Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (15 page)

“There’s a child in all of us,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and was delighted to see Farrell emerge from his tent, wire cutters in hand, to relieve Joe and drive the sheep the rest of the way. Once it was dark he would begin cutting the fence, she
knew, and she glanced at her watch: half-past four, a trifle late, but they should reach the sniper camp by eight o’clock, when the sun would have set. There must, she thought, be at least seventy sheep, but in any case there were far too many to count.

Joe strode toward them, grinning. “What do you think of that, Aunt Emily?” he said breezily, and to Amy, “You’re looking grim, what’s up?”

“You did no work today.”

“I know, but since we’re nearly finished here I’ve cleared it with Dr. Robinson that I leave early to show my aunt around the country a bit. She’s not seen Aleppo; or Maamoula, where they still speak the ancient Aramic language and their blue houses march up the mountain; or Safiti—hot and humid, but I love that place—and she’s only in Syria for eight more days. Right, Aunt Em?” he said with a wicked grin.

Really
, thought Mrs. Pollifax crossly,
for an Umayyad scholar this young man is shedding inhibitions by the hour, and enjoying it all far too much, totally unaware that we may all end up arrested and in prison and—Oh, dear, I mustn’t think of that
, she told herself firmly, must
not
.

“Got to see Barney,” Joe said, and went off to find his friend, no doubt to confirm that Barney had secured the Land Rover for a hamster hunt once it was dark.

D
inner was falafel again. Argub’s camels brayed; after-dinner conversation blossomed and then flagged; the sun set in a blaze of color; the lanterns were lighted, and one by one the inhabitants of Camp Five repaired to their tents. Mrs. Pollifax slipped her passport and money into the pockets of the coarse
brown
abaya
she’d soon be wearing, gathered up djellabas, headscarves, sandals and Farrell’s kaffiyeh, and waited.

Presently the silence was interrupted by the sound of the Land Rover. It stopped outside of Joe’s tent and from his tent Mrs. Pollifax emerged, a mere shadow in the darkness. She tossed her bundle into the rear seat, climbed in beside it, and with Barney driving and Joe beside him they headed east.

A
s they sped along in the night a cloud had perversely blotted out the waning moon, and the stars shed little light. It was rough ground but Mrs. Pollifax managed to struggle into the new clothes, pulling on black baggy pants, the brown
abaya
, the white headscarf, and to exchange her walking shoes for old sandals.

“Stop here,” Joe said, reaching the dropoff point. “Straight ahead two miles is the sniper camp, I clocked it.”

“Right,” said Barney, and handed him his flashlight. “Once the sheep are inside the camp I’ll pull ahead without lights. And for God’s sake—mine, too,” he added lightly, “be careful.”

“Barney, I love you,” Joe told him flippantly. “All set, Aunt Pollifax?”

“All set,” she assured him, and they began their cold walk in the dark, so dark that when suddenly Farrell rose up in front of them they were startled.

“But where are the sheep?” whispered Mrs. Pollifax.

“Behind a small rise in the ground over there.” He pointed. “Hisham and Rachid are keeping them there; they were tired enough to be quiet, mercifully. And,” he added proudly, “I managed to cut a really decent hole in the fence, at least five
feet wide. The last lights have gone out at the camp, they should be asleep by now.”

“We hope,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax. “Remember, the tent I saw Amanda enter is the second one from the end. On the right.”

Farrell nodded. “Yes, and you head for it just as the sheep come in.
Lead
them,” he emphasized. “If you find Amanda your being a woman will be less threatening to her, but I’ll be close behind, backing you up.”

“And I’ll follow,” said Joe, “ready to hit anybody who interferes, and I’ve got a mean right.”

Having announced this, he and Farrell withdrew to begin moving the sheep, while Mrs. Pollifax sat down at the base of the hill in the darkness to wait, hoping no scorpions were keeping her company. To quiet her nerves she tried to think of Cyrus, but she found this difficult since he was living in a world of bright lights, hot water, automobiles and books, completely foreign to her at this moment when she had become a pseudo-Bedouin crouched in one corner of a sniper’s camp. What she was feeling now was akin to stage fright, a familiar mix of exhilaration, dread and suspense.
It’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right
, she repeated to herself like a mantra, over and over, and was relieved when the sound of complaining sheep cut short the suspense: they were being driven toward her, and it was obvious from their protests that they did not like it at all.

She stood up, ready to escort them through the opened fence into the compound, and a moment later found half a dozen bleating sheep surrounding and nudging her. Climbing quickly to the top of the hill she slipped through the fence to receive them. Driven from behind, and having nowhere else to go they followed, trampling each other as they were pushed
up and through the hole, and seeing the herd massing behind them she was stricken with remorse: it was like inserting them through the eye of a needle but there was no time for remorse. The camp was still dark and silent, and with a sizable number of sheep inside the camp Joe and Farrell were suddenly beside her, prodding the sheep forward with their crooks, and with the herd moving faster Mrs. Pollifax moved with them toward the tents.

Behind her she heard Farrell say, “Faster,
faster!
” which seemed quite unnecessary, she thought, since the sheep in the rear were being pushed hard against the sheep in the front—and suddenly there was panic, so abrupt that Mrs. Pollifax was almost knocked to the ground, and—“They
do
stampede!” she said in a gasp as they surged frantically past her. Barely managing to remain upright she struggled through and over them to one side, the right side, shouting, “Amanda? Amanda Pym!” and when she reached the tent next to the end she shouted her name again.

The flap of the second tent on the right had been raised and a dim figure stood there, motionless. A woman’s voice from inside shouted angrily at her in Arabic, and Mrs. Pollifax, pressing closer, looked into the face of Amanda Pym. “Come!” she shouted, seizing her by the arm.

From somewhere a man’s voice shouted, “Trouble!
Jib eddar!
Bring the lights! And a
bundukiyeh
—my gun, fool!”

The girl seemed unaware, her eyes fastened on the sheep milling around in a panic at finding no exit. Farrell reached her side, picked up Amanda and slung her over his shoulder and, “Let’s
go!”
he shouted over the noise of fifty or more outraged and bleating sheep, and Mrs. Pollifax followed, zigzagging around and over the herd and back toward the privy and the fence. From behind them a shot was fired … they reached
the gap in the fence … a push and a shove … behind them were shouts now in Arabic, and glancing back she saw flashlights blossoming like fireflies in the compound, and then she slid down the hill behind Farrell.

Barney had backed the Land Rover to the base of the hill; Farrell shoved Amanda Pym into the backseat, Mrs. Pollifax joined her, and Farrell squeezed in beside her as Joe leaped into the front seat. Both Hisham and Rachid made a flying exit from the camp to cling to the sides of the jeep, and they took off at a high speed without lights, racing across the untilled rocky ground at sixty or seventy miles an hour.
But after all
, thought Mrs. Pollifax,
what could they possibly run into?

After several miles of rough travel Barney stopped the Land Rover. Joe spoke in Arabic to Hisham and Rachid, and they jumped off to return to their own people, with Joe calling after them,
“Allah yisellimak!”
To the others he said, “I told them that when they start rounding up the sheep tomorrow they’d jolly well better not go near the camp, because there is
no
way to explain that hole in the fence.”

“No way,” agreed Farrell.

Barney turned on the headlights, and in the sudden dim illumination he turned his head to see who occupied the rear. He said, “You’ve certainly got an interesting passenger, is that a boy or a girl? And in a camouflage suit, no less.”

In the dim light they all looked at Amanda, Farrell and Joe for the first time. It was no wonder that Barney had mistaken her sex because she’d been given a boy’s haircut. The shorn hair accentuated her wide gray eyes, the line of her cheekbones, and her boyish, sunburned face. She looked, thought Mrs. Pollifax, like an urchin, and an urchin who had made herself very small in the corner, eyes wide with terror. She whispered, “Does it begin now? So soon?”

“No,” said Mrs. Pollifax sharply, and to Barney, “Do drive on, this is no time to talk. Where are we?”

“Sorry. We’re not far from the Deir-ez-Zor highway that runs through As Sikhneh and then to Tadmor. I’ll stop before we get to As Sikhneh, since I assume this pile of djellabas I’m sitting on has some purpose.”

“You bet,” Joe said. “You’re also sitting on my good tweed jacket, damn it, and don’t wrinkle it.”

Presently Amanda’s head dropped against Mrs. Pollifax’s shoulder and she slept. The highway was asphalt, and straight and smooth—a welcome relief—but not without traffic. A truck passed loaded with bales of cotton. “Cotton!” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax.

“Oh yes,” Joe told her. “They raise a lot of it up here.” A truck piled high with melons passed, a military jeep, and an oil truck, and presently a yellow cloud of light brightened the sky ahead, and Barney drew off the road and stopped. “That’s As Sikhneh up ahead. If you have things to do,” he said, “this is the time.”

Mrs. Pollifax turned to Amanda. “Wake up now, Amanda,” she said, but there was no response. “She doesn’t wake up,” she told them.

Barney knelt in the front seat and turned the flashlight on her face. “She could be drugged. I’m not asking why but she may have been into sleeping pills.”

“Or given them,” said Joe.

Farrell leaned across Mrs. Pollifax and slapped the girl, first on the left cheek, then on the right cheek, and she opened her eyes, startled. “We’re getting out of the car,” he told her.

Obediently Amanda climbed out, but as Mrs. Pollifax began unzipping her camouflage suit she asked despairingly, “But oh where are you taking me
now
?”

Joe, staring at her, looked visibly shocked. “We’re Americans, Amanda, we’re taking you back to America—
Inshallah,”
he added under his breath.

“You know me?” she faltered.

“You’re Amanda Pym, and we’re going to change you into an Arab now, wrap your head in a scarf and put sandals on your feet, and
all
of our lives depend on your being a very proper young Arab woman, very very quiet, so we can get you out of this country.”

“Americans,” she repeated dazedly.

“In spite of two of us looking Bedouin we’re all Americans,” Mrs. Pollifax told her crisply, “and we’re going to have to take a bus soon to Damascus. I’m to be your mother, and Farrell here will be your father. This is Joe, by the way, but he will not speak to us after we get to the bus, do you understand?”

Amanda’s eyes were fixed on Joe’s very American tweed jacket and this, thought Mrs. Pollifax, somewhat reassured the girl. Gently leading her away from the others she unzipped her camouflage suit, peeled it away and off, and held out the dark
abaya. Dear God, how thin she is
, she thought. “Trust us, Amanda,” she told her. “Put this on.” When she had finished robing her and winding a black scarf around her head and exchanging her boots—good ones, she noted—for cheap native sandals, she rearranged her own headscarf. Signalling to Joe he joined them, and in the glow of the flashlight he darkened Mrs. Pollifax’s eyebrows and thickened them, and then, “Hold still,” he told Amanda, and carefully outlined her eyes in kohl. Moving to Farrell he, too, became almost unrecognizable with his stubble of beard and thickened brows. During this redesigning of them Mrs. Pollifax noticed that Barney kept at a distance, his back turned to them. He had told Joe he wanted no knowledge of what he was up to and she found this
amusing, considering the enormous help that he’d given them; by now he must have a very good idea, and still he asked no questions. Joe, she thought, had a very good friend.

Amanda was led back to the Land Rover, and they climbed in beside her and drove the last few miles to As Sikhneh without comment. It looked to Mrs. Pollifax like a sleepy truck stop in the Midwest at this hour, with a few neon lights, a blue and yellow gas station with signs exclusively in Arabic, and the town behind it in shadow. Barney slowed the Land Rover; there were already mysterious shapes of people beyond the lights, huddled together and apparently sharing food while they waited for the bus. The lights also illuminated a scattering of broken plastic jugs and empty soda cans across the ground, and an orange wall plastered with advertisements for Mandarin soda, Lucky Strike cigarettes, and one primitive drawing of a smiling Hafiz al-Assad.