straight along Rashid Street – a long way – past the turn to the Feisal Bridge and past Bank Street – you know Bank Street?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Victoria.
‘And then there is another street – also going down to a bridge and it is along there on the right. You ask for Mr Betoun Evans, he is English Adviser there – very nice man. And his wife, she is very nice, too, she came here as Transport Sergeant during the war. Oh, she is very very nice.’
‘I don’t really want to go actually to the Museum,’ said Victoria. ‘I want to find a place – a society – a kind of club called the Olive Branch.’
‘If you want olives,’ said Marcus, ‘I give you beautiful olives – very fine quality. They keep them especially for me – for the Tio Hotel. You see, I send you some to your table tonight.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Victoria and escaped towards Rashid Street.
‘To the left,’ Marcus shouted after her, ‘not to the right. But it is a long way to the Museum. You had better take a taxi.’
‘Would a taxi know where the Olive Branch was?’
‘No, they do not know where anything is! You say to the driver left, right, stop, straight on – just where you want to go.’
‘In that case, I might as well walk,’ said Victoria.
She reached Rashid Street and turned to the left.
Baghdad was entirely unlike her idea of it. A crowded main thoroughfare thronged with people, cars hooting violently, people shouting, European goods for sale in the shop windows, hearty spitting all round her with prodigious throat-clearing as a preliminary. No mysterious Eastern figures, most of the people wore tattered or shabby Western clothes, old army and air force tunics, the occasional shuffling black-robed and veiled figures were almost inconspicuous amongst the hybrid European styles of dress. Whining beggars came up to her – women with dirty babies in their arms. The pavement under her feet was uneven with occasional gaping holes.
She pursued her way feeling suddenly strange and lost and far from home. Here was no glamour of travel, only confusion.
She came at last to the Feisal Bridge, passed it and went on. In spite of herself she was intrigued by the curious mixture of things in the shop windows. Here were babies’ shoes and woollies, toothpaste and cosmetics, electric torches and china cups and saucers – all shown together. Slowly a kind of fascination came over her, the fascination of assorted merchandise coming from all over the world to meet the strange and varied wants of a mixed population.
She found the Museum, but not the Olive Branch. To one accustomed to finding her way about London it seemed incredible that here was no one she could ask. She knew no Arabic. Those shopkeepers who spoke to her in English as she passed, pressing their wares, presented blank faces when she asked for direction to the Olive Branch.
If one could only ‘ask a policeman,’ but gazing at the policemen actively waving their arms, and blowing their whistles, she realized that here that would be no solution.
She went into a bookshop with English books in the window, but a mention of the Olive Branch drew only a courteous shrug and shake of the head. Regrettably they had no idea at all.
And then, as she walked along the street, a prodigious hammering and clanging came to her ears and peering down a long dim alley, she remembered that Mrs Cardew Trench had said that the Olive Branch was near the Copper Bazaar. Here, at least, was the Copper Bazaar.
Victoria plunged in, and for the next three-quarters of an hour she forgot the Olive Branch completely. The Copper Bazaar fascinated her. The blow-lamps, the melting metal, the whole business of craftsmanship came like a revelation to the little Cockney used only to finished products stacked up for sale. She wandered at random through the souk, passed out of the Copper Bazaar, came to the gay striped horse blankets, and the cotton quilted bedcovers.
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Victoria.
‘And then there is another street – also going down to a bridge and it is along there on the right. You ask for Mr Betoun Evans, he is English Adviser there – very nice man. And his wife, she is very nice, too, she came here as Transport Sergeant during the war. Oh, she is very very nice.’
‘I don’t really want to go actually to the Museum,’ said Victoria. ‘I want to find a place – a society – a kind of club called the Olive Branch.’
‘If you want olives,’ said Marcus, ‘I give you beautiful olives – very fine quality. They keep them especially for me – for the Tio Hotel. You see, I send you some to your table tonight.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Victoria and escaped towards Rashid Street.
‘To the left,’ Marcus shouted after her, ‘not to the right. But it is a long way to the Museum. You had better take a taxi.’
‘Would a taxi know where the Olive Branch was?’
‘No, they do not know where anything is! You say to the driver left, right, stop, straight on – just where you want to go.’
‘In that case, I might as well walk,’ said Victoria.
She reached Rashid Street and turned to the left.
Baghdad was entirely unlike her idea of it. A crowded main thoroughfare thronged with people, cars hooting violently, people shouting, European goods for sale in the shop windows, hearty spitting all round her with prodigious throat-clearing as a preliminary. No mysterious Eastern figures, most of the people wore tattered or shabby Western clothes, old army and air force tunics, the occasional shuffling black-robed and veiled figures were almost inconspicuous amongst the hybrid European styles of dress. Whining beggars came up to her – women with dirty babies in their arms. The pavement under her feet was uneven with occasional gaping holes.
She pursued her way feeling suddenly strange and lost and far from home. Here was no glamour of travel, only confusion.
She came at last to the Feisal Bridge, passed it and went on. In spite of herself she was intrigued by the curious mixture of things in the shop windows. Here were babies’ shoes and woollies, toothpaste and cosmetics, electric torches and china cups and saucers – all shown together. Slowly a kind of fascination came over her, the fascination of assorted merchandise coming from all over the world to meet the strange and varied wants of a mixed population.
She found the Museum, but not the Olive Branch. To one accustomed to finding her way about London it seemed incredible that here was no one she could ask. She knew no Arabic. Those shopkeepers who spoke to her in English as she passed, pressing their wares, presented blank faces when she asked for direction to the Olive Branch.
If one could only ‘ask a policeman,’ but gazing at the policemen actively waving their arms, and blowing their whistles, she realized that here that would be no solution.
She went into a bookshop with English books in the window, but a mention of the Olive Branch drew only a courteous shrug and shake of the head. Regrettably they had no idea at all.
And then, as she walked along the street, a prodigious hammering and clanging came to her ears and peering down a long dim alley, she remembered that Mrs Cardew Trench had said that the Olive Branch was near the Copper Bazaar. Here, at least, was the Copper Bazaar.
Victoria plunged in, and for the next three-quarters of an hour she forgot the Olive Branch completely. The Copper Bazaar fascinated her. The blow-lamps, the melting metal, the whole business of craftsmanship came like a revelation to the little Cockney used only to finished products stacked up for sale. She wandered at random through the souk, passed out of the Copper Bazaar, came to the gay striped horse blankets, and the cotton quilted bedcovers.
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