CHAPTER 83
Lieutenant Granitola Takes His Leave
“These have been three very enjoyable years,” said Granitola. It was early evening, and he was sitting on cushions facing Rustem Bey. Between them was a small beaten brass table on to which had been engraved allegorical animals, and pieties from the Koran in Arabic. Upon the table there was a large waterpipe which the two men were sharing, and the room was heavy with cool and aromatic smoke. On the walls around them Rustem Bey’s formidable collection of clocks ticked synchronously.
“I am very sorry you are leaving,” said Rustem Bey. “You have become one of us. I was fully expecting to have to find you a wife and a little bit of land. I had in mind a pleasant meadow and orchard down by the river.”
“A very pretty dream indeed,” said Granitola.
“I hope you will return,” said Rustem Bey. Granitola looked a little surprised and concerned, but then his face opened up into a wide smile and he said, “It hadn’t actually occurred to me, but now that you suggest it, I will certainly do so. I have been an occupier and I hadn’t thought that I might simply return as a guest.”
“I think you can easily get a boat from Rhodes,” said Rustem Bey, “and within a short time there will be motor vehicles here. I fully intend to get one myself. I have seen them in Smyrna, and I find them very impressive. I think they will become the thing of the future.”
“I doubt if they will ever replace the horse,” said Granitola, sagely. “Horses can go anywhere more or less, and motor vehicles require not only petrol and expert knowledge, but reasonably wide and level surfaces.”
“Well, you might be right. In any case, I shall look forward with pleasure to your return. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course, my friend, of course.”
“Why do you think that your occupation has been so peaceful around here, when the French had nothing but disaster in Cilicia?”
“Well, we didn’t bring Armenian troops in to cause havoc and wreak revenge … and we have always treated Mustafa Kemal with sensible respect, and we were good to all the Muslim refugees from the Greek sector. And we allowed the Turkish chettas to operate from our territory.”
“Why? Surely the Greeks were Allies?”
“Allies don’t stick together after victories. It was a thing between us and the Greeks. It’s a question of who dominates in the eastern Mediterranean. The French don’t like the Greeks either, especially with the old King back on the throne, and now the British have the big embarrassment of being the only people left who are reluctantly supporting them.”
“Does anyone know why the French left?”
Granitola laughed. “I understand that they decided to be the first to break ranks because they came up with an excellent commercial deal with Mustafa Kemal.”
“So why are you leaving?”
“Because I’ve been recalled, my friend. I’m afraid I have no choice at all.”
“No, I mean why are all of you leaving? Why has Italy recalled you?”
“I suspect it might be something similar. On top of that, it’s obvious that Mustafa Kemal is going to win, and why should we face up to him when there’s nothing to be gained by it? We’ve had a lovely time here, and now it’s time to go, and the important thing was to prevent the Greeks from getting anything we might have wanted for ourselves.”
“I heard that the Greeks are in full retreat,” said Rustem Bey. “I just hope they don’t burn Smyrna if they leave. I have a lot of friends there, and that’s where all my money’s in the bank.”
“They’ve burned everything else, I am sorry to say, but, speaking as a soldier, there would be no point in burning Smyrna because one only burns towns to make them useless to an advancing enemy. It slows him up a great deal because then he can’t supply or accommodate himself locally. Once the Greeks are at sea, Mustafa Kemal will have no reason to follow them any further, and there would be no point in burning it. Personally I am more worried about what Kemal’s troops are going to do when they get the freedom of the Armenian quarter.”
“Mustafa Kemal is becoming a giant,” observed Rustem Bey, his thoughts looping away on a different track. Then, returning to the subject, he asked, “If you and the Greeks are both leaving, am I right in thinking that only the British will still be here?”
“Well, yes. They control Istanbul and the Dardanelles. Whether or not Mustafa Kemal will turn on them after the Greeks have gone, I wouldn’t care to say. The British will be the last of the Allies, allied in the end to no one at all. Not an enviable position.”
“Surely Mustafa Kemal wouldn’t dare take on the British? He doesn’t even have a navy.”
Granitola laughed and shook his head. “You’re a Turk. What would you do in his place?”
“I think I would threaten the British and see what happens. Like a cat that bushes up its tail to frighten a dog.”
“As an Italian, I think I would do the same.”
“I shall miss our discussions,” said Rustem Bey.
“We have sorted out the world so much that now it cannot help but become absolutely perfect.” Granitola looked at his watch, twisted his mouth into a wry expression, and continued: “But unfortunately I really must go and make ready. We leave very early in the morning.”
“I shall come down to the meydan to see you off.”
As he left, Granitola kissed Rustem Bey on each cheek, according to the custom that he had quite unconsciously acquired, and then he said, “Did you know that the sergeant of the gendarmes has given Sergeant Oliva his backgammon set as a farewell present?”
Rustem Bey laughed. “I have never heard of a Turk making such a terrible sacrifice.”
“Apparently he was weeping when he handed it over, but I don’t know whether it was on account of parting with Sergeant Oliva or the backgammon set.”
“It was probably both,” said Rustem Bey, adding, “When you go back to Italy I doubt if you will be able to carry on wearing that fez.”
Lieutenant Granitola took it off his head, looked at it, and then replaced it. “I doubt it too. It isn’t yet standard issue in the army, I believe, and is unlikely to become so. Even so, I shall wear it in the evenings as I sit in my study and contemplate, and I shall feel briefly like a Turk.”
“Wait a minute,” said Rustem Bey, and he went into the house and came back bearing his waterpipe. “You must take this,” he said, holding it out. “No, please, I have another. Smoke it in the evenings with the fez on your head.”