Mystery in Mesopotamia
By
Jabra Ibrahim Jabra
Following the occupation of Palestine in 1948, Palestinian writer Jabra Ibrahim Jabra (1920-1994), sought work in Baghdad, a city he fell in love with, one of whose natives he married, and which was to become the backdrop for most of his novels. The extract below deals with his early years in the city and his introduction to its then bustling social and cultural life. It is taken from his autobiography Shari' Al-Amirat (Princesses' Street), Amman and Beirut, 1994.
ROBERT HAMILTON was an archaeologist, and for several years the director of the Rockefeller Museum of Palestinian Monuments in Jerusalem, where we often met, sharing a passion for Palestinian monuments and ancient history. We also shared a love of music and art, especially sculpture, or of what was available of that in the Jerusalem Museum that lay outside the gates close to Bab Al-Sahera and in the neighbourhood of the Rashidiya College, at which I was a professor for four years until coming to Baghdad. It seems that at the beginning of 1948 he left Jerusalem and joined the British archaeology mission in Baghdad, an institution dating back to the beginning of the 1920s.
[...]
Hamilton said, "Do you know Max Mallowan?"
I said, "No".
He said, "You should make his acquaintance, he is an ingenious character. You probably don't know much about Iraqi monuments. Max Mallowan is rediscovering Nimrud, and I am working with him."
I asked him about Nimrud and he answered, "The capital of the Assyrians at some time, in the north. Its old name was Calah. It's a place unlike any other. Come and visit us there."
I said, "I wish. But I am new here. And Baghdad preoccupies me sufficiently."
He said, "Listen. We'll have dinner tomorrow in Mallowan's house. Why don't you come and have dinner with us? I will tell Mrs Mallowan today. We can talk about Nimrud to our fill..."
When I accepted his invitation I asked him, "And where is the house?"
He said, "It's the house of King Ali. Do you know it? In Kuradat Mariam, directly on the bank of the river. It's a Turkish house that dates back to the Ottoman period, and it's one of the most beautiful old houses in Baghdad."
And I gave him a piece of paper on which he drew a map that would help me reach the house, which lay on the opposite side of the River Tigris and which was, for a while in the 1920s, a residence for King Ali, the brother of King Faisal I. He gave the house his own name, a king without a kingdom.
At 8pm the following day I walked through the gateway of the house and into its distinctive courtyard of Baghdadi Ottoman design. The courtyard was lined with trees and rosebushes in the middle of a two-storey building. You ascended to the first floor on an outer wooden stairway that led to a long, narrow balcony extending alongside the inner façade and overlooked by the doors to the rooms on the upper floor, one of which was open and lit in anticipation of visitors.
I went up the wooden stairway decorated with plants, and immediately a well-built man in his mid-forties came out to meet me. He was active and seemingly intelligent, and he said as soon as he saw me, "Mr Jabra? Is that right? I am Max Mallowan." And he pulled me inside by the hand, the faster to introduce me to Mrs Mallowan.
Illustration by Faik Hassan
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[...]
Mrs Mallowan asked me, as she took me to a seat, "And what brings you to Baghdad?"
I said briefly, "An old love, and our tragedy in Palestine."
She said, "Oh, yes, yes. Come and talk to us. At least you are an eyewitness."
Max Mallowan asked me what I would drink, bringing me a glass, while his wife returned to her armchair, returning the glasses that hung around her neck to the tip of her nose and picking up the ball of wool and the two needles. No sooner had she sat back than she resumed her knitting.
Once again she said, "Yes, tell us. What exactly happened to dear Jerusalem?"
I imagined her to be in her late fifties, somewhat large and sturdily built with a broad face. She was self confident but had about her the modesty of a generous hostess. And we went on talking about Palestine. I concentrated on what had happened there in the way of killing, evacuating houses (thus making people homeless) and the rape of the land by the Zionists.
That virtuous lady went on saying, as she knitted, "All this should be made known to the world, in detail. Authors should write about these horrors, this inhumanity that we used to say World War II would put an end to. We wanted the war to end all wars, but it seems we have once again sown the seeds of many more wars to come. The British Empire should not liquidate itself in this way..."
[...]
As we embarked on our dinner I said to myself that the only person in the room who does not suffer from the delirium of writing, has not known its pains and tortures, with the exception of the butler waiting on us with great respect, is Mrs Mallowan. It suffices her to have discussions of contemporary and old events, and the idiosyncrasies of people, while knitting a jumper for her husband (who is younger than her, no doubt) that will protect him against cruel nature as he extracts, with loving obstinacy, signs of history and its secrets from the depths of northern hills. These are hills whose entrails contain all manner of unknown human achievements, even the mere mention of which does not remain.
All the company, including Mrs Mallowan, were on the point of travelling to Mosul to resume excavating in Nimrud and to complete the archaeological work begun by Henry Layard more than 100 years ago in 1845. Layard had mistaken Nimrud for Niniveh, though he had fascinated the world with what he discovered in the way of beautiful sculptures and historical facts.
***
I met Max Mallowan and his wife after that once or twice more on public occasions, and I noticed that Mrs Mallowan was remarkably attentive to everything that went on around her and to all the people whom she saw.
And in April of that year (1949), an English performance was staged in the King Faisal II Hall (the People's Hall, as it is known now). On such occasions you would normally encounter most of Baghdad's literati, whether Iraqis or foreigners, because the city had not yet expanded in size or population. One felt, indeed, that one knew everyone who deserved to be known in the city, and that one was, correspondingly, known to everyone else. University professors and graduates (the latter were far fewer then than 20 years later) would flock in massive numbers to cultural occasions like a public lecture, a rare art exhibition, a classical music concert by the nascent Iraqi Symphony Orchestra or a play, usually by a visiting troupe.
On that occasion, during the interval my companion and I went out to the refreshments hall with everyone else, and ended up standing with Mallowan and his wife drinking coffee (Pepsi and Coca Cola had not found their way to Iraq yet). We made a casual comment on the acting we had seen, inquiring about one or two points. And when I returned to the counter to place my empty cup on it Desmond Steward met me and asked in jest, "Have you solved the crime mystery yet?"
I did not understand what he meant, and I asked, "Which crime?"
He replied, "A crime invented by the woman I saw you talking to."
"Sorry. I still don't know what you mean."
"Weren't you just talking to Agatha Christie?"
His question surprised me, and I thought he was still joking. I said simply, "I was talking to Max Mallowan and his wife."
He yelled, "I thought you knew! This Mrs Mallowan is the self-same famous writer of detective novels, Agatha Christie."
"Impossible!"
"Go and find out for yourself!"
But now that the interval was over, and the audience had returned to their seats in the theatre. I returned to mine incredulous. Was this really Agatha Christie, of whose novels I've read so many, starting when I was very young? Could I really have visited her, had discussions with her, and it didn't cross my mind that she ever took hold of a pen?
I couldn't follow the second half of the play and waited for it to end, though it seemed to go on forever. At last the curtains were drawn, and people started shuffling out of their seats following the applause, while I left my companion and rushed out among them looking for Mrs Mallowan until I caught sight of her at the main exit standing with her husband waiting for the car.
I went up to her and asked directly, "Are you really Agatha Christie?"
The virtuous woman laughed, and replied simply, "Yes".
I said, "I am very sorry I didn't realise."
She said, "That's better, that's better. When will you visit us in Nimrud?"
