The Levanter Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    One thing I would like to be clearly understood. I am not trying to justify myself or my conduct; Iam only attempting to repair some of the damage that has been done. It is not my personal reputation that matters now, but that of our company.
     
    The week prior to the fifteenth of May I had spent in Milan on company business. Having completed that business, I flew to Rome, where I picked up two new suits which had been waiting for me at my tailor’s. The following day, the fifteenth, I took a Middle East Airlines flight to Damascus.
    As usual Ihad cabled the flight number and expected time of arrival and so, as usual, I received the VIP treatment. At Damascus this meant that I was met at the foot of the stairway from the plane by a Syrian army corporal in a paratroop jump suit, with a Czech automatic rifle, loaded and at the ready, slung across his stomach. Escorted by him, I then went through passport control and customs to the waiting air-conditioned Ministry car.
    My feelings about being met this way were, as always, mixed. It was convenient, of course, to be spared the interrogations and searching to which most of my fellow passengers would be subjected. It was also reassuring to know on landing that one was still considered of value to the state, and that no long knives had been out during one’s absence: modern Syria must still be considered one of the 'off-with-his-head' countries.
    On the other hand, while there was no denying that Damascus airport was at times a dangerous place, I could never quite rid myself of the conviction that should any of the potential dangers - a bomb outrage, say, or a guerrilla shoot-out - suddenly become immediate, I as a foreigner, a civilian, and an infidel, would be among the first to perish in the crossfire. The corporal, whom I had encountered before, was a friendly oaf who smelled of sweat and gun oil and was very proud of the fact that his firstborn was now attending a village primary school; but to me, his uniform and his loaded rifle seemed as much a threat as a protection. I was always relieved when we reached the car, and the porter arrived with the luggage.
    My appointment with the Minister was not until four thirty so I drove first to the villa our company owned in the city - and to Teresa.
    The villa was in the old style with a walled courtyard and was part office, part pied-à-terre. Teresa was in charge of both parts of the establishment. With the help of a Syrian clerk she ran the office for me; with that of two servants she took care of our private household.
    Teresa’s father had been the Italian consul in Aleppo. He had also been an enthusiastic amateur archaeologist. With Teresa’s mother and members of the Aleppo Museum staff he was away on an archaeological expedition inthe north when the party was attacked by a gang of bandits, believed to be Kurds. Supposedly the Kurds mistook the party for a Syrian border patrol. Teresa’s parents had been among those killed.
    She had been nineteen then, convent-educated in Lebanon, and a good linguist. For a time she worked as secretary-translator in the local office of an American oil company. Then she came to me. Having spent most of her life in the Middle East, she knows the form. She has been and is, in every way, invaluable to me.
    I have always had to do a lot of travelling around for our company, and whenever I returned to Damascus from a trip there was a set office routine. Teresa would have ready for me a brief summary report on the state of our local enterprises. This report usually consisted chiefly of figures. She would supplement the report verbally with comment and any interesting items of information that she thought I should have.
    On this occasion she told me about the manoeuvring of a competitor who was bidding against us on a job in Teheran, That story amused me.
    What came next did not amuse me at all.
    “I’ve noticed that the laboratory costs seem to be getting higher and higher,” she said,