Read Online Caravans by James A. Michener - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James A. Michener
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capacity to fight Never forget that marvelous peroration: ‘the charm is not of long duration, and he finds that the Afghan is as cruel and crafty as he is independent.’”
“Moheb!” I cried. “You’ve memorized the passage, haven’t you?”
“Only the favorable parts,” he laughed.
“You think ‘cruel and crafty’ one of the good parts?” Miss Askwith inquired.
“When you use those characteristics to defend the end word of the sentence, they’re good,” Moheb replied. “Always remember the end word, Miss Askwith. Independent.” Then he laughed easily and said, “But through trying years you English have come to know me as your trusted friend. Otherwise, how would I dare read such an English passage inside these walls, where twice my cruel and crafty ancestors murdered every Englishman resident in Kabul? In 1841 we did that evil thing, and in 1879 we played an encore, and I think it damned gracious of you even to have me here.”
“Don’t think we English forget the massacres,” Sir Herbert said gravely. “It lends a certain spice to life in Kabul. Within these red and crumblingwalls. Sort of like living in Hiroshima when an airplane flies overhead.”
“I think we should get on with the reading,” I suggested.
“He’s to be the star,” a young British officer teased. He was my principal rival for the attentions of Miss Gretchen Askwith.
“As a matter of fact,” one of the Frenchmen said in French, “he’s supposed to kiss Ingrid.”
“I am,” I said eagerly, “and I’d appreciate it if we got to that part before morning.”
“Wise boy,” Ingrid laughed. “In the morning I look dreadful.”
It was in this mood that the reading began. During the first act, the voices seemed strange, for the Englishman who was supposed to be Harry Brock remained an Oxford aesthete, and Ingrid could be no more than a Swedish beauty with prominent breasts, while the others remained themselves, including me, who never transmuted myself into anything but an eager young man from the American embassy. But the fire was warm. The audience was attentive. And outside there was the smell of wolves, and no one could forget that he was in Afghanistan in the deep of winter, far, far from what he knew as civilization. I think even Moheb Khan was affected by the experience, for at the end of the first act he asked, “Sir Herbert, have the evenings I missed been as good as this?”
“Since I’ve been here they have,” the Englishman replied. “Three weeks ago we read
Murder in the Cathedral.
I was asked to be Thomas à Becket.”
“Oh, I should like to have seen that!” Mohebcried. “American college folk are very fond of T. S. Eliot. They adore him as a fellow citizen who became a poet, and respect him for having had the character to flee America, which they would like to do, but can’t.”
I’m afraid I had fallen rather deeply into the part I was reading, that of the intellectual reporter from the
New Republic,
and I said, “Like Eliot, you fled America, Moheb, but unlike him you regret it every minute.”
“Agreed!” the affable Afghan cried. “If there’s one thing I like it’s fast cars and a sense of irresponsibility. In America I had both, and every day I work here in Afghanistan I regret their passing.” He raised his palms in a gesture of submission, then added, “But at some point in our lives, we must grow up.”
“I am sure your country will,” I replied evenly. Moheb, rather pleased with his earlier remarks, flushed slightly but nodded pleasantly, for he was not the kind of fighter who refused to accept his adversary’s blows; he rather respected the man who could strike back.
“Will anyone have more spiced rum?” the ambassador inquired, and as the servants refilled our drinks, and as the fire grew brighter, we reformed our group and the reading of Act Two commenced. By now we were more accustomed to our roles, and the audience accepted whatever peculiarities we
“Moheb!” I cried. “You’ve memorized the passage, haven’t you?”
“Only the favorable parts,” he laughed.
“You think ‘cruel and crafty’ one of the good parts?” Miss Askwith inquired.
“When you use those characteristics to defend the end word of the sentence, they’re good,” Moheb replied. “Always remember the end word, Miss Askwith. Independent.” Then he laughed easily and said, “But through trying years you English have come to know me as your trusted friend. Otherwise, how would I dare read such an English passage inside these walls, where twice my cruel and crafty ancestors murdered every Englishman resident in Kabul? In 1841 we did that evil thing, and in 1879 we played an encore, and I think it damned gracious of you even to have me here.”
“Don’t think we English forget the massacres,” Sir Herbert said gravely. “It lends a certain spice to life in Kabul. Within these red and crumblingwalls. Sort of like living in Hiroshima when an airplane flies overhead.”
“I think we should get on with the reading,” I suggested.
“He’s to be the star,” a young British officer teased. He was my principal rival for the attentions of Miss Gretchen Askwith.
“As a matter of fact,” one of the Frenchmen said in French, “he’s supposed to kiss Ingrid.”
“I am,” I said eagerly, “and I’d appreciate it if we got to that part before morning.”
“Wise boy,” Ingrid laughed. “In the morning I look dreadful.”
It was in this mood that the reading began. During the first act, the voices seemed strange, for the Englishman who was supposed to be Harry Brock remained an Oxford aesthete, and Ingrid could be no more than a Swedish beauty with prominent breasts, while the others remained themselves, including me, who never transmuted myself into anything but an eager young man from the American embassy. But the fire was warm. The audience was attentive. And outside there was the smell of wolves, and no one could forget that he was in Afghanistan in the deep of winter, far, far from what he knew as civilization. I think even Moheb Khan was affected by the experience, for at the end of the first act he asked, “Sir Herbert, have the evenings I missed been as good as this?”
“Since I’ve been here they have,” the Englishman replied. “Three weeks ago we read
Murder in the Cathedral.
I was asked to be Thomas à Becket.”
“Oh, I should like to have seen that!” Mohebcried. “American college folk are very fond of T. S. Eliot. They adore him as a fellow citizen who became a poet, and respect him for having had the character to flee America, which they would like to do, but can’t.”
I’m afraid I had fallen rather deeply into the part I was reading, that of the intellectual reporter from the
New Republic,
and I said, “Like Eliot, you fled America, Moheb, but unlike him you regret it every minute.”
“Agreed!” the affable Afghan cried. “If there’s one thing I like it’s fast cars and a sense of irresponsibility. In America I had both, and every day I work here in Afghanistan I regret their passing.” He raised his palms in a gesture of submission, then added, “But at some point in our lives, we must grow up.”
“I am sure your country will,” I replied evenly. Moheb, rather pleased with his earlier remarks, flushed slightly but nodded pleasantly, for he was not the kind of fighter who refused to accept his adversary’s blows; he rather respected the man who could strike back.
“Will anyone have more spiced rum?” the ambassador inquired, and as the servants refilled our drinks, and as the fire grew brighter, we reformed our group and the reading of Act Two commenced. By now we were more accustomed to our roles, and the audience accepted whatever peculiarities we
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