I wanted to play my role of tourist conscientiously, so I went to see the Pyramids. What a disappointment they were to me; I thought that the majesty of the desert completely overwhelmed them. The only thing one might possibly admire is the stupendous human effort it must have been to build them, and this sort of admiration demands the mentality of a German tourist. The smallest hill which rises in the solitude of the desert is more grandiose than those geometrical volumes surrounded by cafés, photographers’ booths and imitation caravans, with black-coated clergymen perched on camels. The sphinx is lamentable. Nose in air and mouth wide open, it seems to be listening to the droning of the guide. A Hen Doktor from some obscure university north of the fiftieth parallel was writing postcards to his students on the monster’s paw, while his family opened tins of sardines, dreaming dutifully of the forty centuries which contemplated them.
I fled in disgust as if I had been present at some sacrilegious act, and suddenly I was homesick, terribly homesick for the real desert. I longed feverishly to be back on the deck of my ship, to be pacing those few square feet of wooden planks, which were sometimes burning and sometimes streaming with spray, but which were to me the magic carpet of the Arab legend, which had transported me to enchanted countries which never change, where I had tasted the joy of believing that time and death did not exist. They represented the sea, the wind, the virgin sand of the desert, the infinity of far-off skies in which wheel the numberless hosts of the stars. And nothing between me and all those things, nothing to diminish their grandeur and interrupt the dream in which I become one with them.
With my mind full of such visions, I got into the train for Suez. It was full of tobacco smoke, lit by pallid lamps, and full of unknown people with dreary faces, who read newspapers, played cards, discussed the market prices or slept stupidly with open mouths. I took refuge in the corridor and thrust my head out into the darkness. The clamour of insects rose from the warm sand into the calm air. But the blind rush of the train destroyed the serenity of the tropical night, raising a whistling wind which sang past my ears. The plumes of smoke from the engine, the clouds of dust we stirred up on our passage, and the lofty palms which rose between the dunes flitted across the sky like mad ghosts. At last we reached Suez. Soon I saw my boutre lying asleep in the roads. A familiar voice replied to my hail and the pirogue came towards me. I made prodigious efforts to get off next day. The consul informed me that the English could not allow me to fish for mother-of-pearl in the Gulf, alleging that some investigation must be made. All right, I wouldn’t fish for mother-of-pearl. At six o’clock everything was ready at last. I had said good-bye to the consul, to Spiro and to the agent of the Messageries Maritimes. I had my sailing papers in my pocket.
I had still time to take farewell of Stavro. I had to accept a last dinner in the room of the bark, the icon and the old rifle of the warrior chief. This time there was no reason to fight shy of the Samian wine, and its warmth lent an agreeable cordiality to this final tête-à-tête.
‘When will you be back, that’s the important question?’ asked Stavro.
‘Heaven alone can tell, since Gorgis informs me that the new Greek Government are banning the cultivation of hemp.’
‘Yes, I know; it will probably be enforced, since it is the English who have brought about this decision. This law will ruin a considerable number of people in spite of the indemnities paid, and I’m afraid will lead to trouble. It’s a sure thing that it isn’t the Greek Government which is paying these indemnities. It is too poor in the first place, and, like all governments, most unwilling to shell out money.’
‘That’s a funny thing,’ I replied. ‘If the English are sowing drachmae in Greece, it is probably in order to reap pounds sterling elsewhere. They have probably some interest in preventing your country from producing hashish. The question of morality is only the classic excuse, most valuable as an argument, since it is unanswerable. These high principles did not prevent the English from methodically poisoning a magnificent race, the Red Indians, with alcohol in order to seize their country. The same clergymen who are today declaiming in America against the sale of intoxicating liquor lavished the deadly fire-water on the natives, accompanied, it is true, by Bibles and sermons. Their bodies were killed in the name of the Great Nation, but their souls were saved in the name of the Lord, so John Citizen’s conscience was clear. I’m only mentioning all this to indicate the importance which must be given to philanthropic movements on the part of governments. Anyhow, I don’t blame the English for killing the Red Indians as they did. Since they had to be killed, it was preferable to do it painlessly by selling death by the glass. You see how natural it is to suspect that the English have a commercial interest in stopping the Greeks from growing hemp. Hashish must exist in one of their colonies.’
‘You open my eyes,’ said Stavro; ‘two or three times already my native agents have sent me samples of hashish they had bought from the crews of English ships.’
‘Where had the ships come from?’
‘From Bombay. I have been told that this product, which is much dearer than Greek hashish, is sold in India in special shops which have a licence.’
‘Something like our monopoly of opium in Indo-China, very likely,’ I replied. ‘On the pretext of not depriving the native population of the opium to which they had been accustomed for centuries, we sell them the poison at a hundred times its value.’
‘You may be right, for the sepoys in the barracks at Ismaïla smoke a sort of hashish which is regularly distributed to them every week. It would be interesting to study the question. You should go and find out, since you are on the way to India.’
‘We’ll see about that later on. Meantime, I’d be glad if you will keep me posted on any information you may get on the subject.’
To tell the truth, I wasn’t over-keen to mix myself up again in this business. To be successful in it, I was obliged to rub shoulders with people whose mentality was too different from mine, people who only thought of gain. It had been interesting to discover these circles, but now it held nothing new for me, so why recommence? This is how my thoughts ran, and what a greenhorn I was. I had not seen the hundredth part of all this underhand trafficking; I still had practically everything to learn about the stupendous secret organizations which controlled the smuggling of the drug in Egypt. Besides, though I did not know it, I had been sucked into the whirlpool. After the dangerous play and emotions of this struggle, it was going to be very difficult to settle down to humdrum coasting. To do this one has to be a wise old philosopher who has seen through the vanity of everything, but at this moment I was only thirty-eight.