I slung the flaccid water-skin over my shoulder and walked off. It was the third time I had made this particular trip, and the track grew no less rocky, nor did the filled goatskin get any lighter. Similarly, the two camels belonging to the group camped nearer the well were just as surly as they had been before, although the dog did not follow me as far as usual, and the camp children seemed to have accepted the fact that I would not respond to their chatter, merely running out and watching me from under their child-sized kuffiyahs. When the woman before me at the well had filled her Standard Oil tin with water, balancing it easily on her head before swaying off without deigning to glance at this apparent male condemned to perform a woman’s tasks, I found that not only did the track grow no shorter, but the blisters which this and previous well ropes had raised on my palms were as painful as ever. I filled the skin, arranged on my back the obscene, gurgling object (which, even after days of seeing it hanging near the cook fire, still looked to me like an animal putrefied to the point of bursting), and plodded back to the encampment, past the sounds of the invisible women grinding the day’s flour and the visible men in the shade of their tents, talking and smoking and watching me pass.
When I returned, Ali had made tea and was busy whittling—a donkey, it was, small but lively. Holmes was not to be seen, and Mahmoud had his writing table set up and was busy composing a document of some sort for his client, who was still talking, telling Mahmoud something about his brother and a camel, although his speech was far too rapid for me to follow. Twice the young man consulted the woman, who was either a sister or his wife, waiting impatiently for her to answer in her low, intelligent-sounding voice, before resuming his monologue. Mahmoud wrote placidly, the dip of his pen into the brass inkwell a constant rhythm broken only when he paused to trim the quill with his penknife, until finally the page was filled with a beautiful, clean, precise calligraphic script. He signed it with a flourish, the man put his mark on it, and Ali was called over to sign for good measure. Mahmoud sprinkled the document with sand to dry the ink, tapped it clean, folded it in on itself, sealed it with wax, and wrote an address on the front. The man accepted it with effusive thanks and a payment of small coins, and then he and our resident scribe each smoked a black cigarette and drank a glass of water to bring out the full flavour of the powerful tobacco. Eventually Mahmoud’s clients departed, the man still talking, to the woman now, who as she stood up was revealed to be greatly pregnant. She shot me a glance both shy and ardent before following at his heels.
Immediately they had disappeared down the track, Ali jabbed his vicious blade back into its scabbard (causing me to wonder fleetingly if Arabs ever disembowelled themselves when putting their knives away in a hurry) and then whipped out the flats of bread that he had cooked the previous evening, and we moved into the tent to break our fast around the fire. I was already very tired of this diet of damp unleavened bread, burnt in spots, which even when hot had no more taste than blotting paper. That morning, however, I was ravenous, and would have eaten the stuff gladly plain, but as recognition of the successful night’s work Ali uncorked a jug of honey and placed it on the carpet between us. He then gave us each a handful of dates and another of almonds, and poured out four tin mugs of the sour goat’s milk called laban that he had bought the day before from our neighbours. Holmes and Mahmoud, I noticed, had their food placed directly before them, whereas my portions were deposited very nearly at arms reach. Ali did not like eating with a woman, and although he submitted to the necessity, he did all he could to demonstrate his dislike. Even Mahmoud put my coffee down on the carpet in front of me, instead of allowing me to take it directly from his fingers as he did with any male. I sighed to myself and stretched forward to retrieve my breakfast, and sat back on my heels to enjoy it.
When we had feasted, Mahmoud reached for the coffee-making accoutrements. Wordlessly, the rest of us settled back into our carpets, Ali with his carving and Holmes taking out pipe and tobacco from the breast of his robe, tucking the ends of his kuffiyah up into the thick black loops of the agahl that held it on his head, and proceeding to fill the pipe and light it with a coal lifted from the fire with the tongs. He had, over the last days, taken to smoking the black leaf of the natives, but this morning’s pipe gave off the familiar smell of his usual blend, a small quantity of which he had brought with him off the ship. The homely smell was a jolt in this foreign and uncomfortable setting, and for the first time I was washed by a wave of homesickness.
He waited until Mahmoud had the coffee beans in the long-handled pan and the luscious burnt-toast smell was beginning to mingle with the pipe smoke before he put the tongs down next to the fire and reached again into his robe. He drew out the letters that he had taken from the villa’s safe. There were five in all, four of which he tossed onto the carpet at Mahmoud’s feet. The fifth he held out to me. Mahmoud’s face went stony and Ali sat upright abruptly, his great knife held out dangerously in his right hand, the carving forgotten in his left.
“That is not for you,” he objected angrily.
“You two may be accustomed to acting blindly under orders,” said Holmes, concentrating on his pipe, “but neither Russell nor I have accepted any such commissions. Speaking for myself, I do not care to put my hand into any crevice I have not examined first. The other papers,” he told me, “are the usual—two incautious love letters from a lady in Cairo, a landowner in Nablus referring to the purchase of illegally seized land, and a police report about—well, never mind that one. And there is this.”
I satisfied myself that Ali was not about to use the knife on us, then took the sheet of paper out of its envelope and unfolded it. Seeing that it was in German, and there was a great deal of it, I lowered my backside to the ground to stretch my legs and give my thigh muscles a rest—and immediately had all three men hissing at me.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I objected. “I can only sit for so many hours with my knees in my armpits. My muscles cramp.”
“It’s your feet,” explained Holmes. “It is extremely bad manners to point the soles of your feet at someone. Almost as bad as eating with your left hand.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, and folded my painful extremities beneath me.
With the coffee halfway to roasted, Mahmoud could not very well put it back into the pouch, but it was with ill grace that he continued the ritual. I had finished the letter and was rereading it when the tiny porcelain cup was brusquely set down in front of me. I sipped it absently.
“Interesting,” I said. Holmes did not answer. I looked at him and found that he was sitting with one knee drawn up and the other leg tucked under his robe. He was studying his cup with exaggerated concentration, one eyebrow slightly raised.