Читать книгу The Cruel Fire - Edward Atiyah - Страница 4

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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.