rooms of Kabul. Never have I known a group of people to be so self-sufficient, so enchanting as human beings. In those years I used to see the same two dozen people night after night, and they were rewarding beyond expectation, partly because any escape from them or their individualities was impossible.
On this night our reading—in which we were peremptorily handed pieces of paper we had not seen before and directed to read specific parts, growing into them as the night progressed—was delayed because Miss Maxwell, from my office, waslate in arriving, and since she had typed Act Three and was to read one of the minor parts, we felt the least we could do was to wait for her. However, our host, the British ambassador, found Miss Maxwell’s tardiness embarrassing since he was at the moment entertaining Sir Herbert Chinnery, the stiff, mustachioed Inspector Ordinary for Asia, whose duty it was to report on conditions at the British embassy in Afghanistan as he had just done for the embassy in Persia, and it was important that Sir Herbert be pleased.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Herbert said graciously, putting us all at ease. “I’ve learned that Americans are rarely punctual.”
I replied that I was sure Miss Maxwell must have met with some misfortune—temporary, I hoped—for she had that very morning risen at six in order to type her share of the play and had then, at some risk to herself, insisted upon delivering it to the Italian embassy, to which Signorina Risposi could testify. “As a matter of fact,” I concluded, “in performing her duty Miss Maxwell was subjected to harsh treatment at the hands of three mullahs …”
“The usual?” Sir Herbert asked.
“Spitting, jostling, curses in Pashto,” I explained.
“That’s the second time it’s happened this week,” the ambassador said.
“I’ve a mind to advise Whitehall,” Sir Herbert confided, “that all English girls in Kabul go into chaderi immediately.”
“Oh, dear, no!” squealed a peaches-and-cream English girl called Gretchen Askwith. “Oh, Sir Herbert. No, I beg you.”
It always seemed to me that the British went a little far in their coyness, but Gretchen Askwith was quite the loveliest of the unmarried white girls in Kabul, and it ill behooved me to think poorly of her, for although there were six or eight eligible young European men among the various embassies, I appeared to be the one most likely to win Gretchen’s attention … that is, if she didn’t discover that I was Jewish, a fact which none of the ferangi embassies yet knew.
There was not good blood between the British and the Americans in Afghanistan. The English tolerated us, and that’s about all. Captain Verbruggen was thought to be a great bore and unlettered as well. Our secretaries were too pretty and too highly paid. Our Marines were undisciplined. And men like me were much too brash. In fact, about the only thing American that impressed the British was my ability to speak Pashto, but this was diminished by the fact that three of their chaps did too, including one chinless young man who spoke Russian and Persian as well. Still, we were tolerated because our kitchens served excellent food and our bars were generally open.
“There she is now!” Sir Herbert cried, with that boyish excitement that even the oldest Englishmen often retain, but when the door opened it was not Miss Maxwell but an unexpected guest, Moheb Khan. He was now dressed in a blue Bond Street pin-stripe worsted, with handsome brown leather shoes and a London shirting. He had transformed himself into a most proper diplomat, and in this guise presented himself to the ambassador.
“On three occasions, sir, you’ve asked me tothese readings. May I choose my own time?”
“My dear fellow, you honor us!”
“I hear the play’s very funny. I’d not have known about it except that I stopped by the Italian embassy and was told of its merit by Signorina Risposi.” He bowed toward the Italian
On this night our reading—in which we were peremptorily handed pieces of paper we had not seen before and directed to read specific parts, growing into them as the night progressed—was delayed because Miss Maxwell, from my office, waslate in arriving, and since she had typed Act Three and was to read one of the minor parts, we felt the least we could do was to wait for her. However, our host, the British ambassador, found Miss Maxwell’s tardiness embarrassing since he was at the moment entertaining Sir Herbert Chinnery, the stiff, mustachioed Inspector Ordinary for Asia, whose duty it was to report on conditions at the British embassy in Afghanistan as he had just done for the embassy in Persia, and it was important that Sir Herbert be pleased.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Herbert said graciously, putting us all at ease. “I’ve learned that Americans are rarely punctual.”
I replied that I was sure Miss Maxwell must have met with some misfortune—temporary, I hoped—for she had that very morning risen at six in order to type her share of the play and had then, at some risk to herself, insisted upon delivering it to the Italian embassy, to which Signorina Risposi could testify. “As a matter of fact,” I concluded, “in performing her duty Miss Maxwell was subjected to harsh treatment at the hands of three mullahs …”
“The usual?” Sir Herbert asked.
“Spitting, jostling, curses in Pashto,” I explained.
“That’s the second time it’s happened this week,” the ambassador said.
“I’ve a mind to advise Whitehall,” Sir Herbert confided, “that all English girls in Kabul go into chaderi immediately.”
“Oh, dear, no!” squealed a peaches-and-cream English girl called Gretchen Askwith. “Oh, Sir Herbert. No, I beg you.”
It always seemed to me that the British went a little far in their coyness, but Gretchen Askwith was quite the loveliest of the unmarried white girls in Kabul, and it ill behooved me to think poorly of her, for although there were six or eight eligible young European men among the various embassies, I appeared to be the one most likely to win Gretchen’s attention … that is, if she didn’t discover that I was Jewish, a fact which none of the ferangi embassies yet knew.
There was not good blood between the British and the Americans in Afghanistan. The English tolerated us, and that’s about all. Captain Verbruggen was thought to be a great bore and unlettered as well. Our secretaries were too pretty and too highly paid. Our Marines were undisciplined. And men like me were much too brash. In fact, about the only thing American that impressed the British was my ability to speak Pashto, but this was diminished by the fact that three of their chaps did too, including one chinless young man who spoke Russian and Persian as well. Still, we were tolerated because our kitchens served excellent food and our bars were generally open.
“There she is now!” Sir Herbert cried, with that boyish excitement that even the oldest Englishmen often retain, but when the door opened it was not Miss Maxwell but an unexpected guest, Moheb Khan. He was now dressed in a blue Bond Street pin-stripe worsted, with handsome brown leather shoes and a London shirting. He had transformed himself into a most proper diplomat, and in this guise presented himself to the ambassador.
“On three occasions, sir, you’ve asked me tothese readings. May I choose my own time?”
“My dear fellow, you honor us!”
“I hear the play’s very funny. I’d not have known about it except that I stopped by the Italian embassy and was told of its merit by Signorina Risposi.” He bowed toward the Italian
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