was nothing to tell until I heard your news this evening. If
you want to go to the caf before your father sees you, get up at once
and slip into the kitchen. You can go out by the back door."

"I've changed my mind. I want to see him," said Antoine, his repugnance
overcome by a stronger emotion which he could scarcely explain to
himself.

"As you please. But don't let anything out. Do you understand? I will go
into the kitchen. I have a few jobs to do." She got up and left the
terrace. Antoine remained glued to his chair, watching his father's
heavy figure coming up the garden path, hearing the sound of his
footsteps on the flagstones as though he had never heard it before. They
were not just the footsteps of a possible murderer, who was his father.
The murderer, if he was one, had killed Miss Bright.

"Where are the others?" asked Faris Deeb, arriving on the terrace, and
glad to find Antoine by himself.

"Mitry has gone to the caf, and Mother's in the kitchen."

"And Genevieve?" Faris Deeb lowered himself into a cane chair, still
panting from his climb.

"Don't know." Antoine gazed at his father, at his hard, impassive face,
low-hanging eyelids and thick eyebrows, at his heavy lips and the deep
lines in his face and forehead, like cracks in the bark of a tough tree.
It seemed to Antoine that the face was not as hard as usual, the
expression strangely subdued. It seemed to him that the head was
carrying a heavy burden, which the eyes were trying to conceal. Faris
Deeb took out his handkerchief and mopped his face.

"It's a warm evening," he said in a tone that seemed to invite
conversation, but still without looking at his son. Antoine gazed at his
father's hands with their large, fleshy fingers. What had those hands
done at the pool the night before? Had they really held Miss Bright,
pawed her, strangled her? And what else? What else? Where was she now,
where was her body? Oh, God, if he only could be sure!

"Yes," he said, "it is warm."

"It makes my temper hotter than usual," said Faris Deeb. "You mustn't
take any notice of what I said to your mother and Yusef at supper. Your
mother is a good woman."

"I know my mother is a good woman."

"Ay, and you're not bad children, either, though I sometimes lose my
temper with you, I'm proud of you, my son."

Antoine's good heart was beginning to soften, and his suspicion to
falter, when his father's next remark revived it instantly. Faris Deeb
said:

"I suppose the police asked you a lot of questions at the hotel, before
they came here. They must have seen you were a clever young man who
could help them."

"Yes. They asked many questions."

"And what did you tell them?" pursued Faris Deeb trying to mask the fear
in his curiosity.

"I told them what I knew. It wasn't much."

"You mean about the American woman telling you she would like to bathe
in the pool at night, and your thinking that she might have had an
accident there and coming with Khawaja Rasheed this morning to look for
her?"

"Yes, I told them that."

"Did they show much interest in it?"

"I don't know. I think they're going to search the whole valley."

"I suppose you showed off before Captain Jubara," said Faris Deeb
not disapprovingly, "...told him how you dived into the pool and
recovered my watch for me?"

"No, I did not tell them that. It had nothing to do with what they
wanted to know."

"Ah, you're too modest; but I suppose Khawaja Rasheed told them?"

"No. He just told them what I told them."

"And you didn't mention my watch at all?"

"No. I didn't think it would interest them," said Antoine, looking at
his father steadily, into his eyes; then, on an impulse he could not
resist, he added, "Is there any reason why it should have interested
them?"

Faris Deeb looked away, saying casually, "No, I don't suppose it would
have interested them. They were concerned about more important things.
Only, I wanted to make sure that if you had told them about me and the
watch, you would have also explained that the orchard above the pool is
ours so that they would have understood why I was there."

"Is the watch still going?" asked Antoine.

"No. I wasn't as lucky as I thought when you first handed it to me. The
spring was broken and the hands were slipping and pointing in all sorts
of directions. I've had to send it to be repaired in Tripoli."

Antoine's suspicion was again checked by this explanation, which seemed
to him quite plausible. The hands of the watch could have become
dislocated and started going round loosely, pointing to one hour when he
looked at it, and to another after he had handed it to his father, so
that his father thought it was still going. And how could his mother be
sure that his father didn't have the watch on him when he went to bed?
She might have been mistaken. God knew, he had little love for his
father, but it was difficult to believe that he was a murderer! Antoine
looked at his father, unable to believe it, but equally unable to
extinguish the thought that had come to him and to his mother. He got up
and followed his mother into the kitchen, determined to obtain more
evidence. His father remained silent and alone on the terrace.

In the kitchen, Antoine whispered to his mother, "Come with me into the
room," indicating the bedroom he shared with Mitry, and where they could
speak without being overheard by his father. Rosa left a saucepan she
had been cleaning, dried her hands quickly on a towel, and followed him
into the bedroom.

"I can't believe it," said Antoine. "I can't believe it. I may have been
wrong about the watch and the hour. He said the hands had slipped and
were going round loosely. It could be true. How do you know he didn't
have the watch on him when he came to bed. Perhaps you're mistaken too."

"Perhaps, my son. Everybody makes mistakes," said Rosa, conceding the
fact in principle, but implying by her manner that the principle didn't
apply in the case they were discussing.

"But what made you think he didn't have it?"

"He took the chain off his waistcoat, but there was no watch at the end
of it. He put the chain alone under the pillow."

"Could you see clearly in the dark?"

"It wasn't very dark; the light of dawn was in the room."

"Perhaps the watch had come off the chain in his waistcoat pocket, and
he didn't realize it. It was very late in the night and he was sleepy.
Isn't that possible?"

"Everything is possible," said Rosa, making another concession to
improbability.

"Are you sure he didn't have the watch on him this morning, before he
went down to the orchard?"

"This morning before he left the house I was sitting with him and your
grandfather on the terrace; I asked him what the time was, seeing the
watch chain spread across his waistcoat from pocket to pocket, but he
didn't take the watch out. He said it had stopped. He told me to come in
here and see what the time was on the clock. That was before you saw him
at the pool."

"There can be other explanations... I can't believe it. No, No! He
couldn't have done it, Mother, he couldn't!"

"Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps you're right, my son."

"He's my father. I can't believe such a thing about him! I know he
doesn't treat you well, and sometimes I hate him for it. And he's hard
on me, and on Mitry and Genevieve. But he's my father, and this is
something different. I can't believe it!"

"You don't have to believe it, Antoine, my boy. I may be wrong, as you
may have been wrong. This may be the work of the Devil in our minds. May
God forgive us for having such evil thoughts!"

"But it may be true! It may! I must know. I can't look at him and think
it one moment, and then not think it the next. I must know the truth. If
he's done it, I will tell the police! I will kill him with my own hands,
I will----" He choked with the anguish of the thoughts and images that
were crashing into his mind against all resistance. He shut his eyes and
turned his head away, as though to obliterate every fragment of the
imagined scene in which his father had committed the last outrage on the
young and lovely woman who had smiled upon him, and for whom his heart
had throbbed with the first stirrings of romantic love. Finally, his
emotion burst out of him in sobs.

"Be quiet, now!" said Rosa. "For the Virgin's sake, be quiet! He'll hear
you."

"Let him hear! Why should I be afraid of him? It is for him to be
afraid, the animal! the brute!"

"Yes, but only if what we think is true."

"They will send him to prison for life! They will hang him!"

"I said be quiet, and listen to me! You're old enough to behave like a
man, instead of whimpering like a baby. We've got to know much more
about last night before we can be sure. A minute ago you said you
couldn't believe it. Now, you want to rush out and tell the police! A
fine mess you'll get us into if you behave in this manner. Unless we
have some stronger proof, he will be able to clear himself with the
police. He will tell them that we hate him and want to frame him; and
our name will become mud in the village."

"But they all hate him in the village."

"That won't prevent them from turning against us if they think we have
accused him falsely. Listen, my son, I know more about last night than
you do, but I want to know still more."

"What do you know that you haven't told me?"

"When your father came to bed at dawn, he had not been chasing a thief.
He was fully dressed, and his bed had not been slept in. Do you
understand?"

"You mean he'd been out all night?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Mother, then it is true! It is true! He killed her! He did a foul
thing upon her at the pool, then killed her!" His chest began to heave
again with muffled sobbing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Faris Deeb, having been joined on the terrace by his father and engaged
in a desultory conversation on the happenings of the evening, did not
hear any of the words or sounds coming from the room where Rosa and
Antoine were talking. But somebody else did. Genevieve, having gone into
the kitchen a moment or two after her mother and Antoine had left it,
became aware of subdued talk in the room to which they had gone. Her own
secret pricking her with the suspicion that she might be the subject of
this furtive conference, she had slipped out of the kitchen backdoor and
crept noiselessly round the back of the house until she reached the
window of her brothers' room. There, standing flat against the wall,
close to the edge of the open shutter, she had listened. At first,
bewildered and fumbling for the meaning of the words she heard, she
could make no sense of them, imagining that they referred to Ramiz, to
his coming to her in the outhouse. But gradually the truth broke upon
her--the truth and the horror of it. Her mind froze for a few seconds,
and the words she heard struck on its congealed mass without
penetrating; but they clung where they had struck, and when her thoughts
began to circulate again, they picked up these clinging words and put
them together, and they put the results side by side with the facts of
the previous night, as she and Ramiz knew them. Oh, God, could her
father really have killed that woman? It was a woman! Ramiz had been
right. No, not quite right, only that it had something to do with a
woman. But Ramiz had thought her father had a woman with him and wanted
to bring her into the outhouse--a village woman. The American woman
wouldn't have come with him to the outhouse! If he did really kill her,
he must have killed her at the pool. What did he come to the outhouse
for then? What did he want from the outhouse, so that he should wait in
hiding behind it until she and Ramiz left? Here, Genevieve's questions
came up against a blank wall, at which she gazed and gazed without
success. Perhaps Ramiz could see through it, if she told him what she
had come to know. But how could she tell him that she thought her father
was a murderer, that her mother and brother thought the same! Holy
Virgin, how could she! And how could she not tell him? How could she
keep such knowledge to herself, living under the same roof as her
father? She could not share the knowledge she had with her mother and
Antoine, because that would mean telling them where she was herself the
night before, what she had done. And even if she could let them know
what she knew without revealing her own secret--no, no! They were
plotting to denounce her father, to tell the police if they had proof!
She would not join in this conspiracy. Holy Virgin, how could she do
that to her father, though he beat her and would not let her marry
Ramiz! He seemed so lonely now, and at the mercy of them all. An
appalled pity for him filled her, blurring momentarily the image of the
tyrant she had always feared. Horrified and confused, she returned to
the house, pretending to be coming back from the lavatory in the corner
of the garden.




CHAPTER 15


Mitry had gone to the caf to fetch the dog which Anees, the caf owner,
had promised him. He arrived at the caf together with Yusef, the latter
having locked up his garage for the night after his interview with Faris
Deeb. Mitry looked embarrassed at meeting Yusef so soon after the scene
at their house and Yusef's offended exit from it. But Yusef hastened to
put him at his ease.

"Your father and I have made it up," he said. "He's just been round to
the garage. It was very handsome of him to do so."

"I'm glad he did it," said Mitry. "We were all very upset about it. I
don't know what came over him. You've always been such a good friend of
our family's."

"I was chiefly upset on account of your mother. Sitt Rosa is a lady for
whom I have a great regard. I know she hasn't an easy time of it with
your father."

"No, she hasn't."

"Nor have any of you, for that matter. He's a difficult person, Abu
Mitry.... Do you still want to go to Brazil?"

"I do, but what's the use? He won't let me."

"You mean he won't give you the fare? Maybe I could help you with
that--advance you part of it. You could pay me back when you went out
there and started to earn."

"Thank you very much. You're a very good friend, Yusef. But it isn't
only that."

"What is it then? You're a grown up man. You can do what you please."

"It's difficult to explain."

They had reached the steps leading up to the caf terrace, which
displayed its few tables and chairs under a large, spreading vine and
the branches of several fig trees. Beside the steps stood a car.

"Ha!" said Yusef. "Here's Fareed, the driver who brought back that
five-lira note to your father. By God, he's an honest man; let's give
him another glass of arak."

"It's on me," said Mitry, wanting to make amends to the driver for the
meagre reward he had received at their house, and the manner in which he
had been caused to leave it.

"You save your money for that fare to Brazil. Hallo, Fareed! May we join
you?"

"Welcome, welcome," said Fareed, rising and arranging two chairs on
either side of his.

"I'm glad," said Mitry awkwardly, "that I've seen you again. Please
excuse my father for what happened just now at our house. It was not the
way I would have liked you to leave, especially after the kindness you
did us."

"Ah, don't let's talk about that," said Yusef. "Khawaja Faris has
already expressed his regret to me, and I'm sure he'd have done the same
to you if he had come here with us... Anees, where are you?"

The caf owner came out of the small building which was both his house
and the bar from which he served his customers. He was followed by a
dog. Two other dogs frolicked at the door behind him, while a fourth
dashed down the steps, chasing a cat.

After the customary greetings Yusef said:

"Fetch us a bottle of arak and any tasty things you may have to go with
it."

"Here are the dogs," said Anees to Mitry. "Have a look at them and
choose the one you want. But I recommend that one chasing the cat. He's
got the sharpest nose of the four, and the fastest legs."

"Is he trying to sell you one?" asked Yusef, jocularly. "Mind he doesn't
rook you!"

"He's giving it to me free," said Mitry.

"Anees. I have misjudged you," said Yusef. "By God, it's a noble
present. Kings give horses as presents; but from us, humbler folk, a dog
is a precious gift."

"By God, there's no better friend to man than a dog," said Fareed.

"I want it for hunting," said Mitry. He got up to look at the dogs, and
Anees went into the bar and came back a moment later with the bottle of
arak and the glasses. His wife followed him, carrying a tray on which
stood a number of small plates.

On these were distributed, in appetizing arrangement, slices of
cucumber, tomato, fried aubergine, hard-boiled eggs and cheese, as well
as black and green olives.

"Yes, I'll have this one," said Mitry, playing with the dog recommended
by Anees. "It's a friendly fellow. Has it got a name yet?"

"We call it Nimr," said Anees.

Mitry ran a few yards, calling, "Nimr! Nimr!" The dog ran after him.
Mitry turned round and caught it, as it leapt at him. He lifted it from
the ground, holding it by the arms just under the elbows. The dog wagged
its tail and licked Mitry's ear. Mitry laughed and put it down. The dog
followed him as he returned to the table to rejoin Yusef and Fareed.

"Well, give it something better to eat than your ear!" said Yusef.

Mitry took a piece of cheese from the tray, and held it in the air,
above the dog's head. The dog jumped and caught it in its mouth.

"Ah, now it's yours; you've filled its belly. This is how the world
goes; only, animals are more grateful for what you give them than human
beings, and you can depend on their gratitude. They don't bite the hand
that feeds them," said Yusef, then he turned to Anees. "Any news of the
missing American woman?" he asked.

"No," said the caf owner. "I don't think she's been found yet. What do
you think can have happened to her?"

"That's what I wanted you to tell me. People come to the coffee house to
learn the news. I thought you might have picked up something in the
course of the day--something that might help the police. Have they been
to you?"

"Yes, but we had nothing to tell them," said Anees.

"At least, nothing about last night," put in his wife, "nothing that was
of any interest to them."

"What do you mean?" asked Yusef. "Did you know anything about her before
last night?"

"Only that she came in here in the afternoon and mid-morning the day
before. She had a coffee and played with the dogs, and I gave her a
bunch of grapes, and she kept saying, 'bery nice, bery nice' about
everything. I recognized her immediately from the photograph the police
brought with them. But they were not interested in my information. They
only wanted to know if we'd seen her on the road late at night, but we
hadn't."

"I think she must have left the village," said Anees. "Can't imagine her
disappearing here. Doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't make sense the other way, either. But I'm not going to lose any
sleep on account of it. Have another drop of arak, Mitry?... Fareed?"
In the absence of any serious opposition from the other two, he
replenished their glasses. Mitry threw a slice of hard-boiled egg up in
the air, and Nimr leapt and caught it neatly.

"That's the boy!" said Mitry. "We two are going to do some good hunting
together, eh Nimr?"

The three men went on drinking and chatting for some time, then Fareed
said:

"I must be getting on my way."

"I'll be going too," said Mitry. "I must settle Nimr down in his new
quarters before I go to sleep."

"Ah, you're breaking up the party too soon," protested Yusef. "The night
is only just beginning!" He got up reluctantly, insisted on paying the
bill, and walked with the other two down the steps to the road.

"God curse the Devil!" said Fareed, seeing his car. "I've got a
puncture!"

"Come on, we'll give you a hand," said Yusef. "Your spare all right?"

"Yes," said Fareed. "I can manage by myself. Don't trouble."

"No trouble at all," said Yusef. "Won't take a minute. Where's your
jack? Give me the spanner and I'll be undoing the nuts."

"You seem to be having bad luck with your tyres these days," said Mitry.

"Not more than my fair share," said Fareed. "Haven't had one for a
couple of months."

"You must have forgotten last night," said Mitry.

"Last night?"

"My father said you had a puncture coming up from Tripoli, and that he
helped you change the wheel. Gave him quite a sore hand, he said, the
nuts were so hard."

"Did your father say that?" asked Fareed, in some astonishment, opening
the boot of his car.

"Yes."

The driver didn't like to tell Mitry bluntly that his father was lying,
nor could he understand why Faris Deeb had told this lie. So he answered
in a jesting manner:

"I'm sure I don't know what caused his hand to go sore, but he certainly
was pulling your leg--or my memory isn't as good as his!"

"Fareed!" said Yusef, with mock sternness. "You mustn't drive the car
when you're so tight that you can't remember what happens to you!"

"By my honour, I'd had nothing to drink," said Fareed, jacking up his
car.

"By God, these nuts are hard enough to make _my_ hands sore!" said
Yusef, trying for Mitry's sake to cover up the awkwardness that had
arisen. Of course, he was convinced that Fareed was telling the truth,
and that Faris Deeb had told an elaborate and seemingly unnecessary lie.
Why should he have done so? Why should he have a sore hand, and not want
his family to know the real cause of it? In such matters, Yusef had a
one-track mind--a track which always led to a woman. Incredible as it
seemed, Faris Deeb must have been out on some amorous adventure,
climbing a wall, or sliding down a drain pipe! Yusef nearly laughed
aloud at the image which thus arose in his mind, at the notion of Faris
Deeb having an affair, making love, playing the tom cat by night! God of
lovers, what woman could it be?

Mitry too, walking back home with Nimr, felt puzzled. He couldn't
believe that the driver was telling a lie. Why should he? But then, why
should his father? There seemed no reason for it. Mitry's mind, unlike
Yusef's, was simple and unresourceful in such a situation. Unable to
think of an explanation, he dismissed the matter from his thoughts,
especially as he was too interested in the dog at that moment to think
of anything else.

When he arrived home, he found his father and grandfather sitting alone
on the terrace. Rosa, after her secret talk with Antoine, was back again
in the kitchen with Genevieve, and Antoine was lying on his bed, putting
off for as long as possible the moment when he would have to see his
father again.

"I've brought him," said Mitry. "The best dog Anees had. His name is
Nimr."

The dog ran up to Faris Deeb and Abu Faris, wagging its tail
ingratiatingly, giving friendly greetings with its quickly-moving
sniffing nose, and making tentative overtures with its tongue.

"Ay, it's a fine dog," said Faris Deeb, giving the animal an approving
pat on the head.

"But not like Antar," said Abu Faris, with an old man's yearning after
the past.

"Antar was a mongrel," said Mitry. "This one has breeding behind it.
Where are the others? Mother, Genevieve, Antoine! Come and see the new
dog. Bring it something to eat, Mother--a nice tasty bone."

Rosa and Genevieve came out of the kitchen, and Antoine, making a great
effort, followed them. He tried not to look at his father. His stomach
turned with the sickness that was in his mind. Genevieve looked at him,
saw the anguish in his eyes. She knew how he must be feeling, knew it
better than her mother, for he had told her a lot about the American
girl, enough to make her know that he was sweet on her. How would she
feel if she thought her father had killed Ramiz? Of course, it wasn't
quite the same. She and Ramiz were real lovers of long standing. They
had slept together. They were going to get married. Only, there was
another sense in which it wasn't the same, because Antoine suspected
that her father had not only killed the American, but.... She turned
away from the ugly thought even before it had taken shape in her mind.
And here was that dog! Her father had wanted it just to spite her and
Ramiz. Now, Ramiz couldn't come to see her even in the garden at night,
let alone the outhouse with its new lock. Well, let them denounce her
father! Why should she care? She would tell Ramiz what she had come to
know that evening. He might be able to find out the truth. If her father
had done this thing, he should be punished. Why should she want to
protect him? Let him be taken to prison. They would all be well rid of
him. Her thoughts went as far as the prison gates unopposed. But
suddenly, she was inside the prison, looking at a scaffold, and her
father was hanging from it, with a rope round his neck. She fled from
the image. She turned to the dog, which was receiving attention from the
other members of the family. At first she had hated the dog as an enemy
in her special circumstances. But she was fond of animals. She had been
devoted to Antar, and had wept bitterly when he died. And this new dog
seemed so friendly, so eager for a friendly welcome. She could not find
it in her heart to deny it that. And--expediency following close upon
sentiment--if she made friends with it, and got it to make friends with
Ramiz, they might have nothing to fear from it. She patted the dog, then
went back to the kitchen and fetched it a bone. Nimr settled down to
gnaw it.

"Did you hear anything about the missing woman at the caf?" Abu Faris
asked Mitry.

"No. At least, nothing to do with her disappearance. Apparently she had
been to the caf once or twice, but not last night."

"Who was there at the caf?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Yusef and that driver, Fareed, who brought you back the five-lira
note."

"Did you sit with them?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Yes," said Mitry. "We had a drink together. Then the driver discovered
that he had a puncture, so Yusef and I helped him to change the wheel."

"Is he always having punctures, then?" said Rosa.

Faris Deeb remained silent, and Mitry said nothing more. But Abu Faris,
reverting to what he had tried to say earlier in the evening when the
driver was there, but which his son had stopped him from saying,
remarked with a stronger reason now to utter his moralizing thought:

"Well, your father helped him with one yesterday, and you helped him
with one to-day. He's been well rewarded for his honesty."

Mitry still said nothing, but his father broke out sharply:

"Can't we finish with the blasted story of that driver and the five
liras!" He suspected that Mitry had found out that he had been lying,
had said something to the driver when helping him with his puncture and
elicited a denial. But Mitry would not dare say anything about it,
especially if his father made it clear to him that he wished the matter
closed. What did a little lie like that matter, anyhow? Let Mitry think
anything he liked about it, about the sore hand. What was it going to
tell him? Nothing. He took a long pull at his _argileh_, then he passed
the mouthpiece to his father, saying, "I think I'll go to bed. I'm tired
after my trip to Tripoli yesterday, and being disturbed by the thief as
well."

"Ay, go and rest," said Abu Faris. "You've had a lot to do." The old man
could now have the _argileh_ entirely to himself, which was not a
disagreeable prospect.

Faris Deeb got up, his back and limbs still extremely sore and stiff,
and went into the bedroom. As soon as he was gone, Genevieve turned to
her mother.

"I'm going to Selma's," she said. "It's still quite early." At Selma's
she could see Ramiz, who lived close to her cousin's house.

"All right," said her mother, knowing the attraction Selma's house had
for Genevieve, "but don't be late coming back."

Genevieve was off in a moment. Mitry turned to Antoine. "Come and help
me fix up some sleeping quarters for Nimr," he said.

"I don't feel well," said Antoine. "I've got a bad head. I think I'll go
to bed."

"Come, I'll help you," said Rosa. "We'll fetch the box Antar used to
sleep in, and find some rags to put in it."

When Mitry was alone with his mother, he said:

"What's the matter with Antoine?"

"He told you; he has a bad head," said Rosa, preparing to communicate
her suspicion to her elder son. A throbbing need urged her to do so: the
pressure of a fearful secret on the mind that contained it, and the
desire to assert against her husband the power which she thought had
fallen into her hands--to surround him with the suspicion which had come
to her by sharing it with her sons. But Mitry was a simple soul, and
though he had no more love for his father than Antoine, he required to
be handled with greater care.

"He was all right when I went to the caf," said Mitry, "and now he
looks quite ill. Has anything happened to upset him? Did my father beat
him?"

"No, I wish it was that, my son."

"What do you mean? What has happened?"

"There are some things into which perhaps it is better not to look. Your
brother and I may have made a dreadful mistake."

"About what?"

"About your father.... Your father and the missing woman. May God and
the Holy Virgin forgive us if we are wrong."

"My father and the missing woman?" said Mitry, speaking from a mind into
which no gleam of light had yet penetrated. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, my son. I don't know. Only your father has said some
things about last night and this morning that are not true. I'm sure I
don't know what the explanation is. But he seems to be afraid of
something and is trying to cover it up with lies."

"You mean his sore hand and the puncture?" said Mitry, still groping in
the dark. "Did you know about that?"

Rosa stopped collecting rags for the dog's box and looked with a sharp
flash of new interest at Mitry.

"What about his sore hand and the puncture?" she said.

"Only that there was no puncture. What he told us about helping that
driver to change the wheel of his car last night wasn't true."

"Who told you that?"

"The driver himself. Made me feel quite awkward."

"You see what I mean? He didn't want us to know what had given him a
sore hand."

"And what do you think it was, then?"

"I don't know."

"But you said something about the missing woman?"

"Yes. What do you think happened to her, Mitry?"

"How would I know?" said Mitry, though the shadow of the suspicion in
his mother's mind was beginning to fall on his own. "What other lies has
my father told?"

"My son, my son, I told you there were things into which it was perhaps
better not to look too closely. God help me, I am full of dark thoughts.
I will tell you later."

"No, tell me now. What were the other lies?"

Rosa told him about the watch and the pool, about his father's coming
into the bedroom at dawn, fully dressed, about the bed that had not been
slept in till then. Mitry listened with a look that became more and more
sombre every minute. When his mother had finished he said:

"Then you don't believe in the story of the thief?"

"It wasn't a thief that kept him out all night. What was it, my son?
What was it? I dare not think of the answer."

"Perhaps it is better not to think of it. Perhaps you were right when
you said there were some things one should not look into."

"Well, don't look into them. Let's all turn away from them. Shut the
thought out of your mind. But God help me; I have to sleep next to him!
Here, this will keep the dog warm at night."

"Does Antoine think the same as you?"

"Yes. I wish I hadn't told him what I knew. He wanted to rush out and
tell the police. I told him we had no proof at all. I said perhaps the
Devil was putting this idea into our heads. Perhaps he is, my son. Don't
let's talk about it any more."

"You don't shut out a terrible thought just by not talking about it.
There's no lock and key to the mind. Or if there is, only God has it.
Perhaps God, and not the Devil, made you and Antoine think of this
thing."

"Only if it is true. Do you think it can be true?"

"How would I know? Perhaps it is true. Perhaps God wants to punish my
father."

"No one can understand the ways of God, but maybe you are right, my
son."

"Would you inform the police if we became certain... if we had
proof?"

"Not if you don't wish me to, my son. I know you are his flesh and
blood, however bad he may be. I said that to your brother. I told you I
had to hold him back. But for me, he'd have gone to the police already."

"But you said you stopped him because you had no proof."

"I had to say that to him in order to stop him. I said he'd make a fool
of himself and disgrace us. I wanted time to think, and to consult you.
You are my eldest born. Your brother was beside himself with anguish and
rage."

"That's because of the woman. He was beginning to fall in love with her.
But it's a dreadful thing for a man to denounce his own father, even if
he doesn't love him. It's against nature. People would revile us, as
they do traitors... and there's my grandfather to think of. I don't
love my father, but I love _him_, and my father is his only son. We
couldn't do that to him. It would kill the old man."

"All right, all right, my son. I said we wouldn't do it--even if we had
the proof--unless you wished it. But God help me. Even the suspicion is
bad enough. Worse for me than for any of you."

"It's terrible for all of us."

"You don't understand. But you ought to; you're not a child," said Rosa
angrily.

"Understand what?"

"What goes on between husband and wife. He makes demands on me which he
doesn't make on you. I have to share his bed, to let him come to me.
When his hands touch me in the dark, I shall have a horror of them,
because of what I think they have done... and not only his hands."

"Please, Mother!"

"You see! You can't bear even to hear of it. I shall have to let it
happen to me. If he did kill that woman, I suppose you can guess why he
did it, how he did it?"

"I'm _not_ a child... I guessed," said Mitry, his face dark as a
thunder cloud.

"And your mother has to go on sharing the bed of a man who did that to
another woman!"

After a pause, during which his chest heaved heavily with his breathing,
Mitry said:

"Let's tell the police."

"Don't be as foolish as your brother. You may change your mind again, or
we may all prove to be wrong. It is an awful thing to have anybody's
blood on your hands. Perhaps the police will discover the truth without
our help, and then our conscience will not be troubled. Until then, God
will help me to bear my burden. If he did it, his burden will be heavier
even than mine. He will be living in great fear."

"Does Genevieve know anything about this?"

"No. Not about what we suspect; not about the watch and the pool."

"Are you going to tell her?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I shall have to. I must find out if she knows
anything that we don't know, or if she comes to notice anything in the
days to come. If your father did that thing, he may do more things that
will betray him, like the lies about the watch and the puncture. We must
all look out for them, and tell each other if we notice anything."

"I don't like spying."

"You'd rather inform the police?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Well, then, this the only other way. We must get the proof ourselves,
and keep it to ourselves--just let your father know that we have it, you
understand. It will be better for all of us this way, including him.
There will be no scandal, no disgrace to our family. Abu Faris need know
nothing about it. We'll spare him that. And your father's only
punishment will be his fear of us. It will not be a hard punishment,
will it? Only a correction of his evil ways, and a chance for him to
repent of what he has done. That is between him and God."

"If we have the proof, Antoine will want to tell the police. He will
want to see him hanged for what he did."

"I will not let him. Antoine will listen to me. You listen to me too,
Mitry. God help us all, my son."




CHAPTER 16


Ramiz called by Selma--always a willing intermediary between him and
Genevieve--came out quickly into the road.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Genevieve is in the house," said Selma. "She wants to see you, but
we've got some visitors; if you go into the garden, she will meet you
there."

"Had any trouble with her father?"

"No, but she's worried about something. She wouldn't tell me what it
was."

Ramiz and Selma walked back across the road, and Ramiz slipped into the
garden. A moment later Genevieve was with him. She was tense and would
not abandon herself to his embrace when he kissed her, disengaging
herself in a hurry.

"What the trouble?" he asked. "What's worrying you?"

"It's about that missing woman. Haven't you heard about it?"

"Yes. Have the police been to your house?"

"Yes. They wanted to know if any of us had seen her in the village at
night; if anyone had been out on the roads at a late hour."

"They've been to us too. They asked me where I was in the evening. I
told them I'd gone to bed early and seen nobody. What did your father
tell them?"

"He told them about the 'thief.'"

"Did they show any interest in that? I mean, did they seem to think that
the man might have had something to do with the disappearance of the
woman?"

"No, I don't think so. Elias Effendi, of course, wanted to show off
before the officer from Beirut; he started asking my father about the
description of the man, and in what direction he had fled. Ramiz, you're
not worried about yourself? You don't think they may suspect you of...
of whatever happened?"

"Well, I was out in the middle of the night, carrying a spade, and that
woman may have been murdered and buried. That's what often happens to
women who disappear. If anyone saw me and recognized me, if your father
put them on to me, I'd find it mighty difficult to explain where I was,
and what I was doing with the spade, without dragging you in and telling
our secret to the world."

"I never thought of that."

"It's possible, isn't it? They're looking out for someone who was out
late at night and who either saw the woman and can give them some
information about her, or who was behaving in a suspicious manner. I
shouldn't want to give you away, Genevieve. I shouldn't want to tell
them about us and the outhouse. Was your father's description of the
thief anything like me?"

"No. It was very vague--same as it had been in the morning when he told
the story to the family."

"Even then, somebody else from the houses around might have seen me
running and recognized me. Then, his evidence and your father's story
would sort of come together, don't you see?"

"Yes, I see, but there's something which doesn't seem to have occurred
to you."

"What's that?"

"Oh, Ramiz, it's dreadful! It's what I've come to tell you. It's nothing
to do with you, with your being out in the middle of the night. Someone
else was also out at the same hour. You haven't thought of him?"

"Your father?"

Genevieve nodded.

"But I thought he wanted to get into the outhouse because he had a woman
with him; and that couldn't have been the American!"

"No, it couldn't. My father was at the pool in the middle of the night,
and did not go to bed till dawn."

"Who told you that?"

She told him about the conversation between her mother and Antoine, and
as she reached the conclusion of her narrative, she began to weep,
saying, "It's horrible! It's horrible!" Ramiz put his arm around her,
where they sat on a low wall under a fig tree, and for some time they
were both silent. Then Genevieve, drying her eyes, said haltingly:

"Do you think it can be true?"

Ramiz remained silent.

"Why don't you answer me?" she insisted.

"I don't know what to say. There could be some other explanation."

"But you think my mother and Antoine may be right?"

"Don't you?"

"One moment I think they are, and the next I can't believe it."

"You are a good, kind-hearted girl, Genevieve."

"No, I'm not. Not all the time. I told you. God forgive me, I have
wicked, wicked thoughts. They come and go, and I can't stop them coming.
Does everybody have wicked thoughts, even when they're trying not to
have them?"

"You're not wicked sweetheart. You couldn't be wicked even if you tried
to."

"Isn't it wicked to want your father to go to prison because you want to
get rid of him?" she said, setting the limits of her guilt firmly at the
prison gate, and shutting out the further image that had come to her a
short while before. "When I first heard my mother and Antoine talk of
telling the police, it made me feel ill. My mother spoke as though
she would like to get rid of my father that way. I said to myself,
'No, No! I will not help in this!' Then on my way here, God forgive me,
I thought... I thought if my father was out of the way, you and I would have
nothing to fear; we could get married straight away. Then, I was afraid
and miserable. I thought if it was all true and it came out, perhaps you
wouldn't want to marry me."

"Not want to marry you?"

"I mean, because of the scandal and the bad name our family would get.
It wouldn't be very nice for you to marry the daughter of a...
a...."

"My darling! It wouldn't make any difference to me. What your father is
or does isn't your fault."

"You wouldn't think my blood was tainted. You wouldn't be afraid that
other people might think it was? That our children...?"

"Rubbish! I should want to marry you more than ever. Put these silly
thoughts out of your mind." He pressed her closer to him and kissed her
again.

"If they're going to suspect you, I will tell them everything. Let
everybody know you were with me in the outhouse. I don't care, if it's
to protect you from trouble."

"Wait a minute," said Ramiz, his thought going off suddenly in another
direction. "If your father didn't have a woman with him, why was he so
anxious to get into the outhouse? What did he want from the outhouse?
Why should he have hidden behind the wall, and waited for us to get out,
then chased me when I was already on the road?"

"Yes, why should he? It did look as though he was desperately anxious to
get us out of the outhouse."

"And without letting us know that he knew we were there, without making
a scene. What did he want? And why did he stop chasing me the moment I
dropped the spade... the spade! By God, I've got it! It was the spade
he wanted!"

There was a moment of silence, then Genevieve said quietly and
comprehendingly:

"Yes, the spade."

"That explains everything," said Ramiz. "Everything, including the
broken handle of the spade when he brought it back home in the morning.
I told you, it wasn't I who broke that handle, but he had to explain it
away."

"Then, he must have done it," said Genevieve after another pause. "He
killed her and buried her!"

"It seems to fit in with what you heard from your mother and brother
about the watch and the pool... and his being out all night. He
probably carried the body away some distance from the pool and spent the
rest of the night digging."

"So that's why he had all those blisters on his hands to-day."

"He had blisters on his hands?"

"Yes, my mother noticed them, but when she asked how he had got them he
looked uncomfortable, and said he had had to help the driver who brought
him from Tripoli last night change a tyre and that the nuts had been
very difficult to loosen. He must have been lying!"

"Looks like it."

"I wish I could tell my mother, Ramiz."

"You can't tell her without giving us away."

"She knows we often meet in the evening. She knew I was coming to
Selma's to see you."

"But midnight in the outhouse is different. Your mother is no fool."

"I could tell her you just came to see me in the garden, and that we hid
in the outhouse when we saw my father coming back--and then about the
spade."

"Why do you want to tell her?"

"I don't know. I just feel I want to. I want her to know. When you
discover something like this, you feel you must tell it. It hurts your
heart to keep it shut in. It's like a boil that wants to burst."

"She might inform the police, then. Do you want her to do that?"

"I don't know. Let her tell them if she wants to. Why should I be sorry
for him if he did such an evil thing? It isn't... it isn't as if he
had been a good father to me. Or, don't you think that makes any
difference, that just because he is my father, I should not want
anything bad to happen to him? Would they hang him, Ramiz?"

"It all depends on what actually happened, on what his defence is, on
whether they believe it, on what the doctors say."

"It's pretty clear what happened. Only a beast would do that. I don't
want to think of him as my father any more. I want to tell my mother."

"Well, tell her then. Let her decide what to do."

"Come and see me back home."

"Is it safe?"

"Yes. He's gone to sleep already. He said he was very tired after last
night."

"No wonder!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

Rosa was in the kitchen when Genevieve got back. Everybody else had gone
to bed. Genevieve walked quietly into the kitchen, and sat on a chair
beside her mother, who was sifting rice for next day's cooking.

"What's the matter?" asked Rosa. "You look glum. Didn't you find Ramiz?"

"Yes, I found him."

"Don't you think you're seeing too much of him? You know, I don't mind.
I'm fond of Ramiz and I want you to marry him. But if your father gets
to know, he'll be furious. You must be very careful, my daughter."

"I am being very careful; that's what I want to talk to you about."

"What do you mean?"

"Ramiz comes to see me here in the garden sometimes in the night, when
my father's asleep. You don't mind, Mother, do you? It's our only chance
of meeting some days."

"You're not doing anything foolish, are you? You know what I mean?"

"Oh, no!"

"Well, you'd better not! If you started having a baby, your father would
kill you. No, no, my daughter, you'd better stop Ramiz coming here at
night. Your father might get up and surprise you; and then God, help us
all even if you're behaving quite properly."

"He nearly surprised us yesterday when he came back from Tripoli. We had
to hide in the outhouse."

"Oh!... and what happened then? Did he go into the house?"

"No. Oh, Mother, I know about the watch and the pool. I overheard you
and Antoine talking about it. I know something too."

"What do you know?" Rosa had stopped sifting the rice, and was looking
at Genevieve intently.

"I know about the spade. The handle wasn't broken when my father took
it. And there was no thief. It was Ramiz. I made him take the spade with
him when he slipped out of the outhouse because I was afraid my father
might attack him. I think my father knew who it was, and Ramiz thinks he
wanted the spade for... for digging. That's how the handle got
broken, Ramiz thinks. Oh, Mother, it's awful!"

Rosa put her arm round Genevieve, saying:

"Don't cry, my daughter. God help us! God deliver us from evil! So you
told Ramiz about the watch and the pool and what your brother and I
thought?"

"Yes. You're not angry with me? I had to tell him. I was so troubled and
unhappy. I didn't know what to think. I thought Ramiz would help me to
sort it out. He's clever at these things. He wants to become a police
officer. And I was right. As soon as I told him, he thought about the
spade. I shouldn't have thought of that in a hundred years. But then, I
did think of something. I thought of the blisters on my father's hands.
I wondered if the story of the puncture was true. Do you think it was?"

"No, my daughter, it isn't true. When God wants the truth to be known,
he has his ways of letting us know it." She told her daughter what Mitry
had learned from the driver.

"What are you going to do, Mother? Ramiz said you would know what to
decide."

"May God help me to do so. Are you sure Ramiz will keep his mouth shut?
He won't go and tell the police just to show them how clever he is, so
that they may send him to the police school and make him an officer?"

"Oh, no, Mother, he won't do that."

"Or to get rid of your father so that you may be able to get married?"

"No. He said I was to tell you about the spade, and let you decide what
to do. You don't want to tell the police, then?"

"I don't know, my daughter. Do you want me to tell them?"

Genevieve remained silent.

"Why don't you answer?" said Rosa.

"Don't know what to say. One moment I want you to, and the next I
don't.... Only, Ramiz said they might suspect _him_. If they did,
then I would tell them everything, and so would you, Mother, wouldn't
you? You wouldn't let any harm happen to Ramiz?"

"No, my daughter, I wouldn't. Nor would God let the innocent suffer. He
knows how to punish the guilty. He has made us know so many things
to-day, secret and terrible things--things it is awful to have to live
with, and also awful to tell the world. Let us wait and see what he
wants us to do."




CHAPTER 17


Faris Deeb slept very soundly that night. The anxiety in his mind had
succumbed to the exhaustion of his body. The darkness of his fear was
swallowed up by the darkness of sleep. He did not stir when Rosa came to
bed, and she took great care not to awaken him. The repugnance she had
felt for the touch of his body for several years now acquired a new and
horrific quality from the suspicion and imaginings that filled her mind.
The suspicion had become almost a certainty since Genevieve had told her
about the spade. What else, what else could explain all the little
things they had found out that day? Little things, but oh, so full of
dreadful meaning! She lay rigidly beside him, and looked fixedly at his
sleeping shape, just discernible in the faint light that came in through
the window. He had both his hands tucked well in under the bedclothes,
though the night was not cold. "The blisters!" she thought. "He's afraid
of my seeing them again in the morning. He's told his lie about them,
and thinks by to-morrow I will have forgotten them; doesn't want me to
be reminded of them, lest I might think again, lest the idea of digging
might come to me, the digging that had broken the handle of the spade...
digging somewhere in the valley in the middle of the night. Why did
one dig in the valley in the middle of the night? Why, Faris Deeb?
Wake up and tell me that! Yes, what would you say, if I woke you up now
and asked you about it, and about the watch and the pool, and the
driver's puncture? If I told you I knew they were all lies? If I told
you all the children knew it too, and guessed what you'd done? If I
asked you where you'd buried her body? Kill me? That wouldn't help you,
Faris Deeb. Oh, no, it wouldn't. You'd hang then for one murder if not
for two! Beg for mercy? Ask me to shield you? What have you done to
deserve mercy from me? Why should I shield you? Even your children are
willing that I should tell the police. They've left it to me to decide.
But God help me, I don't know what to decide. I don't want to bring
dishonour on my children, even in return for freeing them and myself
from your tyranny. I don't know what to do...." And so, struggling
with the problem of how to use the knowledge and power that had come to
her since she went to bed the night before, Rosa eventually fell asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Faris Deeb woke up before her. He had had a long night's rest, and woke
up with his strength restored and the aches in his body almost
completely gone. Even the blisters on his hands were subsiding and gave
little pain now. The traces of his deed were departing from his body,
and also from his mind. The darkness and sleep of two nights now
separated him from the thing he had done. And as the thing itself had
happened in the night, in a world of shadow and fantastic visions far
removed from the routine of his ordinary life, its reality made little
impact on him now. It was more like a dream than something that had
actually happened. And as no trace of his crime had been left on the
face of the earth, its reality seemed to him to have been altogether
abolished. Even the few moments of alarm he had experienced the day
before had lost most of their sting when they came back to his memory.
Antoine had not told the police about the watch and the pool, nor had
the hotel manager. Rosa was not likely to remember the blisters on his
hands, to attach any significance to them. How could she? Even if Mitry
had discovered from the driver that there had been no puncture the day
before, he was not likely to give the matter a second thought. He might
even think that the driver himself was lying, that he didn't want to be
thought that his tyres were so bad that he was having punctures every
day.

"Wake up, Rosa," he said in a voice which he intended to sound
reasonably friendly. "It's you who are oversleeping to-day. Abu Faris
and I want our morning coffee and smoke. Get a move on."

Rosa, who had been awake a few moments without stirring, opened her eyes
casually.

"The day before yesterday it was you who had a bad night," she said,
watching him as she spoke. "Last night it was my turn. I didn't go to
sleep till quite late."

"Why so?"

"All sorts of things. There was to-day's food to prepare; my work had
been held up by the visit of those police officers... and I had a bad
dream."

"What about?" he asked uneasily.

"I'm afraid to tell you," she said, testing his defences.

"I'm not afraid of dreams. Dreams are just nonsense. I don't believe in
them."

"I do. I've had many dreams in my life that have come true. And my
father once had a dream, and it all happened--everything he saw in the
dream."

"What was it you dreamt?"

"You won't be angry if I tell you?"

"I told you I don't believe in dreams. I've never believed in them, and
never will. Only foolish people believe in them."

"Why do you want to know, then? There's no point in telling you."

"Well, keep your stupid dream to yourself then. I don't care if you tell
me or not."

"All right, I will tell you. I dreamt that my father came to me, just as
he looked before he died, and said, 'Tell Faris to let Genevieve marry
her young man. If he doesn't, a great calamity will befall your house.'
God save us from calamities! We never know what may be in store for us."

"And that's how you think you'll get round me now?" said Faris Deeb,
sensing a vague threat in Rosa's words, wondering whether she was
hinting at anything--but how? What could she know?

"You asked me to tell you what I dreamt, and I've told you... Faris,
let the girl marry and go her way."

For a moment he weakened, he was afraid. The incipient hostility of his
family encircled him with danger, and the temptation to propitiate Rosa
and Genevieve by making the concession that was being pressed upon him
assaulted his tyrant's obstinacy, as it had done once before,
immediately after the murder, when panic had caused the idea to come to
him spontaneously, and he had repelled it. He repelled it again, now
coming from Rosa--repelled it all the more vehemently to prove to
himself that he was not afraid.

"No," he said. "That subject is closed. I've told you so a hundred
times. No dreams of yours are going to make me change my mind. Get up
now and get me my coffee and smoke."

"Very well," she said coldly, with just a menacing edge in her voice.

"What did you mean by that 'very well'?" he asked angrily.

"Nothing. Only, I don't wish you to regret it, Faris Deeb."

"I never regret anything I do. Why should I regret it? What are you
trying to tell me? That daughter of yours hasn't become pregnant by any
chance? Has she? Has she?" Carrying the war thus into the enemy's camp
by this counter-attack, he felt himself master of the situation again,
and his fears were dispelled. After all, this could be Rosa's meaning.
Perhaps his daughter and her lover had been meeting in the outhouse for
some time. Perhaps Rosa knew something. And if she didn't, he did
anyhow; he had real ammunition for his attack, even if he did not reveal
it.

"No, she hasn't!" said Rosa, alarmed at his outburst after what
Genevieve had told her about the meetings in the garden, and feeling the
initiative slipping out of her grasp. "Yesterday you attacked my honour,
and now you attack you daughter's!"

"You put the idea in my head."

"I had no such thought."

"What else did you mean, then?"

"I don't know. Ask yourself," she said, and walked out of the room.

Faris Deeb stared after her with a slow but steady return of fear. What
had she meant? Did she suspect him? But of what? She didn't know what
had happened, would never know; nobody would ever know. A woman had just
disappeared. Rosa could only guess. The police could only guess. They
weren't going to find anything, not if they searched the whole of
Lebanon. The only danger to him lay in himself. If he didn't give
himself away, if his fear didn't cause him to falter, to fall into
traps, his secret was safe. Only, he must not show fear, he must not
weaken, he must show them all that his authority could not be
challenged. Rosa had tried to challenge him just now, to frighten
him--or, had she? Perhaps he was imagining things. Perhaps when she had
said, "Ask yourself," she had not meant anything special. People often
said things like that without meaning anything special. The fear ebbed
out of him as steadily as it had flowed in, and he joined his father on
the terrace where Rosa, a moment later, brought them their coffee and
_argilehs_.

"I wonder," she said, "if those police officers can have found anything
yet?"

"What can they find in the night?" said Abu Faris. "You can't find a
hidden body in the dark. Perhaps they will find something to-day if they
search in the valley."

"They will find nothing," said Faris Deeb, drawing at his _argileh_.

"How do you know?" said Rosa.

"If there's a body, it will be found sooner or later," said Abu Faris.
"It always is."

"It won't be found in this village," said Faris Deeb. "They'll have to
search somewhere else. It didn't happen here."

"How do you know what happened?" said Rosa.

"We're all guessing," said Faris Deeb. "My guess is as good as yours,
isn't it?"

"Ay, we're all guessing," said Abu Faris. "Nobody knows what happened."

"Except the person who did it," said Rosa. "Holy Virgin, protect us! How
awful it must be for him now! Even if he has no conscience or remorse,
just the fear of being found out must be like a poisonous snake under
his pillow!"

Faris Deeb sipped his coffee without speaking, his face expressionless,
impervious. Abu Faris said:

"Ay, it is terrible to be afraid of the hangman's noose. A man who has
killed is like a hunted animal."

"He must be terrified of giving himself away," said Rosa, "of suspicion
falling upon him without his knowing it, of any traces he may have left
of his deed. They always leave some trace, don't they?"

"Only the stupid ones," said Faris Deeb. He continued to alternate
between thinking that Rosa suspected him, and rejecting the thought as a
baseless fear. But he kept his feelings well concealed behind the hard
mask of his face, while he drank his coffee and inhaled his smoke.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Half an hour later he arrived at his shop, which as usual had been
already opened by Mitry.

"Anyone been yet?" he asked.

"No," said Mitry in a toneless, subdued voice. His eyes deliberately
avoided his father's. Faris Deeb was itching to know if his son had
picked up any news in the village about the results of the police
inquiries, but he could not bring himself to ask the question,
especially as he gradually noticed a strangeness of manner in Mitry,
which worried him.

"Aren't you feeling well to-day?" he asked at last.

"No, I'm all right," said Mitry curtly. He continued to busy himself
with various things in the shop, largely in order to avoid any
intercourse with his father. His feelings towards him were now so
troubled and confused that he didn't know how to speak to him, how to
look when his father looked at him. Faris Deeb sat at his desk and
started going through some accounts. But, like his son's, his action was
mainly a pretence. A few villagers passed in the street and called out a
greeting. Sometimes Mitry answered, sometimes his father. Nearly half an
hour passed in this manner, then the sound of several footsteps and
voices were heard approaching the shop. Faris Deeb looked up from his
accounts and saw Captain Jubara and Elias Effendi with a number of
villagers, including his son, Antoine, and the hotel manager, Khawaja
Rasheed, standing at the door. For a moment he was tongue-tied, as he
looked at the visitors.

"Good morning to you, Khawaja Faris," said Elias Effendi, not--Faris
Deeb noted with great relief--in the tone of an officer coming to make
an arrest. Captain Jubara and the others added their greetings.

"Good morning," said Faris Deeb, rising. "What can I do for you?"

"Captain Jubara wants the valley searched," said Elias Effendi, "and we
are appealing for a few volunteers to help the police. We've got your
son, Antoine, already, so your family has made its contribution, but if
you or Mitry could join us too, we should be very grateful."

"The larger the search party," said Captain Jubara, "the more the chance
of success, and I understand you know the valley well."

"Yes, I do," said Faris Deeb.

"If you're too busy to come yourself, perhaps you could spare us Mitry,"
said Elias Effendi.

"No, I will come myself. Mitry will look after the shop." He could not
endure the fear of their going near the pool and the orchard wall in his
absence. Something might happen, something might be said, especially as
Antoine was going to be there.

"That is very good of you, Khawaja Deeb," said Captain Jubara. "Elias
Effendi tells me that you have an orchard in the valley."

"And what an orchard!" put in Elias Effendi. "Its apples are famous in
the whole district."

"Ay, they are good apples," said Faris Deeb.

"Well, you can kill two birds with one stone--help us in the search and
visit your apple trees," said Captain Jubara. "But I suppose you visit
them often enough."

"Ay, I go there every day."

"We found him there yesterday morning," said the hotel manager, "when
Antoine and I went out on our first search. By the way, how is your
watch, Khawaja Faris?"

"It's all right," said Faris Deeb, and to put an end to any further talk
about the watch he turned to Captain Jubara, saying:

"Is it your wish that we start at once? I am at your disposal."

"Thank you. Yes. We will start right away."

"And did you discover nothing from your inquiries last night?" asked
Faris Deeb, as they began to move away.

"Not a thing," said Elias Effendi. "Very few people were out on the road
at night, and nobody saw her. Somebody apparently saw your thief though,
the wife of Baheej Antoun. Your shouting woke her up, and she looked out
of the window and saw a young man running past in the direction you
indicated. She woke up her husband, and they came out onto the road, but
by then there was nobody to be seen, neither the thief nor you, so they
went back to bed."

"Did she give you any description of the thief?" asked Faris Deeb.

"Nothing very helpful," said Elias Effendi. "Just as vague as your
description. She was only half awake, and all that she saw was the man's
back."

"Which is rather unfortunate," said Captain Jubara, "because it is just
possible that this young man who was running away with your spade might
have had something to do with the disappearance of the American lady.
Perhaps he wanted a spade for a special purpose, and knew that you had
one accessible in your outhouse. That would explain why he wanted to
steal such a comparatively valueless object as a spade. You follow me,
Khawaja Deeb?"

"Ay, it could be that," said Faris Deeb, uncertain whether Captain
Jubara's theory offered him more comfort or terror. The comfort was in
the fact that the police had someone to suspect who was not himself. The
terror came from the detective's intuition that the spade might be
connected with the disappearance of the woman.

"You must pursue your inquiries about that thief, Elias Effendi," went
on the Sret man. "We may still find out who he was. We must."

"But of course I shall pursue my inquiries," affirmed Elias Effendi. "Do
you think I would let go of a scent so easily? Ask the brothers here
what they think of the efficiency of the Barkita police. Why, only last
month we made a sensational arrest, didn't we, Abu Mitry?"

"Ay, you did."

"Of course," pursued Elias Effendi with the modesty which he thought was
necessary on the occasion, "we do not pretend to have the knowledge or
skill of the Beirut Sret, which is run by world-famous detectives like
Captain Jubara--how could we?--but we manage in our little way... we
manage."

"I am sure you do," said Captain Jubara, speaking from the peaks of
world fame to which he had been elevated. His idea of collecting
volunteers for a search party had been dictated by more than one motive.
While as many of the villagers as possible helped in the search, he
would have an opportunity of observing them and studying their reactions
to anything he chose to say, to any situation he chose to put them into.
His talk of the thief and the spade had not been an act of indiscretion,
but a trial kite; and as he flew it, he had watched the expressions of
the various members of the party, now leaving the main road and entering
the valley. Yusef was there, and Anees, the caf owner, and Ramiz,
together with Antoine and the hotel manager and some ten or twelve
others.

Ramiz had heard all the talk about the thief and the spade. The news
that the wife of Baheej Antoun had seen him running past her window had
given him a shock; but he was reassured by Elias Effendi's affirmation
that she had not recognized him, and when the great detective from
Beirut went on to propound his theory about the connection of the spade
with the disappearance of the woman, Ramiz was too elated to think of
any other aspect of the matter. He had thought of that himself! That
just showed what a good detective he would make--he, without any
training, thinking of the same thing as the man from the Sret! But he
knew what the man from the Sret didn't know--that if the spade had
been used to bury the body, it was Faris Deeb that had used it for this
purpose--Faris Deeb who was now walking with the police officers, making
a member of this party that was going out to search for the body! Where
could he have buried it? Where? What would he do if they found it? Well,
there still was nothing to connect him with it, as far as the police
knew. But Antoine knew. Antoine had not wanted to come on this search.
Ramiz was there when the police officers went to the hotel and asked for
volunteers. Antoine did not volunteer. He shrank visibly and made all
sorts of excuses, but the hotel manager dragged him along. And now, he
was walking silent and tense, looking at the ground with dread, as
though he feared a snake might dart out of it. God, thought Ramiz, if he
goes on looking like that, the detective might start suspecting him!

Captain Jubara had indeed been watching Antoine for some time, noticing
the things Ramiz had noticed, wondering whether Faris Deeb could, in the
night and at some distance, have failed to recognize his son, chased him
thinking he was a thief?

"Where is the spade now?" he asked Faris Deeb after a while.

"In the outhouse."

"You put it there after you recovered it from the thief?"

"Yes."

"I suppose all the members of your family use it from time to time?"

"Ay, they do, as occasions demand."

"But no one has used it since you recovered it from the thief, as the
handle was broken?"

"No, it hasn't been used since then. It needs a new handle."

Turning to Elias Effendi, Captain Jubara said:

"We shall want it for an examination of finger-prints when we return
from this search. It may lead us to the thief."

Ramiz heard this conversation and became alarmed. If his finger-prints
were found on the spade, and the police started taking the finger-prints
of all the men in the village, he would come under suspicion, and to
clear himself he and Genevieve would have to tell their story. It might
not implicate Faris Deeb, but would it really be enough to clear _him_?
While he was pondering this question, Captain Jubara spoke to Faris Deeb
again. He said:

"Your son seems to be very upset about this business. I suppose it's
because he knew the missing woman personally?"

"I suppose that would be so," said Faris Deeb.

"I learn from the hotel that he used to serve her, and that they were on
friendly terms?"

"I would not know. He has not told me anything."

"But you know that it was he who suggested that she might have come to
bathe in the pool near your orchard?"

"Yes. I know that."

"I think he is afraid now that he may have been right, that we may find
her body roundabout here; it will be a very unpleasant experience for
him."

"Ay, it will."

"Your son was doing late duty at the hotel the night before last. Which
of you got home first?"

"I think he did."

"You only think; you don't know."

"I'm not sure." Slowly, very slowly, it occurred to Faris Deeb that the
detective might be suspecting Antoine. The thought startled him, but it
did not alarm or displease him. No harm, surely, would come to his son
from such a suspicion, but the more false scents the police pursued, the
safer he himself would be.

Antoine heard the detective's questions and, like his father, saw the
drift of his thought. His expression became darker and more tortured
than before. He was not afraid for himself. But the thought that anyone
should be so unaware of his feelings for Miss Bright as to suspect him
of having murdered her--there was a pain in that he could not endure.

Captain Jubara, watching him, was trying to sort out a little puzzle
which his suspicion involved. The motive was not difficult to establish.
The young waiter had fallen in love with the film star in an
inexperienced, adolescent way. She had been friendly with him in her
natural, American way. He had mistaken this friendliness for something
else, and when she told him she was going out for a bathe in the pool at
night, he had seen in that an opportunity--perhaps an invitation. He had
followed her, tried to make love to her, only to discover his mistake
when she snubbed him. Frustrated and humiliated, his love had turned
into a murderous anger--all that made sense. But, if he had killed her
and buried her body somewhere, why should he volunteer the statement
that she had told him she wanted to bathe in the pool? Captain Jubara
could think of two reasons. Either the story of the pool was a
fabrication, and the meeting and murder had taken place in some quite
different locality, from which the young man wanted to keep the search
away. Or, he wanted to throw suspicion on someone else. The detective,
in the course of his inquiries in the village, had picked up enough
gossip to know that Faris Deeb was a thorn in the flesh of his family.
The pool was near Faris Deeb's orchard. The waiter knew that his father
would be coming back from Tripoli late that night, and getting out of
the car at a spot not far from the orchard and the pool. Could he be
trying to frame his father... or... Captain Jubara's nimble mind
darted off in another direction--could the waiter's story be genuine,
and his father be the murderer, assuming that a murder had been
committed? But why? How? The father did not know the American woman, and
a chance meeting between him and her on the night of her
disappearance--a meeting likely to cause him to assault and murder her
seemed too far-fetched a notion to deserve serious consideration.
Besides, the man's story about the thief had been corroborated, and it
was extremely improbable that roughly about the same time he would have
been chasing a thief outside his house and killing a woman, presumably
somewhere in the valley. Captain Jubara looked at Faris Deeb walking
beside him, impassive, unconcerned, and dismissed him from his mind as a
possible suspect. The son was a much more likely customer.

"I suggest we start searching from here," said Elias Effendi, as the
party reached the floor of the valley. "The river is just there, and
we're about half a kilometre from the pool. How do you wish us to set
about it? There's a wooden bridge under that tree, and we could either
split into two parties, each searching on one side of the river, or we
could search all together first on this side and then on the other."

"Could we cross the river further down?" asked Captain Jubara.

"Yes," said Yusef. "There's a ford on the other side of the pool."

"In that case," said Captain Jubara, "we will all stay together. We will
spread ourselves in a line between here and the river, and move forward
like the teeth of a comb. We will concentrate on the vicinity of the
pool and then, if we have found nothing, we will go beyond it, cross by
the ford and come down the other side." He wanted to keep the whole
party under observation during the search.

"Very well. Brothers, spread out," said Elias Effendi, who had two
gendarmes with him carrying spades. "If any one of you sees anything
suspicious on the surface of the ground and can't discover what it is by
sweeping away the earth and leaves with his hands, or kicking a few
stones with his feet, let him call for one of these."

"The body may be buried at some depth," said Captain Jubara, "especially
if the man who stole Khawaja Deeb's spade wanted it for this purpose.
Don't be satisfied with just scratching the surface. Let me know if you
notice anything abnormal. I shall be moving up and down the line to help
you."

Thus organized and briefed, the search party began its slow advance in
the direction of the pool. Faris Deeb felt safe. The body was not only
buried at a good depth; it had a stone wall, shoulder-high, built on top
of it. Not all the detectives in Beirut could guess that it was lying
among the foundations of that wall. Not as long as the wall itself did
not attract attention. He remembered with a stab of fear that it had
attracted the attention of the hotel manager the morning before, that he
had commented on how newly-built it looked. Faris Deeb had not dared go
near the orchard and the pool since then to look at the wall again, to
make sure that he had introduced enough irregularities into the rebuilt
section to give it the same look as the rest. Would that clever
detective from Beirut notice anything peculiar about it? Bah, he was not
so clever! He was suspecting Antoine. Yet, he had been clever enough to
guess what the spade had been used for that night. Faris Deeb's sense of
security ebbed and flowed as they approached the pool. For a while he
forgot that he was supposed to be searching for something in the ground
under his feet, and his eyes gazed ahead. Then, startled at this lapse,
he bent his head down quickly and pretended to be scanning the ground in
which he knew nothing was going to be found.

Antoine, thinking that a gruesome discovery might be made anywhere, felt
his horror at the thought increasing with every step he took. He prayed
that at least he would not be the one to make the discovery, that he
could avoid seeing the sight. He would stand back and let the others
crowd in round the spot. He would rush upon his father! He would....
Suddenly, he became aware that Captain Jubara was moving in his
direction.

"You think we're going to find anything?" asked the detective.

"How would I know?" said Antoine.

"You still think your friend came down this way the night she
disappeared?"

"She was not my friend. She was a visitor staying at the hotel, and I'm
just a waiter there."

"But you liked her?"

"Yes. I liked her."

"And she was nice to you?"

"Yes."

"Was she nice to you all the time? Till the end?"

"I don't know what you mean. Yes, she was nice to me always. Why do you
ask?"

"Because the way these Americans behave is different from ours. We may
sometimes misunderstand them."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were a little in love with Miss Bright, weren't you?"

"I don't wish to discuss my sentiments for Miss Bright with you. That is
my private affair."

"Very well. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings. Only, you seemed to me
much more upset about this business than any other member of the party.
I just wondered why."

"I told you that is my business. Can't you leave me alone?"

"It happens to be my business to find out what happened to Miss Bright.
I thought you might help me."

"Well, I am helping you, aren't I? Isn't that enough for you?"

"You didn't want to come on this search, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why? Just because you were fond of Miss Bright?"

"Yes, if you want to know. Are you satisfied now?"

"I shall not be satisfied until I know how Miss Bright came to
disappear. Do you bathe in that pool yourself?"

"No. I told her it would be very cold."

"Were you thinking of coming with her?"

"Of course not. I told you I know my place as a waiter."

"But you still think she came to the pool?"

"I don't know. She said she wanted to."

"Did anyone else know that she wanted to, apart from yourself?"

"How do I know? I've told you all I know. Is there anything else you
wish to ask me?"

"Not for the present. But I may want to see you later. Is that your
father's orchard ahead?"

"Yes."

                 *        *        *        *        *

In a moment, the search party, following Captain Jubara's instructions,
had converged on the pool. Faris Deeb, walking faster than the rest, was
the first to arrive. He cast a rapid look at the wall, and was
reassured. There was nothing conspicuous now about it. The few
alterations he had made in it the morning before, after hearing the
hotel manager's disturbing remark, had been enough to make it look all
the same. And though in space he stood so close to the body he had
buried, in time a hundred years seemed to intervene between the events
of two nights before and the scene in which he was taking part now.

"You have a very fine orchard and an excellent crop, I see," said
Captain Jubara.

"Ay, it is not a bad crop," said Faris Deeb.

"Abu Mitry's orchard is the best tended and most famous in the
district," said Elias Effendi. "The roots of the trees drink abundantly
from the pool and the river."

"Come on, Abu Mitry," said Yusef, "although we have come here on a
solemn business, there is no harm in having a little refreshment. You
must let the officers and the other brothers taste your apples."

"The crop's been sold," said Faris Deeb. "It's due for delivery on
Sunday."

"So what?" said Yusef, baiting the miser jocularly. "...You sell what
you deliver. A few pounds more or less are not going to make much
difference to your profit. You got a very good price for it!"

"No, no, we mustn't interfere with a crop that's been sold," said
Captain Jubara.

"Abu Mitry!" appealed Yusef. "Will your generosity permit that the
officers and the brothers come to your orchard and leave it without
moistening their throats?"

"They're welcome," said Faris Deeb, deciding that a gesture must be
made. "They may help themselves."

"May God increase your prosperity," said Captain Jubara, "but really, it
isn't necessary."

"Nay, I will pick you some apples," said Faris Deeb.

"I'll pick one for myself," said Yusef. "I've got an eye on that bough
up there; there are some beauties on it." So saying, he advanced towards
the rebuilt section of the wall and started to climb it, inserting his
foot into an opening between two stones a couple of feet above the
ground.

"Not that way!" shouted Faris Deeb, unable to control his fear. "There's
a footpath to the orchard gate."

"This is quicker," said Yusef.

"I told you stop!" commanded Faris Deeb; but it was too late. Yusef was
feeling for the next foothold in the wall, when the newly reassembled
stones parted, and a dozen or so of them avalanched to the bottom,
bringing Yusef down with them, and leaving a long V shaped gap in the
wall. It all happened in a second, but it was the longest second in the
life of Faris Deeb, and the terror of it petrified him. He saw the
stones part and collapse; he saw the gap in the wall opening almost as
far as the ground, and he waited to see if the ground was going to show
any subsidence, any cracks. In his panic, he wondered if the splitting
of the wall was going to continue until it caused the earth itself to
open and lay bare its secret.

"You see," said Elias Effendi, reprimanding Yusef, who had slipped down
with the stones and was struggling to his feet among the piled-up
debris. "Abu Mitry told you not to climb up the wall, but your greed for
that apple could not wait!"

"Well, it isn't my fault if the wall collapsed," said Yusef.

"There must be something wrong with the foundations; they can't go deep
enough into the ground. I'm sorry, Abu Mitry. I'll rebuild it for you."

"There's nothing wrong with the foundations," said Faris Deeb
decisively. "I built this wall myself, and it has stood for fifteen
years. And you needn't trouble to rebuild it now. I will deal with that
later."

"No, no," said Elias Effendi. "We will all help. If the brothers here
will lend a hand, it won't take ten minutes. But I think Yusef is right;
we should remove the bottom rows and get down to the earth to see if the
stones beneath the surface are holding well together. Come on, lads!"

"That is not necessary," said Faris Deeb, as the men came forward and
started picking up stones from the fallen heap. It was imperative for
him not to let them reach the foundations, or they might notice how
newly-laid the stones there looked, how fresh the earth. "Please, do not
remove any more stones, or more of the wall may collapse. Be so good
just to replace the ones that have fallen." He spoke appealingly,
meekly.

"Have it your own way," said Yusef, "but don't blame us if it collapses
again."

"I shall not blame you," said Faris Deeb with unuttered and unutterable
relief. "Thank you for your help." Once again he saw the stone wall
rising intact above the earth that held his secret. Only, this time it
was being rebuilt by others, in broad daylight, not by himself in the
darkness of the night; and the director of the operation was the local
police officer himself--an irony which made no impact on the mind of
Faris Deeb.

When the wall had been rebuilt, and the members of the search party had
refreshed themselves with apples from Faris Deeb's orchard, the
exploration of the floor of the valley was resumed, first around the
pool and then beyond it. It was not till three hours later that the
party returned to the village.

"Will you be wanting to search anywhere else?" asked Faris Deeb, as they
debouched from the valley.

"Yes," said Captain Jubara. "I want to search the side of the hill in
the direction in which you saw your thief escaping. Elias Effendi and I
will go there this afternoon, and if any of you can spare us any more
time, I shall be very grateful."

"I will come," said Faris Deeb, glad that the police had apparently
finished with the valley. On the hill he could help them without fear,
and it was good policy to show himself willing to help the police.

"And now, can we go to your house and get that spade?"

"The spade? Oh, yes, of course."

"Shall we start taking finger-prints in the village?" asked Elias
Effendi.

"You may as well," said Captain Jubara. "Then if our experts in Beirut
find any marks on the spade apart from those of Khawaja Deeb and his
family, they may lead us somewhere."

"Come on, brothers," said Elias Effendi. "We will start with the present
company. No offence meant, of course, you understand. Every finger-print
must be taken, including mine. I will begin with myself, and respectable
folk like you will not mind following my example, will you?" Then he
added with a laugh, "You've already lent us a hand in this search; now
come and lend a thumb!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

After the taking of the finger-prints and the fetching of the spade and
its handle, which Captain Jubara wrapped carefully in a large sheet of
paper, Faris Deeb went back to his shop.

"Anybody been?" he asked Mitry.

"Yes, two or three customers." He gave his father the details but did
not ask him anything about the search. There was an awkward pause,
during which Faris Deeb wondered why his son was not showing any
curiosity. At last, feeling that he must mention the matter himself, he
said:

"It was a long search, but they... we found nothing."

Again Mitry said nothing.

"This afternoon," went on Faris Deeb, "they want to search the hillside,
and I'm going with them again, so you'll have to stay here by yourself."

"All right."

"You seem to have handled the morning's business quite well."

"Wasn't difficult."

Faris Deeb noticed, with some apprehension, Mitry's reluctance to talk
to him, to look at him. He had noticed the same thing in Antoine that
morning during the search. Of course, his children had never been on
easy, friendly terms with him. He himself had not encouraged that kind
of intercourse. But this was more than their usual reserve. It was as if
they were avoiding him for a new and special reason, as if they were
troubled by some secret thoughts about him. Could some suspicion have
crossed their minds, he wondered? His fear, a small cloud at first, grew
until it darkened his whole sky. As usual, he had his lunch with Mitry
in the shop, but the few conversational advances he made during the meal
elicited little response from his son. At last he said:

"What is the matter with you? Not feeling well to-day?"

"No, I'm all right," said Mitry.

"Is it Brazil you're thinking of then?"

"No, I'm not thinking of that."

"Well, let us go through these accounts quickly. I have to rejoin the
search party soon." His son's withdrawal from him had never been so
complete as this, and the boy's refusal to admit to any of the
explanations offered by his father only intensified Faris Deeb's fear.

They were still working on the accounts when Elias Effendi came into the
shop.

"Ah, good! You're still here; I wanted to save you the trouble of coming
out for the search planned for this afternoon. It's off. A message came
from the Sret in Beirut half an hour ago saying that the missing woman
was seen there late last night. A woman swears she saw her getting out
of a car at Bourj a little before midnight, and a young man is equally
emphatic that he saw her outside a night club at about two in the
morning. So apparently we were wasting our time here this morning, and
the search is going to start in Beirut now. Captain Jubara has just gone
back there. Just my luck! I thought I was going to be in on a big case
here and show the Sret chiefs in Beirut how efficient the Barkita
police were--yes, by God, a sensational international case that would be
reported in the newspapers of the whole world! But now, it seems we're
out of it. The big chance of my career has slipped out of my hands.
Still, I mustn't think of myself; it's better so for the good name of
the village and the holiday season, and such public considerations must
come before my personal interest."

"Ay," said Faris Deeb. "Every one knows you're a public-spirited man.
You'll have other chances of showing your capacity."

Expressing a despondent doubt over this point, but reaffirming his
unselfish satisfaction that the name of Barkita was not going to be
sullied by the discovery in it of the American woman's body, the police
officer took his leave.

"Let's get on with our work," said Faris Deeb, feeling a return of
security and authority he had not known since the arrival of the Sret
officer from Beirut the evening before. Even though the police were not
going to find anything in Beirut, they had at least been drawn off the
scent; and as they had not found and were not going to find anything in
Barkita, he was quite safe.

Mitry's manner too changed after hearing Elias Effendi's news. His
frigid reserve towards his father thawed. His mother and brother had
made a terrible mistake. Their suspicions had been disproved. He was
ashamed of himself for having shared them.

In the evening when they went home, Faris Deeb casually announced the
news given him by Elias Effendi, and asked Rosa to bring him an
_argileh_ to the terrace, where his father was sitting.

"Thank God for this news," said Abu Faris. "From the beginning my
opinion has been that nothing could have happened to that woman in this
village. Didn't I say so?"

"Ay," said Faris Deeb, who did not remember any such pronouncement by
his father.

Rosa stared at her husband for a moment, then walked into the kitchen
without saying anything. Mitry followed her. As she was preparing the
smoke, he said:

"It's good we didn't tell the police anything. We should have brought
disgrace upon ourselves and done my father a dreadful wrong."

"I never wanted to tell the police. I told you that," said Rosa. "I only
wanted proof. It was you and your brother who wanted to rush out and
tell the police without having any proof. And now without any proof, you
think we were all wrong."

"What do you mean, 'without any proof?' The woman was seen in Beirut.
The police have stopped searching in the village and gone there."

"The police don't know what we know, Mitry. Maybe if they did, they
wouldn't have believed this story from Beirut. How do we know it was
really the same woman that was seen there? The people who say they saw
her could have been mistaken, couldn't they? Let us wait and see if the
search in Beirut brings any results."

"You still think my father killed her?"

"I don't know what to think, my son. But I can't forget that he was at
the pool that night, that he didn't come home till dawn, that he had a
broken spade with him and blisters on his hands, and that he told lies
about all these things. Go out now. Don't let him know that we have been
talking. May God protect us from evil, and punish those that do it."

It wasn't only Rosa that appealed to God. That night, Faris Deeb prayed
for the first time in many, many years. He said: "God, I did not mean to
kill her; You know that. I only wanted her as men want women. I know
that also is against Your law except the man be married to the woman.
But the Devil tempted me, God, and his power was stronger than I could
resist. Forgive me, God, and let my secret remain known only to You, and
I will do penance. I will give Father Boulos money for the Church, twice
as much money as I spent at the cabaret in Tripoli. I will give You,
God, double what I gave the Devil, for the cabaret is as surely his
house as the Church is Yours. Only, give me time, oh, God--a few months
until this matter is forgotten and I cannot be suspected. For if I gave
Father Boulos such a sum to-morrow, there would be so much wonder and
speculation that perchance someone might guess why I had done it, seeing
that in the past I have been neglectful of my duty to You and to Your
church. Amen." Thus did Faris Deeb's remorse--felt for the first time
since the murder--express itself and, for the time being, was appeased.




CHAPTER 18


Two more days passed and nothing more was heard at Barkita of the police
inquiries into the disappearance of Jeannette Waverley, save that Faris
Deeb was informed by Elias Effendi that the examination of the spade
handle in Beirut had not yielded any results, the surface being in parts
so smooth with rubbing, and in others so smudgy, that no identifiable
finger-prints could be found on it.

The third day was a Sunday. It was the day on which the apple crop from
the orchard was to be picked and delivered to the buyer. As was his
custom, Faris Deeb, in order to avoid paying unnecessary wages,
commandeered his whole family for this purpose. They went down to the
orchard at daybreak, so that even Antoine could help before going to his
work at the hotel. They carried large baskets in which to put the
apples. Mitry took the dog, Nimr, with him; and as they started picking
the fruit, the dog frisked and ran about the orchard, first to one then
to another member of the party.

They had been working for nearly an hour when Faris Deeb had his first
shock. Happening to lean over the orchard wall on the side of the pool,
as he was stripping the boughs of one tree, he saw the dog sniffing and
digging at the base of the wall just above where the body lay buried.
His first impulse was to call sharply to the animal, even throw a stone
at it. But he checked himself from fear of drawing attention to what the
dog was doing, to where it was doing it. Instead, he lowered himself
over the wall as swiftly and unobtrusively as he could, and shooed the
dog off quietly, smoothing over the disturbed earth with his feet. While
doing so, he sniffed hard several times to see if _he_ could smell
anything, wondering with increasing alarm whether he had buried the body
deep enough. And it was then he had his second shock. At first his nose
told him nothing. But with the third or fourth sniff he caught a faint
odour which chilled his heart--a faint odour which barely disengaged
itself from the scent of apples that filled the air in the orchard. It
was not persistent. It only lasted a second. When he sniffed again he
could not smell it. He could smell only the apple scent.

Rosa had been watching her husband furtively ever since they reached the
orchard, in the belief that if her suspicions were true he might betray
himself in some way or other when he was in the neighbourhood of the
pool. She had seen him slipping down the orchard wall and, being herself
engaged in stripping a tree close to the wall further along the orchard,
had leaned over, masked by a few branches, to see where he was going,
what he was doing. And she had seen everything--the dog's digging, her
husband's shooing it off, his smoothing over the disturbed earth with
his feet, the stealthy manner in which he did it.

"What are you doing down there?" she called out to test the startling
thought that had come to her.

Faris Deeb looked up with a shock, then quickly regaining possession of
himself, he said:

"I came for a drink from the pool; I was thirsty."

He started to walk back to the orchard by the footpath, wondering how
long Rosa had been looking at him, how much she had seen; thinking of
that smell. If it became stronger, he would deal with it later in the
manner he had already thought of--some animal manure in the
neighbourhood, or a bottle of carbolic acid, broken as by accident on
one of the stones near by. If it didn't become stronger, no one would
notice it, know where it came from. Only that accursed dog! He must get
rid of it; and in the meantime, for that morning, he must make sure it
did not go near the spot again. He must do it without drawing attention
to his anxiety. The dog was running about the orchard again, frisking,
sniffing, jumping up at Mitry and the other members of the family.

"That dog is making a nuisance of itself," said Faris Deeb, coming back
into the orchard. "You'd better tie it up, Mitry."

"Let the poor thing enjoy itself," said Mitry. "It isn't doing any
harm."

"No, better tie it up; it might run out onto the road and be killed by a
car," said Faris Deeb.

"There are no cars at this hour," said Rosa. "I'll keep my eye on it."

"I said tie it up!" said Faris Deeb, with an emphasis he had not
intended to betray.

Mitry tied the dog to a tree, and the picking continued, basket after
basket being filled with the fruit. Soon afterwards, the buyer came with
a lorry and scales to have the crop weighed and taken away. Faris Deeb,
Mitry and Antoine carried the baskets to the edge of the road, where
each was weighed before being put into the lorry. Faris Deeb and the
buyer recorded the figures separately after each weighing.

While this operation was going on, keeping Faris Deeb occupied outside
the orchard, Rosa went to the tree which her husband had been stripping
when he saw the dog burrowing on the other side of the wall. She stood
for a moment, looking at the stones of the wall, at the earth on the
floor of the orchard, eager to investigate the suspicion that had been
aroused in her, but too horrified by it to make any move. Then, she took
a step closer to the wall and was about to lean over it, when her nose
caught a whiff of the odour which her husband had smelt--the faint but
unmistakable odour of corruption. She stiffened where she stood, and
sniffed again and again, but the smell had gone. She looked around the
pool as far as her eyes could reach, to see if the corpse of some animal
could have been the source of that smell. There was nothing. With a
growing sickness in her mind, she became convinced that her suspicion
had hit the mark. Then, she thought of a way to test it further. She
went to the tree where Nimr was tied, and loosened its strap. Genevieve
saw her from a few yards away and said, "What are you doing that for?
Didn't you hear my father shouting at Mitry to tie it up?"

"Be quiet!" ordered Rosa quietly. "I know what I'm doing." The men were
all with the buyer outside the orchard, standing by the lorry, weighing
the baskets. Nimr freed himself from his strap, ran this way and that,
then jumped over the orchard wall. Genevieve came close to her mother,
sensing something mysterious in her voice and manner. "Why did you let
Nimr go?" she asked.

"Go to that tree there, and maybe you'll know," said Rosa.

Genevieve walked across to the tree and looked over the wall. Then she
came back to her mother. Faris Deeb, still on the road by the lorry, was
engaged in an argument with the buyer over the weight of one of the
baskets.

"Well?" asked Rosa.

"Nimr is sniffing along the bottom of the wall on the other side," said
Genevieve, "and... and there is a funny smell that comes and goes.
What is it, Mother?"

"Your Ramiz thought he knew how that spade was broken the other night,"
said Rosa. "Maybe Nimr has found out where it was broken. But don't say
anything more. Your father is coming."

Faris Deeb, followed by Mitry and Antoine, had just opened the orchard
gate and was coming in for the last three baskets. His eyes went
straight to the tree where Nimr had been tied, and saw that the dog was
no longer there--nor anywhere in the orchard.

"Where's the dog?" he asked with a wild anger which burst out of him
before his fear could check it.

"How would I know?" said Rosa. "He broke away from his strap and jumped
over the wall."

"You fool, I told you to tie it securely!" said Faris Deeb to Mitry. "Do
you want it to run onto the road and be killed. There's a car coming
now." Seizing upon this as an excuse for the hurry he needed, he slipped
out of the orchard gate and rushed down to the spot where he had seen
the dog digging before. If the accursed animal was there again, it was
imperative that he should reach and chase it away before the rest of his
family saw where it had gone. And he must make sure it never came near
the orchard again... never!

As he had suspected, Nimr had reached the site of his former activities,
and was again sniffing and scratching the soil. Faris Deeb picked up a
stone and threw it at the animal from a distance of several yards away,
before Rosa or any of the children had had time to follow him and see
what he was doing.

"What's the matter with my father?" said Mitry. "Why is he so concerned
about Nimr?"

"It's nowhere near the road, anyhow," said Antoine.

"Don't say anything!" said Rosa peremptorily, as her husband's footsteps
were heard, returning to the gate, and Nimr, guilty with the
consciousness of a misdeed he could not comprehend, ran into the orchard
again, wagging a lowered tail between its legs.

"Give me that strap there," said Faris Deeb to Mitry, "and I'll make
sure he doesn't break away again before we've finished."

Mitry handed his father the strap without speaking, remembering his
conversation with his mother two days before, when she had said, "Maybe
if the police knew what we know, they would not have believed this
report from Beirut." Anyhow, there had been no news of an arrest in
Beirut, no discovery of the missing woman there. And now, his father was
afraid of something. His charging after the dog had not been on account
of the dog itself, nor his insistence on tying it up. Why didn't his
father want the dog to be loose? Two days before, they had been
searching in the valley for the woman's body....

"I'm not feeling well," said Genevieve. "I think I'm going to be sick."
She turned towards the wall and began to retch.

"What's the matter with the girl?" said Faris Deeb, stopping in the act
of tying up the dog.

"You'd better go home," said Abu Faris. "Rosa, take the girl home."

"You can all go home now," said Faris Deeb, anxious to get the whole
family away from the orchard, and keep them away from it until he had
taken the precautions upon which he had decided. "I can do the rest by
myself. And, here, take the dog with you on the strap. I'll be following
you in a moment."

"I'll just be in time for church when I've changed my clothes," said Abu
Faris. "Will you be coming too?"

"I'll follow you," said Faris Deeb. "I can catch you up. But if
Genevieve isn't feeling well, Rosa had better stay at home with her."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Among the counter measures Faris Deeb had decided to take was the
killing of the dog. For as long as it was alive, it was bound to come to
the orchard again. It might come with Rosa, it might come with Mitry,
when Faris Deeb himself was not there to keep it away from the source of
the smell it had discovered. Even when he had poured carbolic acid over
the spot, the dog's sharp nose might penetrate through the smell of the
chemical to that other odour that came from below. Faris Deeb's mind
could not rest now as long as that danger lurked behind him. The dog had
to be eliminated, and eliminated quickly. And Mitry must not be allowed
to acquire another dog from Anees. Faris Deeb paused for a moment to
reflect on the irony of his having himself urged Mitry to get the dog.
He was frightened at the thought that his own devices were turning
against him in ways he could not foresee. He must be very careful how he
killed the dog. No one must suspect that he had anything to do with its
death. It must look natural, like the accidental eating of poisoned
food, or a venomous bite. And it must be done at night, so that the dog
would just be found dead in the morning. There was some rat poison in
the outhouse....

That night, therefore, Faris Deeb, having made sure that the rest of the
family were asleep, crept out of his bed and committed his second
murder. A feeling of pity such as he rarely experienced came over him as
he gave Nimr the piece of poisoned meat he had prepared for it. The dog
was so grateful, so innocent and unsuspecting. He did not know that he
was going to die, or why he had been condemned to death. He was not
hitting and kicking Faris Deeb, as the woman had done before he killed
her. He followed him into the garden like a friend, and Faris Deeb had
had few friends in his life. He felt sorrier to have to kill the dog
than he did, even now, to have killed the American woman. She had
provoked him, shameless woman! And he had not intended her death, as he
now intended the death of the dumb creature that was trusting, not
provoking him.

It was Abu Faris, always an early riser, who discovered the dog's body
the next morning. Going out into the garden before any of the others, he
saw the animal lying outside the kitchen door. At first, he thought it
asleep, and called jocularly, "Nimr, wake up you lazy dog!" But he had
barely finished his sentence when he realized that Nimr would never wake
again. Startled, he came close to the body and bent down over it to
investigate any visible cause of death. "What happened to you, poor
fellow?" he said, lifting one of the dog's forepaws, then turning the
body from side to side. At last he stood up and cried, "Mitry!...
Rosa! Faris! Come out here! Nimr is dead."

Rosa was the first to come out.

"What did you say?" she asked, stepping out of the kitchen. "What has
happened to Nimr?"

"He's dead, poor fellow. I've just found him lying here," said Abu
Faris.

"Dead?! What killed it?" said Rosa, hurrying to where Abu Faris stood
over the dog's body. "Are there any wounds on the body? Any injuries?"

"No," said Abu Faris. "Looks like something internal, a sickness or
something. Pretty swift too. He was frisking like a lamb yesterday
evening. Didn't look as if there was anything the matter with it."

"There isn't a mark on the body," said Rosa. "Must have eaten something
poisonous."

"Some bad meat, perhaps," said Abu Faris.

"There's no bad meat in this house," said Rosa, thinking in a flash of
the incidents of the previous day in the orchard; and a swift, certain
intuition told her what had happened to the dog. She turned round as
Faris Deeb arrived on the scene, followed by Mitry, Antoine and
Genevieve. They had all heard Abu Faris's shouting, and come out from
various parts of the house. Things had worked out exactly as Faris Deeb
had planned. Nobody had heard anything in the night; and now the dead
dog had been discovered in the garden. There was nothing for him to
worry about. But he must act in a natural way, showing the surprise and
regret that would be expected of him.

"What's happened?" he said. "What's all this about Nimr being dead?"

"Only that he is dead," said Rosa, looking into her husband's eyes
steadily for a second. "As dead as a stone."

"But he was all right yesterday evening," said Mitry with distress,
"perfectly well. What could have happened to him in the night?" He bent
down and began feeling the dog's body. "A dog doesn't die from an
illness so suddenly--a young, healthy dog. I settled him in his box
outside the kitchen door myself before I went to bed."

"Might have been bitten by a snake or a scorpion," said Faris Deeb.

"But there's no swelling on his body," said Mitry. "The venom of a bite
causes the body to swell."

"Ay," said Abu Faris, "and he would have cried and whimpered. We should
have heard him. No, it isn't a bite."

Rosa remained silent, looking fixedly at the dog, but thinking of other
things, many other things.

"Must have eaten something," said Antoine. "Yes, the poor thing was
sick. Look there!" They all looked.

"Ah, that's what I was thinking," said Abu Faris.

"But I gave him his supper myself," said Mitry, "same as usual--some
bread and milk, and a bone with a bit of meat on it."

"There's no bad food in this house," said Rosa.

"Nobody is saying it was from the house," said Faris Deeb. "It could
have been some garbage from the road."

"Yes, it could have been that," said Antoine.

"Poor Nimr," said Genevieve tearfully. "We don't seem to have much luck
with dogs. First, Antar dies when he's only a few years old, and now
Nimr just as we... we were beginning to get fond of him. We don't
want any more dogs."

"No," said Faris Deeb, "we don't want another. One gets used to them,
and then they die. You'll have to do your shooting without a dog,
Mitry... and now we'll have to bury poor Nimr."

"Come, my daughter, dry your tears," said Abu Faris to Genevieve,
patting her shoulder sympathetically. "We all have to die, sooner or
later--the progeny of Adam and dumb creatures; all. Save a few tears for
me when my time comes."

"May you live to be a hundred, Grandpa," said Genevieve, walking back
with Abu Faris to the house.

"Where shall we bury him?" asked Mitry. "Here in the garden?"

"No," said Faris Deeb, in whose mind a cunning thought had just arisen.
"Leave him to me. You go and open the shop. I'll take the dog and bury
him in the orchard." He had not yet sprinkled any carbolic acid near the
orchard wall to mask the odour he had sniffed the day before. It had
been a Sunday, and the village pharmacy had been closed. He had intended
to do it that morning, if the smell had become stronger. But he had not
felt too happy about this device, lest it should itself attract
attention and arouse suspicion. Much, much safer would it be to bury the
dog near the spot. Then, if anyone smelt that odour, they would
naturally think it was the dog.

With his insensitiveness to association, therefore, Faris Deeb put the
dog's body and the new spade he had bought two days earlier into his
wheelbarrow and went down to the orchard half an hour later to dig
another grave. And, having accomplished his purpose, he felt safe once
more. There was no indication that the police would reopen their
investigations in Barkita. The dog, who had suddenly sprung on the scene
as his mortal enemy the day before, had been disposed of successfully;
and his body in death could, in certain circumstances, be as useful to
him as the living creature had proved dangerous. He had a smug feeling
that God had listened to his prayer and accepted his offer of penance.
As soon as it became safe for him to do so, he would pay the price to
Father Boulos.

Mitry's mind was not as quick and perceptive as his mother's, nor did he
know all that she knew about the incidents of the day before at the
orchard. He had not been aware of the strange smell and had not seen
Nimr burrowing at the base of the wall, and his father stealthily
shooing it off. But he had sensed that his father was afraid of the dog,
afraid of its running loose around the orchard. Slowly, as he made his
way to the shop and sat in it awaiting his father's arrival after the
burial of the dog, his thoughts began to follow a groping suspicion, and
his mind darkened with its shadow. That rat poison in the outhouse! He
would find out!

Genevieve met Ramiz for lunch in the backroom of the grocer's shop.

"Why didn't you come to church yesterday?" asked her lover. "I went only
in the hope of seeing you."

"I couldn't come," she said. "I was sick."

"What was it? Did you have fever?"

"No. Only my stomach turned. Ramiz?..."

"Yes, my love?"

"You don't think I'm having a baby, Ramiz, do you? You're sure what we
did the other night in the outhouse was all right? I mean, sickness is
an early symptom, isn't it?"

"Don't be silly. Of course it was all right. Anyhow, you don't start
being sick the moment you've done it, even if you are going to have a
baby. It isn't like swallowing castor oil! You must have eaten something
that disagreed with you, or caught a chill on your stomach."

"Perhaps." She could not bring herself to tell him of the other
explanation of her sickness. Even as she remembered that odour, and what
her mother had implied by what she had said and done in the orchard, her
stomach began to heave again. As long as she was sure that her sickness
had been caused by that, she wouldn't talk about that business again.
Let that horrible secret remain buried where it was, unmentioned for
ever.

"Are you feeling all right now?" asked Ramiz, noticing the change in her
colour.

She nodded. She could not even bear to mention the death of the dog,
since, like her mother and Mitry, she had come to connect that with the
business in the orchard.

"I know what it is that has upset you," said Ramiz comfortingly. "It's
what we've been thinking and saying about your father and the
disappearance of the American woman. Well, we've probably all been
mistaken. The Sret people ought to know, and they now think she
disappeared from Beirut. Don't brood on this matter any more. Here, have
some of these stuffed vine leaves; they're very good... and this
apple. I know it doesn't come from your orchard, but it's as good as any
in Barkita. Just smell its perfume...." He held the apple close to
her nose, and its smell instantly brought back that other odour she had
smelt in the orchard. She turned away with a jerk of repugnance.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Don't you like it?"

"Please don't be angry," she said. "It's nothing to do with it. I just
don't feel like food."

"I know what will settle your stomach--a cup of coffee. I'll go up to
Uncle Milhem's kitchen and make you one; it won't take a minute." He
left the room and ran upstairs.




CHAPTER 19


That night in the house of Faris Deeb there was a heavy silence as the
family sat down to supper. Except for a casual remark from Abu Faris, no
one spoke. Antoine had heard from the hotel proprietor that though the
police were still pursuing their inquiries in Beirut, they had not
discovered any clue as to what had happened to Miss Bright, and that
Captain Jubara was thinking of coming back to conduct another
investigation in Barkita. He had conveyed this information to his
mother, who had made no comment except to say, "God keep evil away from
us, my son." In Rosa's mind now, since the happenings in the orchard and
the dog's death, there was no doubt at all as to what had happened to
the American woman, or where her body lay. She had enough evidence to
put before the police. She could denounce her husband and get rid of
him--rid her whole family of him. And the temptation to do so was very
great. God had delivered the man she hated into her hands, and all she
had to do was to lift her little finger, to whisper one word in Elias
Effendi's ear... to send an anonymous letter. And then, she would be
free to marry Yusef, Genevieve to marry Ramiz, Mitry to go to Brazil.
But she still could not bring herself to do it, especially after she had
sounded the children and seen the anguish of the conflict she had
plunged them into. They were his flesh and blood. They hated and feared
him, but they were not willing, not altogether willing, to buy their
freedom at the cost of sending him to the gallows. It would be terrible
for them to have to give evidence against him, to see her giving
evidence against him. They might hate her for it, never forgive her. And
without their evidence, the evidence of all of them, about the watch and
the outhouse and the spade and the dog and the blisters on his hands, it
would be useless to accuse him, to tell the police that the body of the
missing woman was buried under the orchard wall and that Faris Deeb had
put it there. Without the evidence, there would be nothing to prove that
it was he who had done it. Anyone might have done it. Even if she sent
an anonymous letter, the children might guess who had sent it. She
looked at them sitting round the supper table, and noticed their dark
looks and heavy silence. Even if they had no love for their father at
all, even if they didn't mind his being hanged, would they thank her for
stigmatizing them as the children of a murderer? Could she do that to
them? Bring shame and disgrace on her family?

Faris Deeb too noticed the absence of conversation at supper, and the
strained manner of the children. He sensed in Mitry the same complete
withdrawal from him as he had felt in the shop two days before, the
morning after the news of the American woman's disappearance had become
known. Antoine, too, and Genevieve gave him the same impression. Never
exactly forthcoming or chatty with him, they seemed now to be behind
thick walls, hostile and forbidding. He felt ill at ease. The growing
silence began to oppress him. It didn't just encircle him like a wall;
the wall seemed to be advancing on him, closing in. He was finding it
difficult to breathe.

"Rosa, fetch me the bottle of arak," he said, then turning to his
father, added, "You'll have a drop too, Abu Faris, won't you?" His
father was not part of the advancing wall of silence he felt around him.

"Ay, just a little drop," said Abu Faris, "the thickness of the middle
finger." No one laughed at the joke. Rosa got up and fetched the bottle.

"I want a drop too," she said.

"No one's preventing you," said Faris Deeb. He thought of inviting Mitry
to join them, but the look on his son's face inhibited him.

Rosa poured out three tots, giving herself a much larger measure than
she was wont to have.

"I didn't say you could have half the bottle," said Faris Deeb in a tone
which bordered on the jesting. He desperately felt the need to break the
tension around him.

"I feel like it," she said. "I have a headache; it'll do me good."

"Have you all got headaches?" said Faris Deeb, looking at the children,
determined to make a breach in that dreadful wall of silence. "What's
the matter with you?"

"Nothing," said Mitry.

"I haven't felt well since yesterday," said Genevieve.

"I'm all right," said Antoine in a tone which belied his looks.

After he had been drinking for a while, Faris Deeb felt better, his
fears receded, other explanations of the children's silence suggested
themselves--Mitry was obviously upset about Nimr's death, Antoine was
unhappy because he was no longer seeing the American girl, and Genevieve
was probably afraid of the consequences of what she and her lover had
been doing in the outhouse... yes, by God, that vomiting of hers in
the orchard the day before! The fool might be already pregnant; they
might have been doing it for some time! Her belly might begin to swell
before long! No wonder she was looking so worried! He would deal with
that later. Just now, the alcohol, like a solvent, was melting the
menacing, creeping wall by which he had felt himself encircled. Turning
to his father, he said, relaxing, "Coming with me to Tripoli to-morrow?"
Faris Deeb went to Tripoli every Tuesday to transact business with his
clients there, and usually he took his father with him, since Abu Faris
had a brother in the town and could spend the day with him while Faris
did his business.

"Yes," said Abu Faris. "I did not come last week. My brother will be
wondering how I'm keeping. Will you be going to see that property you
were thinking of buying?"

"No; I'm not buying it," said Faris Deeb revengefully. It was the
previous Tuesday, when he had gone to see the estate agent, that the
chain of events had started which led him to the pool at midnight and
caused him to do the thing he did. "I've told you I'm not buying it; I
changed my mind."

"What time will you be going?" asked Rosa, knowing that as soon as Yusef
saw her husband leaving the village on his weekly excursion to Tripoli,
he would come to visit her, this being their safest and most regular
opportunity for intimate meetings.

"Between nine and ten o'clock," said Faris Deeb.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Soon after nine o'clock the next morning, therefore, Rosa, having
prepared herself and the house for the reception of her lover, began to
look out for him. She had not seen him since the evening when he had
called with the car driver and been turned out of the house by Faris
Deeb. He knew nothing of the things she had discovered about her husband
since that evening, and she was not going to tell him, because if she
told him she might as well tell the whole village, she might as well go
to the police. Yusef would let it out either in one of his moments of
indiscretion, or deliberately, to get rid of Faris Deeb so that they
might get married. Had he not often said to her, "If only the beast
would die!" Even if he swore by the bones of his father and mother, he
might find the temptation to use his knowledge too great, especially if
he had another quarrel with Faris. He might prevail on her to let him
use it; she could not trust herself to hold out against his persuasion.
And she had decided that the children must be spared the terrible
exposure of their father. Even sleeping next to him the night before,
knowing him now to be a murderer, she had steeled herself to face many,
many years of similar nights for the sake of her children and their good
name. And, if the Virgin helped her, she would hold on to her
resolution. She was not sure that she wanted to marry Yusef. He was not
the marrying type. She preferred to have him as a lover. And now that
she had her husband in her power, she need not worry about her own
conduct. She had a weapon against Faris Deeb, a mere glimpse of which
would cow him.

Yusef arrived shortly before ten, carrying the paraffin tin he always
brought with him on these visits. This was Rosa's idea. If anyone saw
him arriving or leaving, he was to say that she had asked him to bring
her some paraffin from his garage for some domestic purpose and that he
had just come to deliver it.

"Have you seen him leave the village?" she asked, as Yusef came into the
kitchen.

He put the paraffin tin down and took her into his arms, smiling.

"What do you want the paraffin for to-day?" he asked, brushing his lips
against hers. "Must I go on bringing this damned thing every time? I've
been doing that for two years now and have never needed the protection
of its presence!"

"Never mind my love; there's no harm in taking precautions. One day it
may come in useful. But you haven't answered me. Did you see him leave?"

"I put him into a car myself and said, 'Count your money well this time,
Abu Mitry; don't give the driver another fiver by mistake!' By god, I
still can't understand how the old miser's eyes tricked him that night!"

"I haven't seen you since the evening of the quarrel. You were very,
very foolish, Yusef, to say what you said."

"Queen of my heart, forgive me. I couldn't resist the temptation."

"That's what I'm afraid of; that's why people are talking in the
village."

"I never dreamed he would suspect my meaning. Now, what did I say? I was
just paying you a compliment on the delicacies of your table, to thank
you for the tasty things you were giving me to eat--the olives and the
curd cheese and the cucumbers. How was I to know he would guess I also
meant this... and this...." He touched her lips with an indicative
kiss, while his right hand stroked her thighs and buttocks under the
skirt.

"You were very naughty," she said, her rebuke softened by growing
desire. "You put me in a terrible position before the children and my
father-in-law."

"Surely, they didn't suspect anything?"

"No, thank God for that."

"Well, what's there to worry about? Abu Mitry himself came to see the
shocking error he had made, the grave injustice he had been guilty of to
you and me"--he unbuttoned her blouse, took her breast in his hand, and
began caressing the nipple with his lips--"and followed me to the garage
to make a very handsome apology. So now we are the best of friends, and
I am welcome to his table again!"

"Thanks to me and Abu Faris. But I can tell you it took a lot of doing.
Faris Deeb doesn't like making apologies!"

"By God, I know! How did you do it? When I saw him coming into the
garage, I thought he wanted to fight me. Not that I was afraid; I could
have knocked him down if it came to that. But when he said he had come
to express regret for what had happened, I couldn't believe my ears. I
said to myself, 'That's not like Abu Mitry; something strange must have
come over him, something very strange--just like his giving the driver a
five-lira note by mistake!' And do you know, something else happened the
next day when we went out with the police to search for the missing
American woman. I thought he was going to be furious with me, but he was
as meek as a lamb!"

"What was it?" asked Rosa casually but with quickened interest.

Yusef told her about his climbing up the orchard wall and causing it to
collapse.

"What part of the wall was it?" she asked.

"Just under the big Italian apple tree, close to the pool."

"Did all the stones fall down?"

"Like a house of cards; and Abu Mitry didn't utter a word. It wasn't
like him at all."

"Well, he didn't want to make a scene before the police officers and the
other people present, especially as he'd quarrelled with you the night
before and made it up. Did he have to rebuild the wall himself?"

"No, we did that for him; all those present lent a hand. He didn't want
us to at first--fancy Abu Mitry declining a favour!--said he would
rebuild it himself after the search, but Elias Effendi insisted, and
there were so many of us, it didn't take us more than a few minutes. Why
did you ask?"

"Just like that."

"No, there was a reason."

"I tell you there wasn't. Why should there be?" she said, finding it
strange that she should be lying to her lover in defence of her
husband--strange, but necessary for the sake of her children, for her
own sake if she didn't want to risk losing their love.... Obviously
there had been no smell yet when the wall collapsed; that was two days
before she had seen the dog sniffing, and noticed the smell herself. But
she knew why the wall had collapsed.

Yusef, caressing her breast, lost interest in Faris Deeb and the
incident of the wall, as a more urgent interest began to claim him.

"Well, my lovely paraffin customer," he said, "how long are you going to
keep me in the kitchen? Let's go into the bedroom. I can't savour all
the delicacies of your table except in bed!"

"You're savouring quite enough of them here," she said. "How long will
you be staying?"

"The sale of paraffin is quite a lengthy business," he said, chuckling
and pulling her by the hand, not unwilling, out of the kitchen.

                 *        *        *        *        *

They had scarcely been in bed for five minutes when Rosa, disengaging
herself abruptly from her lover's embrace, jumped up, saying, "Someone's
coming! I've just heard the garden gate open. Quick!"

Yusef followed her, and they hurriedly put on the clothes they had
removed. Rosa had drilled herself and her lover in this emergency
operation so thoroughly that it did not take them more than a few
seconds.

"Who can it be?" said Yusef, buttoning up his shirt and slipping on his
shoes simultaneously.

"It's Faris!" said Rosa. "He's come back! You just carry the paraffin
can and walk out of the kitchen. Be quite natural."

Yusef obeyed, while she rapidly tidied the bed and smoothed her hair.
Then she walked into the kitchen. Yusef had already left it.

A minute later Faris Deeb came in. Rosa was rinsing a saucepan over the
sink.

"What's brought you back?" she said, feigning surprise, and refusing to
take notice of the stern and suspicious look on his face.

"I left behind some papers I should have taken with me. What was Yusef
doing here?"

"Didn't he tell you? He's only just walked out. You must have met him on
the path. He came to deliver some paraffin I'd asked him for."

"Funny time to come, in the middle of the morning, and just after I'd
left for Tripoli! What did you want the paraffin for?"

"To scour out that old bath tub; it's stinking." She picked up a cloth
and began drying the saucepan.

"Does Yusef have to come all this way from his garage to bring you some
paraffin? Couldn't he have sent it with one of his boys?"

"In the name of the Blessed Virgin, are you going to start being
suspicious again? Isn't it enough you made a fool of yourself the other
night, insulting me and your guests, so that you had to go after Yusef
and apologize to him? Beware of suspicion, Faris Deeb. It is a terrible
thing!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, taken aback by her warning.

"Why, what should I mean except that suspicion comes from the Devil. If
husband and wife start suspecting each other of this and that, their
lives will become poisoned, and they may do each other a wicked injury.
Yusef came himself to give me the paraffin because he had another call
to make in this neighbourhood. What's the harm in that?" She put the
saucepan away and turned the tap onto some plates in the sink. Faris
Deeb remained silent, wavering in his suspicion and jealousy, and
inhibited by his own fear from saying anything more. Rosa, perceiving
this, went on, as though the matter had been disposed of:

"Where did you leave your father?"

"I let him go to Tripoli by himself; I will follow him when I have taken
my papers."

"Where are they?"

"In the pocket of the coat I was wearing yesterday. I'll go and get
them."

Faris Deeb went into the bedroom, and as he was looking for his papers,
his eye caught sight of a green button on the floor under Rosa's bed. He
walked to the bed and picked up the button. It was a man's, the kind
that was worn on men's trousers, but it wasn't his; he had no buttons
like that on any of his clothes. After examining the button for a
moment, his eyes strayed to Rosa's bed, and a flame of jealousy,
confirmed now beyond doubt, leapt up inside him.

"Rosa!" He called. "Come here."

Rosa came into the room, saying, "What do you want?"

"You bitch! You whore!" he exploded. "What was Yusef doing in here?"

"He wasn't in here! What do you mean?"

"Whose button is this?" He held up the object for her inspection.

"Yours, I suppose. Just an ordinary man's button like any other."

"You know it isn't mine, I've never had a button of that colour all my
life. What was Yusef doing in the bedroom, I'm asking you?" He bellowed
the question out at her, and before she could speak he raised his hand
and struck her on the cheek with such force that she lost her balance
and reeled against the wall. He was about to strike her again, when she
shouted back at him:

"And what were you doing at the pool the night the American woman
disappeared? You beast, you murderer!"

His hand dropped without delivering the blow, and he stared at her for a
moment, stunned into speechlessness. Then, recovering himself, he said:

"That's a lie; I wasn't at the pool."

"No? And how did your watch drop into the pool? And who killed the woman
and buried her under the orchard wall, and came home at dawn with
blistered hands because he had been digging all night, and killed the
dog yesterday because it had smelt the odour of putrefaction in the
orchard and was beginning to scratch under the wall, the wall you had
built so hastily that it collapsed when the police were searching for
the body?"

"Lies! All lies! Shut your accursed mouth! I had nothing to do with the
disappearance of the American woman. The police have questioned me. I
have satisfied them."

"Only because they don't know what I know."

"You know nothing, you vicious woman. You think you can frighten me with
your lies because I have detected you in your adultery. It is I who will
expose you before your children and all the world, and no one will
believe your calumnies then, you fool!"

"Very well, I will tell the police to dig under the orchard wall. We'll
see then if they will believe me or not."

"You dare, you foolish woman! Do you know what you may be doing if you
blurt out any of these lies against me? You may be sending your son
Antoine to the scaffold. If they find anything under the orchard wall
your son will be in greater danger than me. They already suspect him.
They know he was sweet on the woman, and they think she snubbed him. He
was out late that night. He could have followed her from the hotel. How
do you know he didn't do it?"

"Because my boy wouldn't hurt a fly, and because I know you did it,
Faris Deeb. How dare you, how dare you accuse your own son, you monster?
But thank God, he will not be in danger. It wasn't he who came home with
sore hands and a broken spade! It wasn't he who chased Ramiz for the
spade. Oh, yes, I know it was Ramiz. He and Genevieve will give evidence
against you. And the car driver who didn't have a puncture. And I--I
will tell them you came home without your watch, and lied about it; I
will tell them how I saw the dog sniffing and scratching at the wall,
and how you chased it away in stealth and fear. I'll see you hanged all
right, Faris Deeb!"

"You won't live to see me hanged," he said, advancing on her with murder
in his heart and eyes and hands, "because I am going to strangle you
here and now; yes, by God, I am! If I am to die, I want it to be worth
while. It's all your doing. You took a lover and starved my desire. You
gave me your body like a piece of dough, and like dough it will be in a
moment when I have choked the life out of you--like dough, and then like
wood, and then just dust!"

"Help! Help! Come to me!" cried Rosa in terror, sudden and real, as she
realized that her husband meant what he said; and she began to hit back
at his face, at his chest. "He's killing me! Help! Help!"

Faris Deeb clutched her by the throat and began to shake her, saying:

"You made me want women so much that I killed one because she wouldn't
let me have her willingly. I killed her just like this, while she
screamed and hit me. Only, I did not mean to kill her, before God I
didn't. But you, I mean to kill, I want to, I----"

Before he had finished his sentence, there was the sound of rushing feet
in the hall and, an instant later, Mitry was in the bedroom. He flung
himself upon his father from behind, seizing him by the shoulders, and
the next moment Faris Deeb was on the floor, thrown down by the superior
physical strength of his son. Mitry stood above him, panting and
speechless, glowering at the prostrate figure. He was too stunned to
move, to rush to the relief of his mother, who had collapsed against the
wall behind her--too stunned by what he had seen, and still more by the
miracle that had, in a flash, destroyed the tyranny of years and given
him the courage to do what he had done. Faris Deeb, too, was in a daze
as he staggered to his feet. The significance of what his son had done
to him made him almost forget what he had been in the act of doing to
his wife. He could not believe that Mitry had actually struck him and
thrown him down, that such an audacious and successful revolt against
his authority had taken place. He rose slowly to his feet, stripped of
his power, limp with humiliation.

Rosa, recovering her breath, panted:

"My son, my son, God sent you to save me. He wanted... he wanted to
kill me. You saw it with your own eyes; he was strangling me!"

"Your mother is an adulteress. I caught her with Yusef. One of his
trouser buttons was under her bed," said Faris Deeb, speaking
mechanically, without anger, without emotion, still in a daze and making
what he knew was now a feeble and useless defence to his son.

"It's a lie!" said Rosa. "Yusef came to give me some paraffin for which
I had asked him. Your father met him going out. The button wasn't his."

"How dare you insult my mother!" said Mitry. "I will strangle _you_ if
you say that word again!" The victorious rebel, after years of fear, was
savouring his new-found courage, fiercely asserting it in defence of his
mother.

"He wanted to kill me," said Rosa, "because I knew who killed the
American woman!"

"Just as you killed Nimr," said Mitry, accusing his father with a look
of hate. "That's what brought me here now; I wanted to see if the rat
poison was still in the outhouse. It isn't."

"Thank God you came, my son. He would have killed me if you hadn't been
near the house to hear my screams. God and the Holy Virgin sent you."

"Why did you kill Nimr?" said Mitry. "Because he smelt the body? Where
did you bury it?"

"Under the orchard wall," said Rosa. "Under the big Italian apple tree.
He's confessed everything. He's told me he killed her."

"I have confessed nothing," said Faris Deeb, coldly. "You've filled your
minds with these fancies because you hate me, both of you."

"You deny you told me you killed her and were going to kill me too?"
said Rosa.

"Yes, I deny it. You were beside yourself and started shouting all sorts
of stupid things. I put my hands round your throat to stop the
neighbours hearing you."

"Very well, I will tell the police, and let them find out for
themselves."

"Tell them. Make a fool of yourself. Let the villagers say, 'Faris
Deeb's wife wanted to get rid of her husband in order to marry her...
someone else.' Let them say, 'She made his own children conspire against
him, give false evidence against him'... Fine name you'll get
yourself and your family!"

"Someone's coming up the path," said Mitry.

They all listened. There was a knock on the door, and a voice called out
inquiringly, "Sitt Rosa?... Abu Mitry?... Are you there?" It was
the voice of Elias Effendi, the police officer. For a few breathless
seconds Rosa, Faris Deeb and Mitry remained silent, looking at each
other--Faris Deeb impassively, Rosa menacingly, Mitry with a troubled,
bewildered expression. Then Faris Deeb answered:

"Yes, Elias Effendi, I am here. Please come in." He walked out of the
bedroom to receive the visitor in the hall. Rosa and Mitry remained
behind.

"Good morning, Khawaja Faris," said Elias Effendi. "I'm sorry to trouble
you, but there's a little matter I had to see you about. I went to your
shop, but you were not there, then I saw Yusef going to his garage and
he told me I should find you here."

"You're welcome," said Faris Deeb. "Please sit down."

"What I have to say won't take a minute," said the police officer. "It's
about the case of the missing American woman. I've just had a call from
Captain Jubara in Beirut. He would like you to come to Tripoli so that
the waiter at the cabaret may identify you and confirm that you were
there till ten o'clock on the evening the woman disappeared. It's just a
matter of routine, you understand, which we have to go through in the
course of our inquiries. You said you'd be willing to, didn't you?"

"Ay, I'm willing. I shall be in Tripoli this afternoon. When do you want
me to come?"

"We can't be sure of finding the waiter till the cabaret opens. I'll
meet you there at eight o'clock. Will that be convenient to you?"

"Very well."

"And then, maybe, we could stay for a while and have a look at the show.
You'll be my guest. What say you to that? The Sret will pay for it.
Expense account!"

"Thank you; it's very kind of you."

"Well, I needn't detain you any longer now. I'll be going."

For the first few minutes of this interview Faris Deeb had felt sick
with the fear that Rosa might come out and denounce him. But as the time
passed and she made no move, his fear was allayed; and he felt the need
to reassert himself in a normal way. So he said:

"You must not go before having a cup of coffee," then he called, "Rosa!
come and make coffee for Elias Effendi." He looked intently at the
bedroom door to see her as she came out. No, she would not dare!

"Very well; just five minutes," said Elias Effendi, "if it's no
trouble."

"No trouble at all," said Faris Deeb, keeping his eyes fixed on the
door. Rosa came out, without Mitry. She greeted the police officer
perfunctorily and went into the kitchen. Faris Deeb and his guest went
on exchanging small talk. Rosa made the coffee, and all the time she was
thinking, thinking.... A plan was forming in her head; it was the
only way, the best way. Mitry remained in the bedroom, stunned, not
thinking.

When Elias Effendi had drunk his coffee and departed, Faris Deeb and
Rosa faced each other, silent for a moment, then Rosa spoke:

"You see that you haven't satisfied the police. They suspect you."

"Don't be a fool. It's a matter of routine. You heard him say so. The
waiter will confirm what I told them."

"The waiter doesn't know what happened at the pool at midnight. I know."

"You will keep your mouth shut, just as you kept it shut when Elias
Effendi was here now. You had your chance to tell him, but you didn't.
Why didn't you?"

"Because I don't want to disgrace my children; I don't want to cause
them pain if I can help it. But you're mistaken, Faris Deeb if you think
I'm going to live with you another day, or sleep beside you another
night, after your trying to kill me."

"Don't be foolish, woman, I said! I wasn't trying to kill you. You made
me angry with your false accusations, and I had to stop you shouting
them out to the whole village."

"They weren't false accusations. You confessed it yourself."

"What I said wasn't true. I was speaking in anger, and I don't know what
I said. You made me say all sorts of things that weren't true, because
you'd put me into a rage. You said, 'You killed the woman,' so I said,
'Very well, I killed her, and now I'm going to kill you!' That was my
temper. Don't you know it?"

"You think you're cunning, Faris Deeb, don't you? You think you can fool
me and make me disbelieve all the evidence I have against you, but you
can't! No, you meant to kill me all right, and if God and the Holy
Virgin hadn't sent my son to my rescue when your hands were wringing my
neck, I should have been now as dead as the woman under the orchard
wall. And if you don't want to have your own neck broken on the
scaffold, you'll have to leave this house and go away, Faris Deeb."

"Go where? What nonsense are you talking?"

"I'm not talking nonsense; I'm giving you a chance to save your life and
save us all from you; and your son shall hear what I have to say...
Mitry, come out here!"

Mitry came out of the bedroom, flushed and sombre-looking.

"Yes, Mother?" he said.

"My son," said Rosa, "you have seen how I spared your father when the
police officer was here a moment ago. I spared him for your sake and the
sake of your brother and sister. I spared him, but I don't want to see
him again in my life. I have thought of a way in which he can save his
neck and protect your good name, if he has any consideration for that.
But if he will not take that way, I shall tell the police all I know
about the disappearance of the American woman, and I shall accuse him of
having tried to murder me too. He can choose. I want him to choose
before you now. I cannot live with him another moment, my son."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Faris Deeb, after a short silence
during which he became aware that he had no choice, that refusals and
denials were now useless. Rosa spoke with a cold determination from
which there was no escape.

"Go to Tripoli," said Rosa, "and transfer the title deed of the vineyard
to your father, and those of the house, the shop and the orchard to me
and the children in equal shares. I know you have one thousand, seven
hundred pounds in the bank; I have looked at your accounts. You will
draw this money out. Take two hundred pounds for yourself, and bring me
the rest here--one thousand and five hundred pounds."

"Go to hell!" said Faris Deeb. "I will do no such thing."

"I won't go to hell; I'll go to the police, this very instant, and Mitry
will come with me. And you'll go to the scaffold, Faris Deeb."

"Are you conspiring with your mother against me?" Faris Deeb appealed to
his son. "You're my flesh and blood."

"Mitry doesn't want his mother to be murdered," said Rosa. "He was here
in time to save me to-day; he may not be another time. Come, Mitry,
let's go to the police post. Come, my son, protect me!"

"It's better you listen to my mother," said Mitry. "She's trying to save
you from something worse than the loss of your property and money. You
may have only a short time in which to make your escape, even if we say
nothing."

There was another heavy pause, then Faris Deeb said:

"How do you want me to hand you the money and the title deeds? I thought
you didn't want to see my face again."

"I will see it for just this one time, but not here; I'm not going to
stay in this house alone to be strangled. I shall go and stay with my
niece, Selma. You will bring me the title deeds and the money there."

"What do you want all this money for?" asked Faris Deeb. "All my life's
savings, all that I have in the world!"

"I said you could keep two hundred pounds for yourself."

"And what would I do with only two hundred pounds?"

"Buy yourself a ticket to West Africa. Go to your brother there; he will
keep you. He wanted you to join him at one time. Well, go and join him
now; he'll employ you."

"Let me take some capital with me; I will give you five hundred pounds.
Isn't that enough for you?"

"No, it isn't. I want to give Genevieve a dowry, and Mitry his fare to
Brazil, and I want to keep some money for myself and for running the
shop."

"If Mitry is going to Brazil, you won't be able to look after the shop.
You'll ruin yourself and your children."

"Genevieve and Ramiz will help me look after it."

"It will take some time to get the ticket and the passport," said Faris
Deeb, striking a last, feeble blow in his rearguard action. "What shall
I do till then? Where shall I stay?"

"Stay with your uncle in Tripoli," said Rosa. "Tell him you've got
business there."

"If the police know that I have taken all my money out of the bank and
bought a ticket for West Africa, they will suspect me."

"And is that my fault?" said Rosa. "You've got to take your chance--the
best chance you have. They will suspect you all right if you stay here
until the smell in the orchard reaches high heaven. Why didn't you think
of the danger before you did the deed?"

"I didn't mean to do it," he said, looking at his son. "The Devil took
me to a precipice, and my foot slipped."

"But it wasn't the slip of a foot just now when you wanted to kill me,"
said Rosa. "You were quite prepared to have the blood of two murders on
your hands. Go! I'm shutting up the house and going to Selma's. Bring me
the money and the papers there."




CHAPTER 20


Faris Deeb went to Tripoli, floundering in a sea of choppy, broken
thoughts, drifting on the surface of emotions which he scarcely felt.
Everything around him seemed unreal--the people in the car with him, the
scenery on the way, which he had seen week after week all his life, the
streets of Tripoli, when he reached it. He was a man without a will,
without purpose, going mechanically to perform certain actions, the
thought of which seemed so unreal itself as scarcely to affect him. The
whole of life seemed suddenly to have become a dream, and in that dream
he walked, going to do Rosa's bidding.

First he went to the government department where real property was
registered, and there, in the presence of an attorney, he transferred
the title deeds of the house and the shop, the vineyard and the orchard
to the names of his father and Rosa and the children. He signed the
necessary documents as though he were writing someone else's name. Then
he went to the bank and drew out his money--seventeen notes of one
hundred pounds each; and he put them into his pocket as though they were
a few liras for domestic shopping. Lastly, he went to the passport
office to fill the necessary forms for his journey to West Africa--West
Africa, the journey, the future; all, all unreal. He stood in a gloomy,
smelly corridor, where several other people were filling forms, dipping
broken nibs into dusty inkpots which had scarcely any ink in them; where
other people were crowding at a few small windows in a wooden wall,
getting visas or exit permits, collecting the passports for which they
had applied some time before, as he was now applying for his. He waited
until there was a vacancy at the counter where the forms were being
filled, then moved into the gap and began filling in his form. As he was
answering the last few questions, he became aware of a heavy perfume he
had smelt once before. He looked up, startled, and saw the Egyptian
belly dancer smiling coolly at him.

"How's Your Presence?" she said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"I'm well, thank you," he said quietly, as though speaking to another
character in his universal dream.

"You did not honour the cabaret with another visit, as you promised to,"
she said, lifting her eyebrows as though in mild reproach.

"No. I've been kept very busy."

"I'm going back to Egypt to-day; I've come to collect my permit. Is Your
Presence by any chance coming to Egypt too?" The smile become more
seductive, as the lips parted and the eyes half-closed.

"No."

"It is my misfortune; we might have met in Cairo."

"The donkey from the mountains," he said remotely, "saw the carrot here;
he has no wish to follow it to Egypt. Your Presence will excuse
me...."

Leaving the passport office, after his encounter with the dancer, Faris
Deeb found his sense of reality returning--returning only to overwhelm
him with the purport of what he had done, what Rosa had forced him to
do. In his pocket he had the seventeen hundred pounds and the title
deeds of all he possessed. In another few hours they would be in Rosa's
possession--all but two hundred pounds for the ticket to West Africa;
and when he had bought the ticket he would have only a few pounds
left--only a few pounds in the whole world! Penniless in West Africa, he
would be no better than a servant in his brother's house.

With this thought swelling in his mind, swelling until the pain of it
could be endured no longer, Faris Deeb went to the nearest caf and
ordered a flagon of arak. He sat at a corner table and began to drink.
The cool insolence of the Egyptian prostitute seemed a small thing
beside the complete shattering of his life, but it stung him with a
sharp point of venom. It was there the Devil had taken him first. But
for her, his foot would not have slipped down that terrible precipice at
the pool. And she was still mocking him! But he had stung her back, he
had made her know that she had not been clever enough to fool him, to
make him buy her the ring in return for a carrot!

He continued to drink, deriving a little comfort from his little verbal
revenge on the Egyptian whore. He was due to meet Elias Effendi at the
cabaret at eight o'clock, to have his alibi confirmed. But what was the
use of that now? Yet, if he did not want the police to suspect him, if
he wanted to be able to go to West Africa... West Africa without a
penny! Slaves were taken from West Africa in the past. Did he want to go
there now, as a slave himself? A fugitive without money and without
power, stripped of all he had? How could he live without his property,
without the orchard and the vineyard and his profitable business,
banished from the village and the home where his power had been feared,
leaving that harlot Rosa to sport unafraid in her lover's arms? How
could he live like that? Yet, if he wanted to live at all now, these
were the terms he must accept. He turned and turned again, in impotent
rage, from one alternative to the other, like a caged tiger pacing
between its iron walls. There was no escape on either side. If only he
had strangled Rosa that morning before her son arrived to throw him down
and save her, he would have eased his heart, and they could have taken
and hanged him then; he would not have minded. A man had to die some
time or other. But now it was too late. He could not do it now. She
would be accompanied, protected; and even if he found her alone, he knew
he could not attempt it again. The will in him to kill her had died.

Slowly, the idea of a different revenge began to form in his head--not a
revenge of rage and violence, but a cold, calculating revenge like
Rosa's own, a revenge that would hurt her more than death.... He
drank another glass of arak with the excitement of a celebration. Yes, a
man had to die some time. Some died young and some died old, but in the
end it was the same for everybody. The important thing was that a man
should make his peace with God before dying. He had promised God to do
penance, and he would do it, though God had not answered his prayer.
"God," he said, "I promised to do penance for my crime if You saved me
from discovery. You did not save me, and if this was a deal on earth, I
should not have to keep my side of the bargain; but You are the God of
Heaven and Earth, and I cannot argue with You. So, I will keep my
promise, and perhaps You will forgive me in the next world, though You
have not forgiven me in this."

Having finished his short prayer and his flagon of arak, he got up and
left the caf. Instead of waiting to meet Elias Effendi at the cabaret,
he hired a car all to himself--a thing he had done only once before in
his life--and went back to Barkita. It was nine o'clock when he arrived,
and the village was dark save for the little patches of light in the
windows and under a few street lamps. Leaving the car, he went to the
house of Father Boulos and, as he expected, found the priest at home.

"Welcome, welcome, Abu Mitry. Please come in," said Father Boulos with
concern, imagining that only the need for the last sacrament to be
administered to someone in his house would have brought Faris Deeb to
him at such a late hour. Perhaps Abu Faris.... That would bring him a
few pounds for the funeral.

"Thank you, Abuna," said Faris Deeb, following Father Boulos into his
parlour.

"I hope everybody in your house is well," said Father Boulos. "I was
just about to go to bed, but of course, if you need me...."

"No, Abuna, you don't have to come to the house. Everybody is well; and
I shan't detain you long."

"Oh, it's a pleasure to see you, Abu Mitry; you don't often do me this
honour. Please sit down. I will make you a cup of coffee."

"No, no, please don't trouble. Coffee at night keeps me awake. I will
only stay a minute, Abuna. I have come to make you a small donation for
the Church, and I don't want anyone to know about it except you and
God."

"This is the only true charity--the deed done in the dark; what the
right hand gives without letting the left hand know about it," said
Father Boulos, masking with his pontification the astonishment he felt.
"You are not like the Pharisees, Abu Mitry. Your gift will be truly
acceptable to God."

Faris Deeb took out his wallet and, making sure that the priest did not
see all its contents, extracted a hundred-pound note out of it. That was
five times as much as he had promised God. For he needed now to do
penance for more than one crime, and he reckoned the extra amount would
cover everything.

Father Boulos stared in amazement and, despite his greed and not very
strict conscience, was unable to prevent himself from saying:

"Are you sure you haven't made a mistake, Abu Mitry. This is a
hundred-pound note!"

"No, I have not made a mistake. It's... it's in discharge of a vow I
made. Five pounds are for you personally, and the rest for the Church."
He was not sure that he could trust Father Boulos not to take more than
five pounds for himself. But that was between the priest and God. He
himself had done his duty, and God would have heard him.

"This is so generous, I don't know what to say!" said Father Boulos.
"But God will requite your beneficence and multiply your possessions.
May His peace be upon you, Abu Mitry. May you continue to prosper in all
your endeavours."

"Amen!" said Faris Deeb. "Pray for me, Abuna."

"But of course I will. I will say a mass for you to-morrow."

"That will be very kind of you. And now, I must be going. Good night."

"Good night, Abu Mitry. God go with you."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Out in the street again, Faris Deeb walked with firm but unhurried steps
toward his orchard. There was no moon, and it was quite dark when he
arrived at his destination. The apple trees stood still and shadowy
above the inky pool, and the rocks around the water leaned against each
other like strange creatures asleep. The whole valley was asleep except
for the river. The river never slept, and it would never die. Children
played along its banks, then they grew to be men and died. But the river
went on. It saw saplings rise from the ground it watered and become
trees. But even the trees would die, and still the river would flow, by
day and night, making its gurgling noises against the stones.

Faris Deeb reached the edge of the pool and sat on a rock, looking at
the water.... No, he would not go to West Africa. He would not let
himself be stripped of all he had and live to watch his nakedness. And
if Rosa thought she could get his money by threatening him with
exposure, by God, he would show her she was mistaken! He could do
nothing about the house and the shop, the orchard and the vineyard. Even
if he destroyed the altered title deeds, the property would go to his
wife and children according to the law of inheritance. But the money,
that was different! He would cheat Rosa of it; he would take it with
him!

He got up and took out of his pocket the sixteen hundred pounds that
were left after he had made his offering to God. He held them, fiercely
crumpled in his hand for a moment, thinking of all the years it had
taken him to amass that little fortune--all the buying and selling, the
hard bargaining, the clever deals, the things he had deprived himself
of. It was all there, still in his hand, still his own till the end. And
now the end had come for both. Slowly he loosened his fingers, then bent
down and put the crumpled banknotes on the ground in a little heap,
after which he struck a match and inserted it into the heart of the
pyre. He saw the paper catch the flame, and in the light of the brief
blaze he watched the words and figures on the notes--watched them glow
for an instant, then char and crackle and crumble into ash, sending up
tongues of flame that turned into smoke.

He watched the burning till the end, then, with a bitter triumph in his
heart, he walked into the pool. He had paddled in the pool as a boy, but
he had never gone into deep water in his life. He had heard that death
by drowning was not painful, but his mind was so numb now that he was
not afraid of pain, did not care what sensation his last moments were
going to bring him. His mind was cold and dark like the pool--dark with
the memories of what he had done, of what had been done to him; and dark
with anticipation of the darkness he was going into. He stepped into the
water, as though he was going down a dark staircase, treading carefully
to find the steps, to avoid stumbling and falling before he was out of
his depth, feeling for footholds among the irregular stones that formed
the wall of the pool. He felt the water rising, and his clothes sucking
it and becoming heavier around his wetted body with every step he took.
He saw the reflection of a star just ahead of him, then his movement
sent ripples along the surface, and the reflection danced upon them and
was broken. He took another step, then another, and suddenly his feet
lost touch with the ground and the water swirled above his head. An
instinct, stronger than his will, made him struggle for a moment. He
struck at the water wildly with his arms, trying to lift his head above
it for another breath, another moment of life. His eyes rose above the
surface for a second and, before they went down again, they saw a final
spurt of flame go up from the cruel fire he had lit.






[End of The Cruel Fire, by Edward Atiyah]
