Her manners were rather better than her vocabulary. I decided, for the moment, to let her continue to believe me a simple son of the desert, some noble Bedouin Valentino who had arrived to save her in the nick of time. Admittedly, Valentino had saved his young woman from a fate worse than death whereas I, apparently, had merely broken a sartorial impasse. She put her hand to her little breast and introduced herself. ‘I am Lalla von Bek and I am a flyer. I meant no ill in your land. I was shot down by a stray Arab bullet. See.’ And she pointed at a hole now visible just above the bag’s emblazoned crown. ‘I am on official business for the Royal Italian Geological Society.’
For my own amusement I replied in English. ‘My brother was doubtless aiming at the cross. I see from your instruments that you are making maps. Perhaps you are seeking gold in our land?’
She was vehement. ‘Oh, no! It’s oil, anyway, everyone’s looking for. This is a purely scientific expedition. I say, your English is wonderful. Were you educated over there? Or America? Do I detect a trace of Yankee?’
‘The wanderlust of the Bedouin is legendary, even among the Nazrini,’ I said. ‘But I have never seen a hot-air balloon as elaborate as this.’
‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘it is rather over-elaborate. It’s very hard to keep height, you know, without throwing everything out. I’d never have been shot down if I’d had the ship I asked for. Still, I must admit, the gun did come in useful. I’m sorry if you hurt yourself. I have a little first-aid experience. If you like . . .’
I refused manfully. It did not suit me at that point to let her see the whiteness of my skin beneath my robes.
Like Kolya, I had been burned dark by the sun and had a full beard. I flattered myself that I looked every inch a Saharan nobleman.
‘Let the silk be my gift to you,’ I said, observing the courtesies of desert meetings. ‘I hope you will look even more beautiful in it.’
She seemed impressed by my manners but baffled - then she smiled. ‘Oh, the silk! It’s for the balloon. We’ll cut a panel, oil it with what you have in that jar and make it airtight. I’m sure I have the other things I need. Those beggars down there got the best of my kit. It rolled out when we landed. We bounced a bit, as you can see.’ Reminiscently she dusted at her dress.
‘Though I am a bit fussy about clothes.’ She became thoughtful. ‘It doesn’t do to lose your standards.’
‘A sentiment you share with the Bedouin,’ I said.
She was flattered by the compliment. ‘This isn’t what I normally wear, but I was beginning to feel a bit down. A change of clothes will often cheer you up. Now you’ve arrived so I was right to look on the bright side. It’s just like a film, isn’t it?’
I was not happy to be reminded, just then, of the moving-picture industry. She took my silence for dignified disagreement. ‘I’m sorry, I suppose you’re not allowed to watch them.’ She was gracious. ‘I haven’t given you a chance to introduce yourself.’
‘I am the Sheikh Mustafa Sakhr-al-Dru’ug,’ I said, borrowing my name from an old script. ‘Like you, madam, I am an explorer. It is a tradition among my people. We are natural travellers.’
Enthusiastically she endorsed my opinion, betraying, I thought, a dangerous Arabismus which has led more than one European woman astray. Yet it did not suit me to puncture her illusion. Something told me she would have more interest joining forces with a Desert Hawk than with a Steppe Eagle. Bedouin or Cossack, we still had more in common than we had differences and it was natural of me to assume the role of benign protector to a young girl stranded in the deep desert. It was my instinct, a natural chivalry.
However, when I asked after ‘dear old Eton’, I was astonished to learn that she was not English at all and had lived there only intermittently. ‘My father was Count Richardt von Bek. My mother was Irish, Lady Maeve Lever of the Dublin Levers. I was finished in England, but I am by birth an Albanian. A second cousin, as it happens, to King Zog. I became an Italian national in 1925.’
‘Evidently you are an admirer of Signor Mussolini.’
‘Rather! My father always said Italy only did well under brilliant individuals. He was a Saxon, of course, and inclined to overstatement. He preferred the free-and-easy atmosphere of Albania. He was employed by the Turks. Engineers could live like princes in those days. We had a simply marvellous childhood. It spoiled us, really. And then, of course, Mother died of consumption, Father was shot as a traitor and that was the end of it. Luckily they’d taught us to stand on our own feet.’
‘You have brothers?’
‘Only sisters. They’re all married but me now. Really, I’m an engineer, but I can’t tell you how hard it is to convince people that I’m as good as a man. That’s why I’m here, really. A sort of publicity stunt, you’d call it. So people will take me seriously.’
‘I am familiar with such stunts,’ I told her. ‘And have an interest in engineering matters myself.’ My blood quickened at this change of luck. In the middle of the Sahara I had met a personable and pretty young woman who also happened to understand engineering. Such girls, who even today are considered odd, were thrown up by the Great War. I have nothing against them. Many have natural aptitudes in that direction, though as yet we have to see a female engineering genius. They will tell you they are above such things, preferring to sew and cook. Perhaps they really do prefer such activities. If so, it rather proves my point. I continued to treat Signorina von Bek with grave courtesy, delighted at last to meet in the desert someone who understood the difference between an internal combustion engine and a magic nut. ‘Not to mention,’ I added for politesse, ‘Albania.’
From where I had hobbled them, my thirsty camels were complaining - roaring and grumbling loud enough to drown parts of our conversation.
‘Sons of the eagle, indeed!’ she said, indicating the collapsed fabric. She referred, I suppose, to the Albanians’ name for themselves, Skayptar. The smaller the country, the bigger its airs. Just as it is with little men. I remember the Lett, Adolf Ved. His country’s self-advertisement was only matched by its vainglory. And all they had in the way of a cultural tradition was a few borrowed folk-songs, a national hero with an unpronounceable name and a Jewish university. Yet I was grace itself, and she brightened. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it will soon be sundown. I must offer you daifa. I’ll get the primus going. Natives don’t like to attack, you know, at night. What would you say to some turtle soup and rusks? We could start with some pâté de foie gras and there’s still an excellent St Emilion in the locker somewhere. The champagne, I’m afraid, exploded. The heat and the altitude, I suppose.’ She led me towards the centre of the gondola where she had erected two parasols for shade above a camp table set with silverware and napkin for one. From a locker she produced a second folding chair and from a chest a set of cutlery. ‘I prepared for visitors, you see. Not quite knowing where I was going to land.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, I say, you’re not forbidden to eat anything, are you? Apart from pork, I mean.’
I assured her I had the usual traveller’s dispensations and could, with her permission, even join her in a glass of claret. She apologised for her ignorance of my people’s customs. At least, I said, she had an interest in correcting her ignorance and had come to see us for herself and not depend upon the Albanian newspapers to characterise us. She was pleased by this. She said she had been told of the legendary good manners of the Bedouin. ‘I share that quality,’ I told her, ‘with your Don and Kuban Cossacks.’
She seemed surprised by the reference, since few Bedouins are prepared to be compared to anything less than a demigod, but she took my remarks for modesty, warming to me still more. I basked in this angel’s approval! What ordinary man - what man of any kind - could fail to be charmed? I must admit I had no incentive for disabusing her. It had become second nature for me to disguise myself. For all her enchanting qualities I had no reason yet to trust Signorina von Bek.