Anyway, I say, where would we be without the Jews in the first place? Whereupon she refuses to listen. She becomes tactful in the way that Russians do when you mention Stalin. Perhaps, after all, Stalin was not only a Georgian warlord but also an Oriental god? Perhaps, after all, Jesus was our first true prophet, in which case I am wasting my time with what I call my counter-missionary work. If these people wish to come to the West to make for themselves an Eastern slum, perhaps I should not try to improve their lot. But are they happy? In their own world, at least, they are not despised for their appearance or their beliefs. We are invaded at every turn by the Middle Ages. There is a War of Time violently taking place all around us and we pretend it is not there. We would rather talk about the quality of the fish and chips. Who are these nomads of the time-streams, bursting over the borders, flooding out of non-existent countries into the glaring realities of Paris and London and Amsterdam? Our values are the very antithesis of their own. It occurs to me that all the crimes committed against the ignorant and the innocent down the years have come home to roost in the nations of the rich. Their spirits are the ghosts haunting the treasury of our inheritance. We cannot enjoy our wealth and not be possessed by them all. War has an infinite price. We are never free of its victims. Generation upon generation is tainted by war. Generation upon generation pays the worst price of all - to watch paradise slowly slipping from its grasp. I remember Munich. I still do not believe the Führer was insincere.
I am of that generation which argues ‘there are no victors in war’ and I believe we have proven that contention. Yet T’hami el Glaoui would have thought me mad had I made such a statement as he rode with all the glory of his complicated retinue, its wagons and pack-animals and flags and soldiery, towards the granite seat of his family’s original power. ‘A great laird,’ proclaimed Mr Weeks, whose mother had been a Mackenzie, ‘and a gentleman through and through.’
We camped that night in a village of our own creation rather than suffer the cramped hospitality of the dignitaries who displayed the offerings of the local people, mostly lambs and goats, as daifa in the traditional rituals of welcome. Before our eyes they set to slaughtering an entire herd for our pleasure which was then roasted on spits over pits in the sand. Later, we feasted, as entertainers were brought in to sing those impossibly melancholy Berber love-songs having the substance and effect of the music they now call Cowboy and Western and which springs from similar peasant roots. These celebrations of cosmic self-pity were followed by a troupe of drummers, whose monotony would rival any modern Top of the Pops jungle dancing. Bad taste is truly universal. I sat on one side in the company of Lieutenant Fromental, Mr Weeks and Count Schmaltz while Rose von Bek was decidedly on her own with the Pasha. Both were oblivious to the music and I envied them this. The other local kai’ds and their retainers seemed as discomfited by the entertainment as the rest of us. Only Mr Mix gave every appearance of relishing the whole thing, filming them and us from every angle, his massive cart of batteries powering the floodlights necessary to capture anything but a flickering shadow (as it was he had to ask them to repeat their performances against that impossible background the next morning while the rest of us were packing to leave). Still I had failed to get the negro to one side. I almost wondered if he avoided me until it occurred to me that filming must be a genuine vocation for the intelligent africain.
Since he wished to return home to America, Mr Mix doubtless hoped to direct films for the race market. There was a thriving business in such films, which were sold throughout the African and Oriental world. I contented myself, knowing that sooner or later my old comrade would let me into his confidence.
I was still not entirely at ease with Rose von Bek’s behaviour. It seemed to me that the essential man, not the name he uses, is all that is ever important. But perhaps she had thought me more powerful than I was, while T’hami el Glaoui was certainly everything a potentate should be, even if he lacked my looks and peculiar skills. I suspected that our relative power was something she had weighed up with all the speed of the practised adventuress. Grateful that I had invested little real idealism in her, merely friendship, I made the best of things, taking comfort in the company of those boisterous, manly comrades, their jokes and private conversations. It was no surprise, after the feasting and folklorique were done, that Rose von Bek did not tip-toe from the Pasha’s tent to her own until a little before dawn. I buried all memory of pleasure. It had become second nature to me. The stiff upper lip is not the Englishman’s prerogative. The next day, as we entered the last phase of the journey to his kasbah, the Pasha made a point of calling out for me to join him at the head of the party. Observed by genuflecting peasants, we rode along an avenue of palms. Rose was nowhere in sight, confined, I was told, to one of the wagons, suffering from the privations of our balloon journey. The balloon itself followed in another of the supply wagons. ‘I gather you are something of an engineer as well as a film star, Mr Beters.’ Like most Arabic speakers he had trouble with the letter ‘p’, but he was charming. His gentle courtesy won me over at once.
‘I am lucky enough to hold a degree or two in the sciences,’ I confirmed. ‘My colleague Lalla von Bek has been betraying my secrets, I fear.’
He appreciated my use of the Arabic title. ‘Lalla von Bek explained the extraordinary nature of your meeting. In disguise, you came out of the desert like a Bedouin legend, Mr Beters, and rescued a fair maiden! Be careful, they will be brinting your adventures in the benny dreadfuls.’ He then launched into some second-hand anecdote he had overheard on the Quai d’Orsay concerning Buffalo Bill’s embarrassment at the fictions perpetrated in his name. ‘Did you ever see a Wild West Show, Mr Beters?’
I admitted that I had only known Cody’s nephew, but I had rubbed shoulders with some fairly rough types ‘out West’. ‘Believe me, Your Highness, there are worse villains in real life than we ever dare show on the screen.’
‘I can believe it, Mr Beters. However, until I again have the bleasure of watching your wonderful film escabades, I must make do with the reality of your combany. What is your sbecial field?’
I quickly explained that I was by profession an inventor. I had to my credit a string of recent experimental machines, from airships to the latest dynamite car. In the pipeline were plans for great ships to carry tourists to the desert where they would learn something of the dignity of the nomad life. This of course would increase the region’s wealth. It was this latter idea that intrigued him. I described further details of my Desert Liner. From there we got on to aeroplanes, for which he was a great enthusiast ‘Do you know anything about building aeroblanes, m’sieu?’
‘I am the first Russian to fly,’ I informed him. ‘I flew a one-man craft over Kiev long before such things were thought possible. It was for my originality in this area that I was awarded my special medal from St Petersburg.’