They served her tea. They read her manuscripts. They said: “You have been truthful. You have not done him harm. You really know him.” It was the young girl who knew English and who translated it for them.
They invited her to stay a few days.
She slept in his bed. She saw his costumes, his swords, his knives, his shoulder bags, his bugle, his horse’s saddles and silver ornaments. She saw his boots, his shawls, his tents, his carpets for sleeping, his blankets for the cold, his fur-rimmed hats, his necklaces, his medals, his spurs.
The great grandchild who was said to look like him, like Shumla at fifteen, loved horses and war, and could reproduce the special cries they had for battle. He sang the songs they sang around the campfires.
She saw the rough maps he had used, the rough notes, the messages, and many drawings of the period which portrayed battles, executions, punishments, ceremonials, victories, banquets, weddings, burials, decorations of heroes.
There were no clocks in the house, no calendars. It facilitated her return to the past, a long journey. It washed away the years from her body.
She lived with Shumla; he visited her in her dreams. Even though the times dictated ferocity towards the enemy and no mercy towards prisoners, his obedience to them had been tempered with as much mercy as he could display without being branded a woman.
She took many notes from their stories. She convinced the family that Shumla, as a symbol of courage, belonged to the world, that it was not desecration to expose his life.
The old people had a wonderful memory. They remembered every detail they had heard, the color of his horse, the color of his belt, the number of beads on his necklace for luck, the names of his comrades, his friends, his relatives in other countries, the name of every battle, of every place where he had been.
When she left them, they made her promise to return. She carried a brief case filled with precious notes, letters, sketches. She had an intimate knowledge of the man. His stature, his fierceness, his valor made the modern world seem tame and fearful.
But the plane caught fire a few minutes before they landed. The pilot sent messages through the intercom. “If we can land before the second motor catches fire we will be safe. We only have four minutes to go. Please do not panic.”
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four minutes. They landed and stepped out through the emergency door. A fire engine and an ambulance awaited them. The plane was emptied without accident, but the fire raged after they left it, and in this fire burned the intimate personal data on Shumla which his jealous religion, his jealous gods, did not wish to release to the press, to the world, to women like the Consul’s wife who committed adultery in their dreams.
COLONEL TISHNAR CAME TO PARADISE INN for dinner. If Renate had wanted to make a portrait of him it would have had to be a collage for he seemed made of all textures except human skin, human hair. His white hair could have been made of spun glass, his skin of sand-colored suede, his slim military figure of some new suave plastic.
His language too was stylized and every word glazed with patina. Long service with the British Intelligence Service had given him a stance which reminded one of photographs of T. E. Lawrence. He had known Lawrence, and shared with him a love of adventure, freedom, exile and poetry.
Colonel Tishnar had the gift of distilling from his own life only the humorous aspects. Having excluded illness, danger, tragedy, and personal relationships, his life appeared enchanted and pure fiction. His stories were perfect for dinner parties and they disturbed no one’s digestion.
This evening he was a guest of a famous producer and they were planning to go on a safari together. The producer was asking him about the idiosyncrasies of lions.
“Well,” said Colonel Tishnar, “I can tell you one story which will give you an idea of the fastidiousness of lions in general. Did you ever know Mrs. Larrabee? I was with her on a safari. Mrs. Larrabee had never resorted to the magic of dress or cosmetics, to any artificial effort to reconstruct herself. She may have decided at the beginning of her life that no charm or art could enhance her bold features, her straw-dry hair, her skin grained like sandpaper. We were lion hunting in Nairobi. As you probably know, the rule in this sort of hunting is to remain in the jeep and to keep on driving. Two natives accompanied Mrs. Larrabee, one to drive the jeep, the other to carry her gun. Somehow or other, her jeep became separated from the rest of the caravan. When it reached a shallow gully the engine stopped. While it was being repaired Mrs. Larrabee went for a walk along the bank. She was far out of sight and walking back meditatively when she noticed across the dry river bed an enormous lion walking parallel to her at the same pace. Mrs. Larrabee remained calm. She continued to walk towards her jeep. So did the lion. They both reached a bend in the gully. Towards the right was the road back to the jeep.
“Towards the left was the jungle. And here the lion calmly walked into the jungle and disappeared. But before the parting of the ways he looked at Mrs. Larrabee rather wistfully, as if to say goodbye. Mrs. Larrabee told me the story. She wanted me to explain what had saved her from being devoured. I could not explain it. The lion may have decided that Mrs. Larrabee’s skin and boniness belonged to a new species of animal which did not tempt him. It may have been that he had already eaten and that there was nothing here to stimulate his appetite. Anyhow, what I could not tell Mrs. Larrabee was that if I had been the lion, and if I had met her walking along the edge of that gully, I too would have continued to walk in the opposite direction, wouldn’t you?”
Once during the evening he paused in the middle of a story as if the end were no concern of his, and he had to be reminded to continue until he reached the climax.
“The end, you want an end,” he said. “It may be I have lived too long with the Moroccans, and I have come to believe as they believe that nothing ends, nothing is ever finished.”
“What about the adventurer’s life? Does he always remain alone? Will you every marry?”
“I could only marry if I could find a woman who has had as rich a life as mine. Then I would be willing to stay at home, and sit by the fireside, and we would both tell each other of our endless adventures and relive them all.”
“I know exactly the woman for you,” said Renate. “She has had as adventurous a life as yours. T. E. Lawrence carried her books of poems with him, she visited him in the desert, and I am sure you were at the same places, knew the same people, made the same voyages.”
“But never at the same time,” said Colonel Tishnar. “This lack of synchronization augurs badly for a marriage. Already I ask myself was she always late? I never could bear to wait for a woman.”
“She has just arrived,” said Renate.
Tessa’s dress was airy, of a black transparent material stiffened by chemistry as organdie had onc been by starch and ironing. It gave her the crisp silhouette of a young woman. The enormous bow on her breast seemed like wings which would carry her off at any moment. Her hair, though grey, was glossy and electric, and the ends curled in the air like feathers at full mast. Her dress, the stance of her high-heeled shoes, reflected the alertness of her spirit. Her laughter and her voice were young and supple. Age could wrinkle her skin, freckle her hands, ruthlessly weigh down her eyelids, but it could not deaden her fervor, her mobility, her obedience to every challenge of life.
As soon as she was introduced to Colonel Tishnar she began a story: “I have just come back from my gold mine in Ghost Town. I bought it when they discovered a cheaper way of treating the low grade ore discarded by the old miners. All I have to do is climb a ladder down the shaft, from my very own cellar, pick up enough ore, treat it in this new acid, just enough of it to spend in the evening at the famous gambling table of the old pioneers. Ghost Town is coming back to life. The old saloon is still decorated with red damask walls and a crystal chandelier brought from France when wealth first came to the miners. One can live and gamble on ten dollars a day. I am going to invite all my artist friends to come and live with me there. The only difficulty with this plan is that I have lost their confidence. During the war I offered some of the homesick surrealists a way to sail back to Europe. I bought a ship for them at auction. It was in New Orleans. And I invited all those who wanted to sail to come with me. But the ship sank in the harbor, before they even boarded it. Some of them may have thought it was a plot against surrealism.”