soil. He thought he saw the girl’s trail for a moment, but
then it became confused with other footprints and he halted abruptly.
The sound of men arguing, of a sudden burst of laughter,
came incredibly from over the ridge. He paused, then moved on with care. The
shrubs gave out before he reached the top. He felt exposed under the merciless
sky. Then he saw the tops of date palms, which had been invisible in the dark
when they had paused to rest. He went down on his hands and knees, then crawled
until he could see over the ridge.
They had come within fifty yards of the end of the
desert. A small clay village, a few date trees, oleanders, and tamarisks were
grouped around a small pond. The grass seemed an incredible green. Two camels
were hobbled near the water. The smell of charcoal fires and roasting lamb
made saliva fill his mouth. The water in the pond was brackish and green.
But it looked as good as the clearest mountain spring in New Hampshire.
Besides the two camels, there was a battered Renault truck
and a motorcycle. He looked beyond the trees and saw the wet glimmer of an
asphalt road that ribboned away to the north. It held
no traffic. Two men came out of one of the clay houses and walked to the pond.
A fat woman followed them. One of the men wore a striped silk shirt and baggy
trousers. The other wore a tattered pajama-like costume and a ragged turban.
Their voices lifted up to him in guttural syllables. The woman attended to the
charcoal fire. The men sat down and began playing with a deck of cards.
There was no sign of Tanya Ouspanaya.
Durell took out his gun. He checked the cylinder, then
inched forward to listen. The men were speaking Farsi. He understood most of
it. They were halted to get water for the truck, before going on to Sar -e- Godar and then driving
across the salt swamp to the trans-Iranian railway and highway junction to
Teheran at Semnan . Their voices were languid,
unhurried. One of the men paused to curse at the woman and tell her to hurry
the meal. No one mentioned the girl.
Durell stood up and walked slowly down toward the pond where
the men sat. One of the camels smelled him and grunted. Both men looked up and
saw him. The one in the ragged Western-style clothes stood up slowly, whispered
something to his companion, who only lit a cigarette and watched Durell
approach.
“I greet you in the name of Allah,” Durell said. He had put
his gun away. “I would like food and water and transportation to Teheran.”
The stouter man had only one eye. His other eye made up for
its loss by its concentration of evil and avarice. “You are English?”
“American.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I was lost in the desert. My car broke down. It was very
careless of me.”
“You have money?”
“A little.”
“Then you are welcome.”
He said nothing about Tanya yet. He took water sparingly
from a beautifully etched copper bowl, and then sipped strong coffee from the
tiny enameled cup the woman filled. The two men simply sat and watched
him. He looked at the village huts, and saw that most were tumbled-down and
abandoned, the tiny windows grilled, the doors sagging. He could not see
inside. He saw no sign of the girl. The Iranians did not mention her.
“They are your camels?” he asked quietly.
“They were here.”
“Without owners?”
The stout man shrugged. His eye glittered. “The beasts are
valuable. We do not know where the owners are. It is very strange. We have
asked at the inn, but no one says they know of it.”
“The camels will slow your truck, will they not?”
“We go with God. He makes his own time.”
Durell nodded. He knew it was useless to ask them to hurry.
He ate pieces of greasy lamb and a bowl of rice. It tasted like ambrosia. The
men watched him as he ate and the fat one said: “You are one of the diggers for
the old things?”
Durell nodded. “I was separated from the other learned men.”
“You are fortunate to find us. Allah blessed you.
then it became confused with other footprints and he halted abruptly.
The sound of men arguing, of a sudden burst of laughter,
came incredibly from over the ridge. He paused, then moved on with care. The
shrubs gave out before he reached the top. He felt exposed under the merciless
sky. Then he saw the tops of date palms, which had been invisible in the dark
when they had paused to rest. He went down on his hands and knees, then crawled
until he could see over the ridge.
They had come within fifty yards of the end of the
desert. A small clay village, a few date trees, oleanders, and tamarisks were
grouped around a small pond. The grass seemed an incredible green. Two camels
were hobbled near the water. The smell of charcoal fires and roasting lamb
made saliva fill his mouth. The water in the pond was brackish and green.
But it looked as good as the clearest mountain spring in New Hampshire.
Besides the two camels, there was a battered Renault truck
and a motorcycle. He looked beyond the trees and saw the wet glimmer of an
asphalt road that ribboned away to the north. It held
no traffic. Two men came out of one of the clay houses and walked to the pond.
A fat woman followed them. One of the men wore a striped silk shirt and baggy
trousers. The other wore a tattered pajama-like costume and a ragged turban.
Their voices lifted up to him in guttural syllables. The woman attended to the
charcoal fire. The men sat down and began playing with a deck of cards.
There was no sign of Tanya Ouspanaya.
Durell took out his gun. He checked the cylinder, then
inched forward to listen. The men were speaking Farsi. He understood most of
it. They were halted to get water for the truck, before going on to Sar -e- Godar and then driving
across the salt swamp to the trans-Iranian railway and highway junction to
Teheran at Semnan . Their voices were languid,
unhurried. One of the men paused to curse at the woman and tell her to hurry
the meal. No one mentioned the girl.
Durell stood up and walked slowly down toward the pond where
the men sat. One of the camels smelled him and grunted. Both men looked up and
saw him. The one in the ragged Western-style clothes stood up slowly, whispered
something to his companion, who only lit a cigarette and watched Durell
approach.
“I greet you in the name of Allah,” Durell said. He had put
his gun away. “I would like food and water and transportation to Teheran.”
The stouter man had only one eye. His other eye made up for
its loss by its concentration of evil and avarice. “You are English?”
“American.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I was lost in the desert. My car broke down. It was very
careless of me.”
“You have money?”
“A little.”
“Then you are welcome.”
He said nothing about Tanya yet. He took water sparingly
from a beautifully etched copper bowl, and then sipped strong coffee from the
tiny enameled cup the woman filled. The two men simply sat and watched
him. He looked at the village huts, and saw that most were tumbled-down and
abandoned, the tiny windows grilled, the doors sagging. He could not see
inside. He saw no sign of the girl. The Iranians did not mention her.
“They are your camels?” he asked quietly.
“They were here.”
“Without owners?”
The stout man shrugged. His eye glittered. “The beasts are
valuable. We do not know where the owners are. It is very strange. We have
asked at the inn, but no one says they know of it.”
“The camels will slow your truck, will they not?”
“We go with God. He makes his own time.”
Durell nodded. He knew it was useless to ask them to hurry.
He ate pieces of greasy lamb and a bowl of rice. It tasted like ambrosia. The
men watched him as he ate and the fat one said: “You are one of the diggers for
the old things?”
Durell nodded. “I was separated from the other learned men.”
“You are fortunate to find us. Allah blessed you.
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