Come, Tell Me How You Live: An Archaeological Memoir. Agatha Christie

in listening or in taking part in the conversation.

      Their account of their original difficulties in getting workmen is amusing.

      Working for wages in this out-of-the-way part of the world is an idea that is entirely new. The expedition found itself faced with blank refusal or non-comprehension. In despair they appealed to the French military authorities. The response was prompt and efficient. The French arrested two hundred, or whatever the number needed was, and delivered them at work. The prisoners were amiable, in the highest good humour, and seemed to enjoy the work. They were told to return on the following day, but did not turn up. Again the French were asked to help, and once again they arrested the workmen. Again the men worked with evident satisfaction. But yet again they failed to turn up, and once again military arrest was resorted to.

      Finally the matter was elucidated.

      ‘Do you not like working for us?’

      ‘Yes, indeed, why not? We have nothing to do at home.’

      ‘Then why do you not come every day?’

      ‘We wish to come, but naturally we have to wait for the ’asker (soldiers) to fetch us. I can tell you, we were very indignant when they did not come to fetch us! It is their duty!’

      ‘But we want you to work for us without the ’asker fetching you!’

      ‘That is a very curious idea!’

      At the end of a week they were paid, and that finally set the seal on their bewilderment.

      Truly, they said, they could not understand the ways of foreigners!

      ‘The French ’asker are in command here. Naturally, it is their right to fetch us, and put us in prison or send us to dig up the ground for you. But why do you give us money? What is the money for? It does not make sense!’

      However, in the end the strange customs of the West were accepted, howbeit with head shakings and mutterings. Once a week money was paid them. But a vague grudge against the ’asker remained. The ’asker’s job was to fetch them every day!

      Whether true or not, this makes a good story! I only wish I could feel more intelligent. What is the matter with me? When I get back to camp my head is swimming. I take my temperature, and find that it is a hundred and two! Also, I have a pain in my middle, and feel extremely sick. I am very glad to crawl into my flea-bag, and go to sleep, spurning the thought of dinner.

      Max looks worried this morning and asks me how I feel. I groan and say: ‘Like death!’ He looks more worried. He asks me if I think I am really ill.

      I reassure him on that point. I have what is called in Egypt a Gippy tummy and in Baghdad a Baghdad tummy. It is not a very amusing complaint to have when you are right out in the desert. Max cannot leave me behind alone, and in any case the inside of the tent in the day-time registers about a hundred and thirty! The survey must go on. I sit huddled up in the car, swaying about in a feverish dream. When we reach a mound, I get out and lie down in what shade the height of Queen Mary affords, whilst Max and Mac tramp over the mound, examining it.

      Frankly, the next four days are sheer unmitigated hell! One of Hamoudi’s stories seems particularly apposite—that of a Sultan’s lovely wife, whom he carried off, and who bewailed to Allah night and day that she had no companions and was alone in the desert. ‘And at last Allah, weary of her moanings, sent her companions. He sent her the flies!’

      I feel particularly venomous towards the lovely lady for incurring the wrath of Allah! All day long flies settling in clouds make it impossible to rest.

      I regret bitterly that I have ever come on this expedition, but just manage not to say so.

      After four days, with nothing but weak tea without milk, I suddenly revive. Life is good again. I eat a colossal meal of rice and stew of vegetables swimming in grease. It seems the most delicious thing I have ever tasted!

      After it, we climb up the mound at which we have pitched our camp—Tell Suwar, on the left bank of the Habur. Here there is nothing—no village, no habitation of any kind, not even any Beduin tents.

      There is a moon above, and below us the Habur winds in a great S-shaped curve. The night air smells sweet after the heat of the day.

      I say: ‘What a lovely mound! Can’t we dig here?’

      Max shakes his head sadly and pronounces the word of doom.

      ‘Roman.’

      ‘What a pity. It’s such a lovely spot.’

      ‘I told you,’ said Max, ‘that the Habur was the place! Tells all along it on either side.’

      I have taken no interest in Tells for several days, but I am glad to find I have not missed much.

      ‘Are you sure there isn’t any of the stuff you want here?’ I ask wistfully. I have taken a fancy to Tell Suwar.

      ‘Yes, of course there is, but it’s underneath. We’d have to dig right down through the Roman stuff. We can do better than that.’

      I sigh and murmur: ‘It’s so still here and so peaceful—not a soul in sight.’

      At that moment a very old man appears from nowhere at all.

      Where has he come from? He walks up the side of the mound slowly, without haste. He has a long white beard and ineffable dignity.

      He salutes Max politely. ‘How is your comfort?’ ‘Well. And yours?’ ‘Well.’ ‘Praise God!’ ‘Praise God!’

      He sits down beside us. There is a long silence—that courteous silence of good manners that is so restful after Western haste.

      Finally the old man inquires Max’s name. Max tells it him. He considers it.

      ‘Milwan,’ he repeats. ‘Milwan… How light! How bright! How beautiful!’

      He sits with us a little longer. Then, as quietly as he has come, he leaves us. We never see him again.

      Restored to health, I now really begin to enjoy myself. We start every morning at early dawn, examining each mound as we come to it, walking round and round it, picking up any sherds of pottery. Then we compare results on the top, and Max keeps such specimens as are useful, putting them in a little linen bag and labelling them.

      There is a great competition between us as to who gets the prize find of the day.

      I begin to understand why archaeologists have a habit of walking with eyes downcast to the ground. Soon, I feel, I myself shall forget to look around me, or out to the horizon. I shall walk looking down at my feet as though there only any interest lies.

      I am struck as often before by the fundamental difference of race. Nothing could differ more widely than the attitude of our two chauffeurs to money. Abdullah lets hardly a day pass without clamouring for an advance of salary. If he had had his way he would have had the entire amount in advance, and it would, I rather imagine, have been dissipated before a week was out. With Arab prodigality Abdullah would have splashed it about in the coffee-house. He would have cut a figure! He would have ‘made a reputation for himself’.

      Aristide, the Armenian, has displayed the greatest reluctance to have a penny of his salary paid him. ‘You will keep it for me, Khwaja, until the journey is finished. If I want money for some little expense I will come to you.’ So far he has demanded only fourpence of his salary—to purchase a pair of socks!

      His chin is now adorned by a sprouting beard, which makes him look quite a Biblical figure. It is cheaper, he explains, not to shave. One saves the money one might have to spend on a razor blade. And it does not matter here in the desert.

      At the end of the trip Abdullah will be penniless once more, and will doubtless be again adorning the water-front of Beyrout, waiting with Arab fatalism for the goodness of God to provide him with another job. Aristide will have the money he has earned untouched.

      ‘And what will