any other mandate, provided it gives Americans the right to teach without ruling. America’s mission is educational. There’s an American, though, who might seem to prove the contrary. Do you see him?”
There were two Arabs in the room, talking in low tones over by the window. I could imagine the smaller of the two as a peddler of lace and filigree-silver in the States, who had taken out papers for the sake of privilege and returned full of notions to exploit his motherland. But the tall one—never. He was a Bedouin, if ever a son of the desert breathed. If he had visited the States, then he had come back as unchanged as gold out of an acid bath; and as for being born there—
“That little beady-eyed, rat-faced fellow may be an American,” I said. “In fact, of course he is, since you say so. But as for being up to any good—”
“You’re mistaken. You’re looking at the wrong man. Observe the other one.”
I was more than ever sure I was not mistaken. Stately gesture, dignity, complexion, attitude—to say nothing of his Bedouin array and the steadiness with which he kept his dark eyes fixed on the smaller man he was talking to, had laid the stamp of the desert on the taller man from head to heel.
“That tall man is an American officer in the British army. Doesn’t look the part, eh? They say he was the first American to be granted a commission without any pretense of his being a Canadian. They accepted him as an American. It was a case of that or nothing. Lived here for years, and knew the country so well that they felt they had to have him on his own terms.”
You can believe anything in Jerusalem after you have been in the place a week or two, so, seeing who my informant was, I swallowed the fact. But it was a marvel. It seemed even greater when the man strolled out, pausing to salute my host with the solemn politeness that warfare with the desert breeds. You could not imagine that at Ellis Island, or on Broadway—even on the stage. It was too untheatrical to be acting; too individual to be imitation; to unself-conscious to have been acquired. I hazarded a guess.
“A red man, then. Carlisle for education. Swallowed again by the first desert he stayed in for more than a week.”
“Wrong. His name is Grim. Sounds like Scandinavian ancestry, on one side. James Schuyler Grim—Dutch, then, on the other; and some English. Ten generations in the States at any rate. He can tell you all about this country. Why not call on him?”
It did not need much intelligence to agree to that suggestion; but the British military take their code with them to the uttermost ends of earth, behind which they wonder why so many folks with different codes, or none, dislike them.
“Write me an introduction,” I said.
“You won’t need one. Just call on him. He lives at a place they call the junior Staff Officers’ Mess—up beyond the Russian Convent and below the Zionist Hospital.”
So I went that evening, finding the way with difficulty because they talk at least eighteen languages in Jerusalem and, with the exception of official residences, no names were posted anywhere. That was not an official residence. It was a sort of communal boarding-house improvised by a dozen or so officers in preference to the bug-laden inconvenience of tents—in a German-owned (therefore enemy property) stone house at the end of an alley, in a garden full of blooming pomegranates.
I sent my card in by a flat-footed old Russian female, who ran down passages and round corners like a wet hen, trying to find a man-servant. The place seemed deserted, but presently she came on her quarry in the back yard, and a very small boy in a tarboosh and knickerbockers carried the card on a tray into a room on the left. Through the open door I could hear one quiet question and a high-pitched disclaimer of all knowledge; then an order, sounding like a grumble, and the small boy returned to the hall to invite me in, in reasonably good English, of which he seemed prouder than I of my Arabic.
So I went into the room on the left, with that Bedouin still in mind. There was only one man in there, who got out of a deep armchair as I entered, marking his place in a book with a Damascus dagger. He did not look much more than middle height, nor more than medium dark complexioned, and he wore a major’s khaki uniform.
“Beg pardon,” I said. “I’ve disturbed the wrong man. I came to call on an American named Major Grim.”
“I’m Grim.”
“Must be a mistake, though. The man I’m looking for is taller than you—very dark—looks, walks, speaks and acts like a Bedouin. I saw him this afternoon in Bedouin costume in the American Colony store.”
“Yes, I noticed you. Sit down, won’t you? Yes, I’m he—the Bedouin abayi[1] seems to add to a man’s height. Soap and water account for the rest of it. These cigars are from the States.”
It was hard to believe, even on the strength of his straight statement—he talking undisguised American, and smiling at me, no doubt vastly pleased with my incredulity.
“Are you a case of Jekyll and Hyde?” I asked.
“No. I’m more like both sides of a sandwich with some army mule-meat in the middle. But I won’t be interviewed. I hate it. Besides, it’s against the regulations.”
His voice was not quite so harshly nasal as those of the Middle West, but he had not picked up the ultra-English drawl and clipped-off consonants that so many Americans affect abroad and overdo.
I don’t think a wise crook would have chosen him as a subject for experiments. He had dark eyes with noticeably long lashes; heavy eyebrows; what the army examination-sheets describe as a medium chin; rather large hands with long, straight fingers; and feet such as an athlete stands on, fully big for his size, but well shaped. He was young for a major—somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.
Once he was satisfied that I would not write him up for the newspapers he showed no disinclination to talk, although it was difficult to keep him on the subject of himself, and easy to let him lose you in a maze of tribal history. He seemed to know the ins and outs of every blood-feud from Beersheba to Damascus, and warmed to his subject as you listened.
“You see,” he said, by way of apology when I laughed at a string of names that to me conjured up only confusion, “my beat is all the way from Cairo to Aleppo—both sides of the Jordan. I’m not on the regular strength, but attached to the Intelligence—no, not permanent—don’t know what the future has in store—that probably depends on whether or not the Zionists get full control, and how soon. Meanwhile, I’m my own boss more or less—report direct to the Administrator, and he’s one of those men who allows you lots of scope.”
That was the sort of occasional glimpse he gave of himself, and then switched off into straight statements about the Zionist problem. All his statements were unqualified, and given with the air of knowing all about it right from the beginning.
“There’s nothing here that really matters outside the Zionist-Arab problem. But that’s a big one. People don’t realize it— even on the spot—but it’s a world movement with ramifications everywhere. All the other politics of the Near East hinge on it, even when it doesn’t appear so on the surface. You see, the Jews have international affiliations through banks and commerce. They have blood-relations everywhere. A ripple here may mean there’s a wave in Russia, or London, or New York. I’ve known at least one Arab blood-feud over here that began with a quarrel between a Jew and a Christian in Chicago.”
“Are the Zionists as dangerous as the Arabs seem to think?” I asked.
“Yes and no. Depends
