Page 41 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Thames, 1872

T wo things happen, almost simultaneously, after Arthur has telegraphed his employers to inform them that he has found the missing portion of the Flood Tablet. He tells the villagers that he has decided to extend his stay so he can keep working by the River Tigris; and yet, unbeknownst to him, his sponsors in England have already announced his imminent return to the River Thames.

A telegram arrives letting him know that his face is printed in newspapers in England, his victory announced to the public, and his travel home booked. His income suddenly cut off, Arthur feels outmanoeuvred, manipulated. Distressed by this turn of events, he tries repeatedly to persuade his employers of the benefit of spending more time in Nineveh, but, no matter how many messages he sends, and how pleading his tone, he cannot convince them.

After a month goes by in limbo, he has no other choice but to bid farewell to the people of Golden Waters and to make preparations for his return to England. Still, all is not lost, he hopes. He believes that, once in London, he will be able to get someone to finance a second expedition, which he would take up immediately.

The night before his departure, he watches Leila from his window one last time. He assumes she is sleepwalking, but, when she turns to face him, her eyes are open and alert. She carries a glass of water, which she splashes in his direction and smiles.

‘What does that mean?’ asks Arthur.

‘We spill water for luck and protection. Go like water, come back like water – freely and easily.’

He takes out his pocketknife and through the open window reaches out to the pomegranate tree. He makes three vertical marks on its bark.

‘That’s the ancient sign of water,’ he says. ‘This mark is my pledge – I promise I will come back.’

‘You will, I know,’ she says. ‘But you will return changed, and you will find things changed.’

He shakes his head, even though he senses she is probably right. He feels such a strong desire to hold her then that he has to cross his arms to stop himself. His voice weak, all he can do is to repeat himself.

‘I will return. I promise, I will come back.’

In London he is greeted with excitement and elation. The Daily Telegraph hails his arrival:

Flood Tablet in England

Arthur Smyth a Hero!

He is a hero, suddenly, in a story written by others. His admirers are legion. They refer to him as an eminent scholar, a noted savant. They say he is not only remarkably intelligent but also brave to have embarked on such a dangerous voyage for the pursuit of knowledge. The extent of the attention takes Arthur aback. When strangers recognize him on the street and ply him with questions, he stammers his way through his replies. When smart gentlemen and elegant ladies demand his company, he fails to reciprocate their breathless enthusiasm. He even struggles to adjust to the weather – forgetting his umbrella, shivering beneath his overcoat, longing for the dry heat that his body has become accustomed to.

He has also acquired enemies. When he was poor, his only adversaries were hunger and cold. But now, as his reputation has grown, there are many who resent his success. The Religious Tract Society attack him, accusing him of producing fake tablets and publishing sham translations from a made-up language. Some go as far as claiming that actually he has never been to Mesopotamia but has instead been hiding in a farmhouse outside London.

Shaken by the response, both the praise and the opprobrium, Arthur has days when he does not wish to leave his temporary lodgings in Bloomsbury. Yet he keeps getting invitations to give talks and participate in colloquiums and conferences.

Then there is Mabel. His fiancée is happy that Arthur is home and even more famous now, and she tells him they must speed up their wedding plans. She draws up an extended guest list, befitting Arthur’s improved status, and he cannot find it in him to protest. While he manages to remain outwardly composed and resume his work at the British Museum, where he is welcomed with plenty of admiration and no little envy, deep within he is unsettled. It seems to him that the different strands of his life and personality are unravelling. He has dedicated his life to words, but now, suddenly, words are not enough. He does not know how to articulate this feeling of extreme loneliness and rootlessness that has descended upon him amongst his fellow countrymen. Strangely, he feels like a foreigner in his own homeland.

A month later he receives an invitation to attend a party; it is from an earl renowned for his interest in the arts as well as for his stable of thoroughbred horses. Arthur and his fiancée are requested to be present at a reception at what is described as the peer’s country cottage.

Mabel is delighted, though her excitement is supplanted by anxiety over appropriate attire. With his newly increased salary, Arthur takes her shopping. They purchase three silk dresses, and gloves, hats and a feather boa to go with them. Arthur is shocked that fabric can cost this much. As for Mabel, she now laments not having matching jewellery. For himself, Arthur rents a dark frock coat lined in rich satin and buys a wide ascot tie. He will have to return the coat later, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t expect to need it ever again.

The ‘country cottage’ turns out to be a sumptuous mansion. A clamour of laughter and conversation spills from the well-lit balconies and terraces into the manicured gardens. All of London’s polite society seems to be here tonight. The gravelled courtyard crunches as carriages pull up, delivering more guests. The rooms abound with cherub statuettes, lacquered cabinets and heavy brocade curtains, their walls hung with silk. Despite the vastness of the residence and ceilings as high as some winter skies, Arthur feels confined, as if trapped inside a snow globe, which at any moment may be picked up and shaken.

Their hostess – an immaculately elegant and rosy-faced woman whose bosom heaves with pearls and a sapphire pendant – is a philanthropist and an art collector. She owns a miscellany of treasures, from Renaissance prints and drawings to Chinese Ming Dynasty porcelain, Japanese lacquer-ware and Mesopotamian antiquities, in which she has a special interest. She is said to have amassed a large number of objects through both family and business ties to British explorers who have visited the region.

‘Mr Smyth, I am delighted you could attend our humble gathering,’ she says. ‘Would you do us the honour of joining some of our other guests in a tour of my little Nineveh?’

‘Your little Nineveh, my Lady?’

Smiling, she threads her arm through his. ‘Allow me to show you.’

And so while Mabel is escorted to the ballroom, where she sips champagne and smiles at portly, bewhiskered gentlemen, Arthur follows the countess into an antechamber of the house. His breath catches in his chest the moment he steps in. It is Nineveh indeed! Displayed in profusion are bas-reliefs, wall panels, winged-animal statues and dozens of cuneiform tablets. The artefacts of Mesopotamia have resurfaced in an opulent house outside London.

‘What do you think, Mr Smyth?’ the countess asks. ‘No doubt our modest assembly pales in comparison with the splendours you have seen.’

‘Quite dazzling,’ Arthur says, swallowing hard. ‘But how did you –’

‘Some are presents from dear friends. Others I have purchased –’ She is distracted by another guest sweeping over to express his delight.

Arthur catches sight of his reflection in the French windows. Sorrow clings to his features. It feels wrong to find the artefacts of Nineveh displayed for the amusement of the wealthy and the powerful. The people of Mesopotamia, the descendants of the scribes who composed the tablets and the artisans who chiselled the statues, will never have a chance to see these pieces. Up until this moment, it had not troubled him that antiquities were to be brought to Europe to be lodged in major museums and institutions. To the contrary: he believed he was rescuing them from obscurity. But seeing them in a private home tonight makes his heart ache.

Slowly, he approaches his reflection and stares at his face. The eyes of the faqra look back at him. He misses Leila. The anguish that overcomes him is sharp. If he could only find a back door, he would flee this place and all its glitter.

‘Are you coming, Mr Smyth?’ the countess asks, glancing at him over her shoulder.

‘Yes, my Lady.’

Arthur steps back from the window and follows the group out.

At dinner he and his fiancée are seated on opposite sides of the table, and he finds himself next to an elderly dowager duchess. The lady is thrilled to be placed beside the famous Assyrian scholar just returned from the biblical lands. She watches him curiously from beneath her hooded eyelids. She observes how he barely touches the soup and takes only small bites of the main course – stuffed goose and stewed eel, cooked in nutmeg and port wine.

‘You are very quiet, Mr Smyth. Tell us about your expedition. What was it like?’

‘Yes, do tell us,’ a man with a waxed moustache adds. ‘Were you in danger at any point?’

A hush descends as several guests lean forward to hear his response. Arthur takes a sip of wine. He thinks about the horrific fire in Constantinople that swept through entire neighbourhoods, leaving thousands homeless overnight. He thinks about the poverty and destitution he encountered on the road to Mosul. And he thinks about the pasha and the qadi who, over a cup of coffee and a sweet treat, colluded in the harm of an entire community. Since returning home, he has been tormented by memories. He says, ‘It was an uneventful journey.’

‘You are too modest,’ the duchess persists. ‘Did you meet any marauders on the way? Did you witness any executions?’

‘There were some difficult moments, but I can assure you my trip was no more treacherous than a ride on a Thames pleasure boat.’

Some people laugh; others sigh in disappointment. Arthur notices his fiancée is looking at him with something akin to concern.

At this point their hostess interjects, her voice cutting across the table. ‘What about the devil-worshippers? Are they not to be found in those parts?’

Arthur feels himself tense up.

The man with the waxed moustache presses. ‘I heard they are in the habit of looting passing caravans and they never wash! An utterly depraved people, and quite wanton, so they say. We are in polite society now – is that why you cannot tell us about the licentiousness of their behaviour?’

Arthur reddens. ‘That is not only a lie, it is also a terrible insult.’

The man’s face falls.

‘The Yazidis are good people, madam, I can assure you.’ Arthur turns to his hostess. ‘They are generous, kind, protective of their customs and very clean. You may not even enter the sacred Valley of Lalish without first taking a bath and removing your shoes. Not that they would allow outsiders. I fear the Yazidis have been persecuted and horribly misunderstood, not only by many of their Muslim neighbours but also by Christians, including us Western travellers. This is most unfair.’ He looks up, his voice rising with emotion. ‘They are proud, respectable people and very modest. In truth, ever since I arrived in London I have been longing for their companionship and wanting to return to their homeland.’

It doesn’t last long, the silence that descends. The same man chuckles loudly. ‘This might come as a surprise for some but is actually quite common. Scholars lose their heads over their subjects; writers fall under the spell of their fictional characters; explorers become infatuated with the places they visit. Our dear friend has just confirmed for us a typical case of this unnatural and irrational attachment. And this proves that he is a good scholar!’

They nod and resume their conversations, the distraction over. The countess doesn’t seem offended. But no one asks Arthur anything else for the rest of the evening. Whilst people on either side of him engage in lively chatter, he sits soundlessly, his forehead wrinkled in discomfort. His gaze falls on Mabel. His fiancée is smiling equably as she listens to the gentleman next to her. Unlike him, she is happy amongst these people. She is glowing. For a fleeting second she turns, and her eyes glance over him coldly.

You go to distant lands hoping to find something entirely different from what you had at home, never suspecting that you will return a changed person. Arthur cannot say exactly when it happened, at what crossroads, but he is not the same man any more. Mesopotamia keeps calling him. In dream after dream, he is walking on liquid deserts, or sailing on shifting sands, only to wake up with a feeling of emptiness. He is worried that he has left something behind, a part of him that was fragile but genuine, mislaid in that region whose customs he does not always understand and whose myriad faiths and sects leave him perplexed, where even the water has its own distinctive taste; and yet, despite all that unfamiliarity, it has taken hold of his heart. The Tigris has seeped into his life and solidified, like dripping wax.

They get married in the summer. Mabel is a picture of beauty in her wedding gown with its satin fitted bodice and ostrich feathers, a long train she must take care not to trip over. She brings a dowry sufficient for them to rent a spacious first-floor flat in a Bayswater townhouse, with sash windows that are high and draughty, and a faint odour of mould that invades your senses after you walk in. They regret that an entire house with a large parlour, basement, attic and trellised garden is beyond their reach. Arthur may be celebrated around the country and respected in scholarly circles, but this does not translate into a high income. Most of his colleagues at the museum have private means, and do not have to rely on their salary alone. Even so, Arthur does not seem troubled by the arrangement. Compared with the squalor of his childhood home, these surroundings are palatial.

He starts to wear his hair longer. He also grows a beard. For years he maintained a clean-shaven look, except for a short spell with mutton-chop sideboards, following the fashion set by the late Prince Albert. He does not enjoy visiting barbers, although there is some pleasure to be found in sitting in a chair as hot towels are applied to his face and being shaved with a cut-throat razor over a fragrant bowl of steaming water. Fortunately, his new preference aligns with the latest vogue. Many men are sporting facial hair these days. He is still fastidious about grooming and personal hygiene – using almond oil and pomades. Bear’s grease, though more durable, has an unappealing smell. Sometimes he outlines his eyes with kohl, an adornment learnt from villagers by the Tigris. But he never dares to go out like that.

These daily rituals are closely observed by Mabel. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you were to shave properly? Wouldn’t they respect you more?’

‘But I like it like this,’ Arthur says. ‘I am tempted to have long locks hanging down my face, like Pterelaus, the Greek king. I hope no one will cut my hair in my sleep.’

She doesn’t return his smile. She doesn’t understand the reference. It is not the first time that Arthur feels keenly the gulf between them. He tells himself that she wants people to respect him because she loves him. The other possibility is too hurtful: that her focus on his reputation might have nothing to do with love and everything to do with their standing in the community, with his achievements chiefly a ladder to social advancement. Despite her comfortable upbringing, she is aware that the success of her husband’s career is the only route to stability and fulfilment, that is if she wants to build a family, as she does.

He eats better these days. In the mornings they have bacon and eggs, smoked haddock, bread rolls, marmalade. Sometimes they get blanquettes of lamb, croquettes of fish for lunch. But Arthur always finds food a trial. That’s the one thing he hasn’t shaken off – the memory of hunger. The cramps shooting through his insides are still sitting in his stomach like stones. He feels the need to check daily whether they are out of provisions. He may have managed to lift up his head and change his prospects, but the ground beneath his feet never feels solid or secure.

Just as he used to hand over his earnings first to his father and then to his mother, he now gives his salary to his wife. He puts aside a small amount for his soaps and colognes, and the rest is for Mabel to apportion. He has asked her to save a bit, whenever she can, but Mabel likes the latest styles. The fashions of the day change fast, and each month their debts to the emporiums of Regent Street grow.

Arthur never complains about these shopping sprees that they can’t really afford. He vows he will work harder to finish the book he has begun writing. That will bring in extra earnings. But soon Mabel will need new clothes. She is pregnant. Even though the manuals for sexual relations maintain that ‘without an excitation of lust, or the enjoyment of leisure in the venereal act, conception cannot take place’, this claim seems quite mistaken. Arthur and Mabel have separate rooms, and they have reached an agreement that he should visit her twice a month to fulfil his marital duties, on days of her choosing.

‘Since we now have a child on the way – or perhaps two, as twins run in your family – isn’t it about time you asked for a promotion?’ Mabel asks. ‘Have you not finished with those pettifogging old tablets now? Really! Fiddling and fidgeting all day with dirty bits of clay.’

‘But this is not some temporary work. It will take time,’ Arthur says. ‘The Epic of Gilgamesh is hugely important. This poem is even older than the Greek myths, imagine!’

Mabel holds herself rigid.

‘Take Achilles and his companion Patroclus. That story, fabulous as it is, might very well be inspired by Gilgamesh and Enkidu –’

Mabel interrupts with a wave of her hand. ‘If it is so important, why don’t you tell the museum to increase your salary to a decent amount? How do they expect us to raise a family on such a paltry allowance?’

‘We shall manage somehow.’

‘Somehow? Tell me how. You have your head in the clouds.’

Arthur’s shoulders hunch forward. For a moment he seems lost for words. He hardly speaks for the rest of the day.

Still, every morning he wakes early, rushing to the office. He feels guilty for leaving Mabel on her own, though there is always Florence, their domestic, who comes in daily to clean. As her pregnancy advances, he will have to be more present at home. He is determined to be a better father than his own father has been to him. And so for a while it seems enough – his book, his wife, the baby or babies on the way … and working doggedly on a poem as old as recorded time. He tells himself that he doesn’t need much else. Yet there is something tugging at his heart, nesting deep in his chest. A trapped bird, it flaps its wings, beating hard against its cage, sinking its claws into his flesh. He is afraid of bringing it out, lest he cannot corral it again.

Last thing at night and first thing in the morning, when he retreats into the maze of memory, he thinks of the land and the river and the woman he left behind in Mesopotamia.