Chapter Two
Francesco was still upset by how unwell their conversation went. He tried to refocus on the newspaper he’d been reading, but not one article held his interest. Francesco couldn’t believe his daughter was so obstinate, so determined, so disrespectful. He didn’t raise her that way. Isotta had the unmitigated gall to question him. It was unacceptable. There had once been a time when what he said stood on its own without the need for further explanation. But that time seemed to have passed.
Why?
Francesco refolded the newspaper and lifted his frame from the reclining chair. He meandered over to the picture window and looked out. He searched his mind, trying to find the answer to the question of where his daughter gained her audacity. By tradition, Isotta and Valentina had been groomed to be the help mate, the subservient wife who nodded at all the right times and was quiet when called upon to do so. It’s what he’d been taught. It’s how the world worked. Their strength, which was an unwritten understood, lay in the private moments when they bonded enough with their mate to speak their mind, still respectfully, but speak to give insight to the head of the family. Why was she fighting so hard against tradition? It had worked for him, right?
But it hadn’t really worked for Francesco. Celestina played her part, but she didn’t play it well. She fought against everything that was ordained. He had to break her. He had to break down her will to
stand toe to toe with him, to use her own voice to voice her opinion. Francesco had to humble her by breaking her in, commanding authority, sometimes through violence, sometimes through restraint. But it worked. She became the kind of wife tradition spoke of, the docile, humble, amenable wife that went along because that’s what she was supposed to do.
Until she didn’t, and that inherent resistance reawakened. The mask of humbleness started to peel away, and she gained her own voice, a voice he didn’t want to hear. Francesco again reasserted himself, humiliating her, berating her, humbling her. But Celestina fought back. When their children grew, she fought back even more. Francesco remembered that he questioned whether what he was doing was right. It was his mother who reminded him that he had to be the authority in his home. How, if he couldn’t run his home, how could he rule the company, the world?
That message gave him a newfound drive to make his wife act right. There were times when he questioned if what he did was right. He wondered if he’d taken things too far and pushed Celestina too hard to make his point. As Francesco continued to look out of the window, the moment he regained his authority, all came flooding back to him. His children were still small, small enough to forget. Francesco convinced himself that he needed to make an example of Celestina in front of the very ones she would give her life to protect. A part of Francesco squabbled with the idea of pushing too far, but then he remembered who he was, what he was doing it for, and, of course, tradition.
He waited until it was his children’s bedtime when they would be between awake and a dream state to act. He made sure to assert his authority in a place where they could partially see, and partially hear, but where Celestina could see them. She would know that they bore witness to what he intended and would forever be consumed with the idea of erasing the picture from their minds.
Francesco timed it so that Celestina had put the girls to bed, turned off their lights, and turned on the night light. She didn’t want
them to be afraid of total darkness, so she made sure there was just enough light so that if they awoke from sleeping, they could see and orient themselves back to the safety of their home and bed. And as soon as she walked out of the room, pulling the door closed but not fully closed, he stepped toward her. The door inadvertently didn’t close as much as Celestina would have liked. She couldn’t make sure that it did because Francesco had her by the neck.
She was caught so unaware she didn’t even have the opportunity to scream. Her eyes were wide, and Francesco made sure they were focused directly on him, unwaveringly.
“I run this house,” he seethed between clenched teeth. “I run this family. You are mine, my property,” he continued. “I need you not to forget.”
Celestina tried to look back to make sure her daughters were asleep, but Francesco wouldn’t let her. He ripped her gown from her, commanding that she be silent. He pushed her down onto all fours and then got behind her. The panties that she wore were pushed aside, not even removed. Celestina wanted to protest, and she did, whimpering please don’t, asking him to stop, even conceding to his authority. But Francesco had been consumed and invigorated by his own power. He heard her pleas as a tease, as an enticement driving him to do what he intended to do.
He was invigorated and filled with a sexualized rage that drove him to push his semi-hard dick inside her. There had been no foreplay, no warning, so Celestina’s vagina was not wet. She yelped in response, which drove him even more. He clamped his hand over her mouth and pushed inside her even more, unrelentingly. It was not love he made to her. It was dominance. Celestina’s eyes remained wide. She could see her girls lying in their beds. But she wondered if they could see her. Then she couldn’t wonder anymore as Francesco pounded inside her unwelcoming walls, pulling her hair back, wrapping it around his fist while still keeping her mouth clamped tight.
A single tear spilled from her lids and trailed down her cheek. When Francesco felt the wetness, it invigorated him even more. He removed his hand from covering her mouth, taking a moment to lean in and whisper in her ear.
“I run this. You do what I say.”
He pulled out, and Celestina was confused. Her mind was still occupied with thoughts of her daughters. She didn’t yell because of the chance that they were sleeping. She didn’t want her voice to be the one to wake them.
But she did yell.
She had no choice.
Francesco had stopped fucking her in her pussy because he moved to her asshole. He’d never done anything like that before. She hadn’t either, but he was impatient and fueled by power. Francesco didn’t intend for it to be a pleasant experience for her. He only intended to satisfy a base, animalistic desire within himself. She’d given birth a time or two, and her vaginal walls no longer gave him the friction his dick desired. He also desired to humble her in a way she’d never speak of.
His dick was just wet enough to gain entrance into her second hole, the one that had been forbidden before. Not anymore. Francesco held his dick with one hand and pushed aside her ass cheek with the other. There was just enough light for him to see his intended point of entry. His dick was hard. Her ass was tight.
He didn’t take care with her; instead, he solely focused on his own pleasure. He pushed inside her asshole and relished in the fact that he couldn’t get far. He heard her scream, but it only propelled him. He wanted his daughters to see the dominance inside the evil space he’d entered. Francesco had a point to prove, and he intended to prove it.
“Shut up and take it,” he commanded, “unless you want your daughters to see everything. Do you want them to see everything, Celestina?”
He pushed again, feeling her ass give way just a little. He felt the tightness, and it excited him. he felt the tightness all the way down her thighs, and it excited him even more. Once he got in enough for her asshole to hold his dick on his own, he released her ass, and laced one hand around her waist, and reclamped the other over her mouth.
“Scream again. Let your daughters see.”
A thrill moved through him as he felt his authority in his bones. He pushed his dick inside her again and again, gaining new ground in the tightness that held his dick. He felt the friction the walls provided, a friction he’d missed. Oh, how he missed that virginal moment when he popped her cherry when he first fucked her when she was newly his wife. This moment was even better. There was greater resistance. He couldn’t conquer it so easily. The notion of conquering unchartered territory revved him up even more. As he made his way inside her, breaking down walls unrelentingly, Celestina cried. It was all she could do. The pain was excruciating, but she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t cry out for him to stop. Celestina couldn’t plead with her husband to stop. And then something happened that caused a new level of sharp pain she couldn’t have anticipated. Francesco noticed it, too, as he pulled his dick out further than he had before. It was tinged red. It was tinged with Celestina’s blood.
She screamed behind his clamped hand and faltered in holding herself up with her own arms. She collapsed to her elbows, but that only positioned her better for him. When Francesco saw the blood, his eyes narrowed, and his intensity grew. He pushed in even harder, fucked her even harder, relishing in the scream he contained. And then a growl erupted in his own core as hot gism thickened his cock and spilled from it into the tight place he occupied. Francesco refused to relinquish, pumping harder, faster until he was soft.
He pulled out, let her fall to the floor, and left her there with a message.
“I am the king of this castle. Don’t you ever forget
it.”
His nose widened as he breathed through it, the past fading and the present reemerging. He pondered whether Isotta’s husband had declared himself the king of his castle in much the same way. Then it dawned on him that Celestina had not returned from chasing after their daughter, begging her to return for more of the same. Francesco turned from the window and looked around the room. She wasn’t there.
He then walked out of the room and looked down the hallway to see if she’d managed to catch their daughter and have a conversation near the front door. Francesco didn’t hear any voices, so he meandered down the hall. With each room he passed, Francesco looked in to see if his wife was there. She wasn’t. He saw his mother in her study.
“Have you seen Celestina?” He asked.
“Are you asking has she come in here?”
“Yes, mother. Have you seen her?”
“No. I haven’t. Why?”
Francesco didn’t answer. He was becoming increasingly frustrated that she hadn’t returned. Then he saw one of the house servants lingering at the opened front door.
“Why is the door still open?” He asked after making his way there.
Francesco saw the befuddled look on the servant’s face. “I was waiting for the misses to come back inside,” he said, “but I don’t see her.”
“What do you mean you don’t see her?”
“I saw Mrs. Celestina walk to the front door when I was down the hall. I waited for her to come back inside, but she didn’t. I came to the door, looking for her.” He lowered his head and lowered his eyes, not looking up into Francesco’s face.
“I don’t see her, sir.”
“What do you mean you don’t see her?” Francesco quizzed as he pushed past the man and stepped outside. He looked around and called for her. She didn’t respond. He took a few steps out of the door and walked down the driveway a few steps. He called for her again and waited for her to reply. He was miffed that she didn’t. Nothing looked out of place. Everything looked the same, but his wife wasn’t out there.
She didn’t answer.
Francesco returned inside the house, his mind racing as to where his wife could be. It had only been a few moments since she left the room they’d previously occupied.
“Find my wife,” he barked. Costanza came out of her room and stepped into the hallway. She heard her son’s command.
“Yes, sir,” the servant answered, scampering away.
“Find her!”
Chapter Three
“Here are your discharge papers,” Nurse Diallo said, handing the papers to Ricardo. “Please note that you are to follow up with a physical therapist in two weeks when the cast on your arm is removed. The cast on your legs will be removed in four weeks. In the meantime, we have prescribed pain medication. I am including a two-week supply for you, and when you see the physical therapist, if more is needed, then she will give you another two-week supply.”
Ricardo was unresponsive.
“Have you taken a look to see how well your face and head have healed?” She asked, trying to be light even though she knew he despised every moment and her for being the deliverer of such bad news.
“Why bother?” He uttered. “I’m going to be dead anyway. No need to look at improvements.”
The nurse’s brow furrowed. She didn’t understand his reference. Seeing how despondent he looked, she didn’t ask.
“The porter is here to take you downstairs. Is there someone coming to pick you up?”
“Nope, but why would you care? I’m being discharged, right?”
“I can have the ambulance drop you off. Would you like for me to arrange it?”
There was a knock at the door that interrupted the discharge. He didn’t wait to be invited in. Giuseppe stepped around the divider and made himself visible.
“Looks like I am just in time,” he said. “You ready to go, Rick?”
“Rick?” The nurse asked.
“Yeah,” Giuseppe smiled. “That’s what his friends call him.”
“I thought you didn’t have a ride?” The nurse asked, redirecting her attention back to her patient.
“He must have forgotten,” Giuseppe stepped in, repositioning himself closer to Ricardo, who was stunned into silence.
“Remember, we confirmed yesterday,” Giuseppe smiled until he turned away from the nurse and faced Ricardo where he could look at him directly, and the nurse couldn’t see.
“Oh, yeah,” he stammered. Giuseppe looked at him keenly. “I remember.”
“By the way, Rick. You look so much better with that bandage off your head,” Giuseppe smiled. “Looking good, bro.”
Ricardo tried to erase the surprised look on his face and tried to overlook the fact that his heart had dropped into his stomach.
“So, what were you saying, nurse? Did you need to give him any further discharge instructions?”
“No,” she replied, still confused. “But our porter has to be the one to take him downstairs.”
“No problem,” Giuseppe smiled. “I’ll ride along with him.”
The nurse felt a sense of unease, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.
“Do you have any questions or concerns, Mr. Adele?”
She elongated the word concerned, so just in case he did, Ricardo would say something and clue her in.
“No,” he uttered, dropping his eyes from hers.
She’d seen that before, so it wasn’t telling. She had nothing to go on, but she pushed a little more.
“Are you sure? Because if you have any questions, I’m willing to answer them.”
He thought about reminding the nurse how she didn’t care what really happened to him. He thought about trying to tell her that the man standing near his bed, the man feigning pleasantries, was the
one who was going to make sure he died that day. It was pointless, so Ricardo only shook his head, saying nothing.
“Okay then,” the nurse replied, giving up on trying to help even though she understood there was very little she could do, especially if he didn’t want to be helped.
“Let me get the porter. I’ll be right back.”
As she exited the room, Giuseppe stayed close to Ricardo. When he heard the door close, he spun on his heels and faced him. He didn’t say anything; he just made sure his presence was known and felt. Giuseppe could feel the fear emanating from Ricardo’s presence. The feeling was empowering and satisfying.
The door opened again. The nurse returned, as did the porter, entering the room for the first time.
“Are you ready, Mr. Adele?” The porter said as he wheeled the chair into the room.
Ricardo didn’t have the strength to respond. He didn’t even have the will to nod. He just sat there and awaited his transport. The porter and the nurse advised him on how they would move him to the chair. Ricardo scarcely paid attention. He knew he soon would be moved to a coffin where he wouldn’t feel a thing. They shifted and adjusted him with Giuseppe out of the way. When they got him in the chair, the nurse leaned in when she suspected no one else paid attention and asked him again if he needed help. She just couldn’t shake the suspicion she had.
“Please tell me if something is wrong.”
Ricardo turned his head and made eye contact with the nurse. She searched his eyes but couldn’t discern what she saw as they were cruelly interrupted.
“Alright, Rick, let’s get this show on the road,” Giuseppe replied much too gleefully. He reached for the handles of the wheelchair and turned Ricardo away from the nurse. Giuseppe started pushing him out of the room. The porter stopped him.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “I have to be the one to transport him.”
“Well, let’s go,” Giuseppe smiled, relinquishing the handles.
The porter took over and straightened up the chair so as to push it out of the room. They made their way into the hall, with Giuseppe following behind. When the nurse tried to fall in behind him, Giuseppe paused and turned on his heels.
“Don’t you have other patients to attend to?”
It was the look in his eyes that defied the smile that halted her steps. When Giuseppe was satisfied that she was no longer inclined to follow, he turned around and followed the chair. When they made it to the elevator, and the porter and Ricardo were safely inside, just before the doors closed, Giuseppe looked at the nurse, who still remained frozen in place, and offered her a smile. She watched as the elevator doors closed.
Ricardo felt an overwhelming sense of doom and gloom the lower the elevator went. He felt that sense of foreboding when the doors opened on the first floor and even more when the porter pushed him across the emerald green marble floor with light gold lines to make it look richer. Ricardo watched those lines on the floor as he was wheeled toward the automatic front doors.
“This is as far as I take you,” the porter smiled as he stopped just past the awning.
Ricardo felt the direct sun on his face for the first time in weeks. But it was only temporary. As the porter turned around and reentered the hospital, Giuseppe took over the direction of his chair. He wheeled him directly into a van that his company had on-site and waiting. The sun faded as Ricardo entered the darkness of the back of the van. There was, however, a glimpse of light that still managed to show through.
Ordinarily, he would be frightened, considering his demise was on the horizon, but Ricardo was too uncomfortable and too mentally exhausted to even be frightened.
“Where are you taking me again?” Ricardo asked. He kind of cared, but even as he asked the question, he wasn’t even sure why he asked. “To my death?”
Massimo had spent a long day at the office. All he wanted to do was go home and relax. He hadn’t quite decided what that kind of relaxation looked like, but he had a few things in mind, one of which included his broken wife. That’s how he referred to her ever since she got out of the hospital with the diagnosis. He struggled to like her before they got married after they had not known each other. Massimo understood that she was critical to his ascent to CEO, and so he tried to make the best of it. He tried to be amenable to the idea of loving her because it would be easier to build a life with her, so she would be amenable to having his babies.
But since she was possibly incapable of that, Massimo shifted his thoughts about her. He looked at her differently because his possibilities were possibly limited. He contemplated getting sexual satisfaction outside of their marriage like he’d gotten it before, but it was much more satisfying to take it from whom he was legally bound to take it from. She vowed to submit in the sight of God and a host of witnesses, right?
After parking the car, Massimo entered the house. He put his briefcase down and looked around for Isotta. She frequently greeted him when he got off work. But as he put his jacket on the hanger and placed it in the closet, there was no Isotta.
“Good evening, Mr. Ricci,” Rosa greeted.
“Good evening, Rosa.”
“Shall I serve your dinner in the dining room, or would you rather have it in your study?”
“The study is fine,” Massimo replied, still looking around, waiting for his wife to appear. But she didn’t. “Where’s Isotta?” He asked.
“I’m not sure, sir,” Rosa said, preparing to walk into the kitchen to secure his dinner.
“She’s not here?”
“No,” Rosa replied. “I thought she went to her parents’ home earlier today. You all didn’t speak?”
“No,” Massimo answered. “I was pretty busy all day.”
“Well, why don’t you call her and see where she is?” Rosa commented. “I’m sure she’s fine.” Rosa padded off toward the kitchen.
Massimo mounted the stairs. Maybe Isotta had slipped back into the house unbeknownst to Rosa. He made his way into the bedroom, making sure to peek into each room along the way. He didn’t see her in any of those rooms, nor did he see Isotta when he entered his bedroom.
“Isotta?” He called out. Possibly, she was in the bathroom or maybe even the closet. She was nowhere to be found, at least not in the bedroom. Massimo looked around the rest of the house. He looked casually but with intention. When he didn’t find her, Massimo considered just waiting.
“Dinner is served, sir,” another servant in the house advised.
Massimo followed the servant into the dining room. He waited until his set was pulled out and then sat down. Rosa brought his meal in and served it to him.
“If you need anything else, I’ll be in the kitchen,” she advised.
Massimo started to eat his dinner, but he was plagued by the idea of where his wife was. It wasn’t like her to go unaccounted for, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed her number. Massimo was sure she would answer, saying that
she’d lost track of time and that she was on her way home. He listened as the phone rang once and then twice. Massimo listened as her phone rang a third time and then went to voicemail.
“Isotta, call me. I thought you’d be home when I arrived.”
Chapter Four
“What demands did you make?” Isotta asked after hours of being bound but not gagged.
“He’s not going to answer the question,” Celestina fussed. “He hasn’t answered any of our other questions. He’s not going to answer that one.”
Isotta ignored her mother and focused her attention on their captor.
“What demands did you make?” She insisted.
Alessandro got up from the lounge chair he sat in and crossed the room. He stood in front of them as he’d done before with the
light on. No sense in hiding.
“I didn’t make any demands,” Alessandro crooned, getting ultimate satisfaction in interacting with two frightened women whom he hated. “I thought I would let them miss you first.”
Isotta drew back, appalled by his response.
“And then what?”
“And then I’m going to exact the revenge that you, your husband, and your family deserve.” Alessandro was no longer smiling. He seethed and spoke between clenched teeth because the fury he felt the entire time. From the moment Isotta said I did, he started to boil again.
“This is about my sister, Valentina, isn’t it?” Isotta asked, curious as to what his response would be. Deep down inside, Isotta already felt like she knew the answer.
Celestina started to understand why her daughter pressed their captor the way she did. She also started to understand what Alessandro’s motivation was because he had been deceived.
“Isn’t it?” Isotta repeated. She was inquisitive the first time. She just started to put it together, but the second time she asked, Isotta was more convinced than ever that she was right.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Alessandro replied. “So, sit back and relax. All will be revealed soon.”
Alessandro walked away. He left Isotta and Celestina to their own worried devices.
“I really wish you would talk to me,” Celestina sighed as she turned in the direction of her daughter.
Isotta ignored her. She didn’t want to talk about what they’d already talked about. When she turned and looked toward her mother and saw her sad face, Isotta reminded her mother why talking would be a bad idea.
“What would be the point, mother?”
“Because, Isotta,” Celestina reasoned. “We’re family.”
“And that accounts for what?” She challenged.
“For everything,” Celestina replied. “We have to stick together, despite our differences, because we are family.”
Isotta shook her head, disgusted by the manipulative way her mother spoke and even more disgusted by Alessandro’s revenge fantasy he intended to play out.
“We being family is how we wound up in this situation,” Isotta replied. “We, buying into the whole because we’re family thing, is how I ended up with Massimo Ricci. Remember?”
“Accept it, Isotta,” Celestina whispered sharply. “We all have to accept what has happened and move on.”
“Oh, I’ve accepted it, mother. And that’s why we’re in the situation we’re in.”
“I can’t believe it’s been twenty-four hours,” Francesco said as he hung his head. “She hasn’t answered her phone, and if someone took her, there have been no demands, no ransom, nothing.”
They had searched for Celestina, looking everywhere, speaking with friends, and trying to reach out to Isotta to see if she knew where her mother was. When they didn’t get an answer, they didn’t really put two and two together. Francesco was beside himself with burgeoning worry. He called hospitals to see if she had been in an accident or something. He was even tempted to call the morgue, just in case. But he didn’t go that far. It was better for Francesco to
hold on to the fact that she was still alive, just absent and unaccounted for.
Costanza, who normally played hard and unemotional, tried to keep her son calm, reminding him that it had only been a few hours. She would turn up. But when time continued to march on, Costanza also started to worry, although she didn’t let it show.
Francesco called Celestina’s phone again, just in case. Maybe she would pick up this time. But the phone didn’t ring. He pulled his cell phone back from his ear and looked to make sure he had dialed the number right. He had, but still, there was nothing. What did that mean? Then the line cracked, and he pressed his ear against the phone, just waiting to hear her voice.
But that wasn’t what he heard.
“I’m sorry, but the cell phone you have dialed is no longer in service.”
Incredibly frustrated, Francesco threw his cell phone across the room, groaning to keep from screaming.
“Son,” Costanza quipped.
“What?” Francesco blew up, leaping to his feet and turning to face his mother, looking her squarely in the eye.
Costanza stared back at him, at first with softer eyes and then growing keener as they stared. But Francesco didn’t back down. His eyes didn’t soften. They only grew keener. He was livid and scared for his wife. He wouldn’t back down. Costanza saw him and recognized his disposition. Although she ordinarily would not, Costanza chose to soften her eyes and back down. It was not the time to take a stand. She needed to support her son, and that’s what she chose to do in the meantime.
“We will find her,” Costanza offered. “She will be alright.”
“Don’t you remember her name, mother?” Francesco was still fuming and frightened. He didn’t wait for a response because he didn’t need one.
“It’s Celestina.” Francesco remained resolved and resolute. “Her name is Celestina.”
“I’ve got him at the location. When are you coming?” Giuseppe asked.
His brother wasn’t responsive, though. Giuseppe was surprised because Massimo had been clawing for the opportunity to get his hands on Ricardo. Now, the silent treatment.
“Massimo, did you hear me?”
“I can’t talk about this right now,” Massimo finally said dismissively.
“Why?” Giuseppe pressed. He’d gone along with securing the package and wanted to see Massimo lose it on him.
“Why the stall?”
Because I haven’t heard from Isotta,” Massimo replied.
“She’s probably just shopping or something,” Giuseppe joked.
Massimo wasn’t able to contain his concern, which showed up as anger.
“She can’t shop for twenty-four hours,” Massimo bit.
“What?” Giuseppe asked. “She’s been gone that long?”
When Massimo didn’t respond, Giuseppe got the feeling that there was a problem.
“I’m on my way.”
“I’m worried,” Romina sighed.
“It’s too early to worry,” Giordano replied, trying to assuage his wife.
Massimo paced back and forth, hearing his parents but trying to block them out, which was wholly unsuccessful. He hadn’t been worried about his wife, not initially. Then, the longer it took for her to get home, the more concerned he got. Massimo didn’t want to call her family to voice his concern. They would think him weak and incapable of protecting his wife, which was his responsibility.
“It’s not too early, Dad,” Massimo corrected. “Isotta has been gone more than a day, and there has been no response to my calls. If something bad hasn’t happened to her, where is she? Huh?” His eyes scanned those of his parents. “Where is she?”
His parents exchanged glances. His mother avoided looking at her son.
“I know we haven’t checked in with her family yet, but maybe it’s time to do so,” Giordano conjectured.
Had it been a day earlier, Massimo would have balked at the idea of calling the Conti household. But given the amount of time that had passed and that he hadn’t heard anything from Isotta, he entertained the notion. Massimo considered it for another moment.
“I don’t know how to reach them.”
“I do,” Giordano replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, where he had the number saved.
Immediately, Massimo started pacing the floor, and when he heard his father address one of the Contis, he listened intently.
“What’s going on?” Giuseppe asked, being mindful of speaking quietly when he walked in and heard his father on the phone.
“Your father is trying to see if Isotta’s family has talked with her. Shhh,” his mother replied.
“Yes, my son, Massimo, didn’t have your number, so he couldn’t call,” Giordano explained. “Here he is.”
Giordano handed the phone to his son, who was still in the middle of pacing.
“Yes, good evening,” Massimo said, trying not to sound anxious. “I wanted to see if Isotta was there?”
“She’s not,” he repeated.
“I understood she came to your house the other day. Did she say she was going anywhere else after that?” Massimo asked, still trying to maintain some level of couth.
“I’m sorry, excuse me?” Massimo said, his brows knocking together intensely.
“And she’s been gone how long?” Massimo said, finding it even more difficult to keep it together.
Each of Massimo’s family members leaned in and stayed fixed on Massimo’s conversation.
“Oh wow,” Massimo answered. He listened, trying to process all of what was said at the same time.
“Yes, I have no choice but to file a missing person’s report,” Massimo agreed. “I’ll do that right away.”
Romina’s hand went to her mouth to cover that it was agape.
“Yes,” he commented. And if I hear anything, I’ll let you know, as well.”
They waited on pins and needles until he disconnected the line.
“What did he say?” Romina asked. She was nervous. For the first acknowledged time, she was nervous to hear what Massimo had to say. Secretly, Romina had been a little concerned when it was more than twelve hours since he’d heard from Isotta. Now, though, Romina was very concerned that something bad had happened.
Massimo’s eyes were wide as he processed everything he heard on the other end of the line.
“Her mother is missing,” Massimo finally uttered.
“What?” Romina asked, standing on her feet and pressing her hands together. “They haven’t seen her?”
Giuseppe sat back in his seat, stunned.
“Her father said that Isotta came by, and after an hour or so, she left, angry. His wife followed after Isotta, trying to reason with her. He didn’t think much of it other than hoping his daughter would return and they could finish their conversation. But then his wife didn’t return, and Isotta was gone,” Massimo slowly explained. “They were just gone.”
Giordano was surprised by Massimo’s admission. “So, we need to file a police report. I’ll call the station.”
“No, Dad,” Massimo interjected. “She’s my wife. I’ll call.”
Massimo stepped out of the room and made the call to the police station.
“What do you think happened, if anything happened?” Giuseppe speculated.
“I don’t know,” his mother answered. “I just don’t know.”
“He’ll file the police report, and we’ll have more eyes on the situation,” his father reasoned.
"But her mother is gone too? That doesn’t make any sense,” Romina added.
“Unless they left together,” Giuseppe suggested.
Romina spun around and stared at her son. “What? Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know,” Giuseppe shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they decided it was time to leave the femininely repressive system they found themselves in.”
The comment struck Romina. She wanted to argue against what her son said but opted not to.
“That’s enough, Giuseppe,” Giordano spoke in hot, hushed tones.
“Fine,” Giuseppe replied. “I was just thinking out loud.”
Massimo returned to the room where they all were.
“Did you make the report?” Romina asked.
“Yes,” Massimo replied. “The police said that since it's been twenty-four hours, they would file a missing person’s report.”
Giordano noticed that Massimo didn’t seem relieved by that.
“What else did they say?” He asked. Massimo blew out between his lips.
“I know it's just standard operating procedure, but the officer had some questions as to why I was reporting her.”
“Like what?” Giuseppe asked, becoming reinvested in the conversation.
“The officer asked how long she’d been gone, which was fine. Then she asked if maybe Isotta had just run away, whether or not she had a reason to leave. Did we have an argument, or whether I thought she was with someone else?”
“Someone else?” Romina repeated.
“Yeah.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Romina replied.
“The officer didn’t sound promising in the effort the police would put toward finding her.”
“We can make them,” Giordano replied. “I can call their captain and remind him who we are and about the million-dollar donation we made to the Policeman’s Association.”
“Dad,” Massimo sighed. “We have to give them a chance. What else can we do?”
“Just know that it’s an option.”
“I hear what you’re saying, that maybe she ran away, but what if she didn’t?” Giuseppe offered.
“What do you mean?” Romina asked.
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
Erdpech liegen wie Teppiche auf dem Ufer ausgebreitet, werden zusammengerollt und auf Prahme geworfen. Pechgestank erfüllt die Luft. Frauen in dunkeln Mänteln balancieren mit Pech gedichtete Töpfe auf dem Kopf, füllen sie am Kai mit Wasser und plaudern mit ihren Nachbarinnen, die eifrig ihre Wäsche in den Fluten des Euphrat spülen.
Gleich unterhalb des Minaretts landete ich an einem offenen Uferplatz. Eine Schar spielender Buben stürmte bald herbei, und ein kleiner Türke in buntem Hemd rief mir zu: „Gestern ist Kut-el-Amara gefallen. Heute ist das Telegramm gekommen!“
„Bist du dessen auch sicher?“ fragte ich.
„Ja“, antwortete er, „der Herr kann ja auf dem Telegraphenamt nachfragen.“
Schön, dachte ich, dann ist Bagdad außer Gefahr, auch der Weg nach Babylon noch offen, und begab mich mit meiner gewöhnlichen Begleitung, dem Gendarm und Sale, in die Stadt hinauf. Eng die teilweise mit Asphalt belegten Gassen, grau die Mauern, ärmlich die Lehm- und Steinhäuser. Dunkle Gänge führten durch offene Tore zu Hütten und auf schmutzige Höfe. Wasserträger mit tropfenden Ledersäcken auf dem Rücken, Esel mit Fruchtlasten, kleine Läden mit Sonnendächern oder offener Auslage von Brot, Erbsen, Granaten und andern Eßwaren; auf den Holzschwellen an den Gassen Kinder mit Schmutznasen, das Gesicht mit Fliegenschwärmen bedeckt; an einer Mauer Aussätzige von abschreckendem Äußeren — welcher Gegensatz zu dem lieblichen Bild, das Hit dem Ankömmling zu Wasser vortäuscht! Auf die braunen Fluten des Stroms öffnete sich in den winkligen Gassen nur selten ein flüchtiger Ausblick.
Gendarm Saalman.
Zum Marktplatz mußten wir wieder hinabsteigen bis dicht an den Strand. Dort standen zwei stattlichere Häuser; in deren einem wohnte der Mudir von Hit, ein Araber, dessen fortschrittlich europäische Kleidung mit seiner bedenklich zurückgebliebenen Intelligenz auffallend kontrastierte. Das andere war das Telegraphenamt, wo mir der Fall von Kut-el-Amara bestätigt wurde. Der englische Oberbefehlshaber General Townshend war mit 13000 Mann gefangen — ein bedeutender Sieg also, dessen Kunde die ganze mohammedanische Welt durchlaufen und die Macht des Sultans kräftigen mußte. Am 29. April hatte der Feind seine Stellungen räumen müssen — zehn Tage vorher war Feldmarschall von der Goltz gestorben! Ein grausames Schicksal hatte es ihm verwehrt, diesen Siegestag zu erleben, den sein Genie und seine Umsicht an der Spitze der 6. Armee erzwungen hatten.
Landungsplatz in Hit.
Während ich auf der Post weilte, war ein kleiner Doppelschahtur bei meiner Fähre angekommen mit einem katholischen Priester an Bord und einem zweiten jungen Deutschen namens Kettner Wir verbrachten den Abend zusammen und verabredeten uns für den folgenden Tag zu gemeinsamer Fahrt.
Hit verließ ich am 1. Mai, und nun näherte sich meine Stromfahrt ihrem Ende. Mein Freipassagier Asis war in Hit zurückgeblieben; daß er sich auf Französisch gedrückt hatte, wunderte mich nicht, wohl aber, daß er verduftet war, ohne ein — Trinkgeld für seine Reisebegleitung zu fordern.
Das linke Euphratufer heißt von hier ab bei den Arabern ElDschesire (Insel), ein Begriff, der sich ungefähr mit Mesopotamien deckt; das rechte Esch-Scham. Diese beiden Namen traten nun immerfort in Verbindung mit Strömung, Wind und Landungsplatz auf. Am Schamufer fuhren wir an den niedrigen Felsabhängen von Leguba entlang und lenkten dann hinter der tamariskenbewachsenen Insel Abu Tiban nach Dschesire hinüber.
Beim Palmenhain Tell-essued zwang uns heftiger Südost wieder längere Zeit still zu liegen, und voll Neid sah ich die stolzen Meheile in dem ihnen günstigen Wind mit vollen Segeln an uns vorüber stromaufwärts fahren. Während ein Araber gewandt am Stamm weiblicher Palmen hinaufkletterte, ihr Samengehäuse mit dem Staub der männlichen Blüten bestreute und dann die Blattbüschel mit Bast zusammenband, vertrieben sich meine Leute die Zeit mit Vogelfang und mit dem Bau kleiner Schiffchen aus Palmblättern. Dann versuchten wir die Fähre am Ufer entlang vorwärtszuziehen; bei offenem Strand ging es; wo aber Gestrüpp den Leinpfad unwegsam machte, kamen wir verzweifelt langsam vorwärts.
Wir landen bei Tell-Essued
In dieser Gegend vollzieht sich der Übergang der Hochebene in das vollständig ebene Schwemmland, das zur Zeit der assyrischen und babylonischen Königreiche von gewaltigen Kanälen durchschnitten und mit üppigen Gärten und Äckern bedeckt war. Die weißen Kalksteinwände verschwinden, nur noch vereinzelte Ausläufer ziehen sich bis an den Strom heran. Der Horizont rückt in weite Ferne, und der Euphrat benutzt seine neu gewonnene Freiheit, um sich mächtig auszudehnen.
Unser Lager bei Tell-Essued
Auch am 2. Mai kämpften wir vergebens mit Gegenwind, und die zahlreichen Schöpfwerke — hier wieder von dem primitiven Typ machten es fast unmöglich, die Fähre vom Lande aus weiter zu bugsieren. So krochen wir mit unendlicher Mühe bis Ramadije. An diesem Tag begegnete uns die erste Guffa, eines der runden asphaltbekleideten Korbboote von großer Leichtigkeit und Tragfähigkeit, die schon aus assyrischer Zeit bekannt sind. Der Ruderer war selbst Mast und Segel, er stand in der Mitte des Bootes, und sein Mantel war als Windfang ausgebreitet.
Meheile auf dem Euphrat
Am nächsten Tag fanden wir die Ufer auf weite Strecken überschwemmt. Der Euphrat macht hier große, oft fast kreisförmige Windungen, und das in diesen Schleifen liegende Land war von dem eigentlichen Strom kaum noch zu unterscheiden, so daß es die ganze Kunst meines Kapitäns erforderte, sich zwischen diesen unter Wasser liegenden Landzungen, Inseln und Schlammbänken, in kleinen und großen Seitenarmen zurechtzufinden. Da standen Palmenhaine mitten im Strom; dann wieder waren Äcker mit reifenden Ernten von der Flut verschont, und Schaf- und Rinderherden, Hütten und Zelte standen wie auf der Wasserfläche. Die Anwohner hier mußten geradezu ein amphibienartiges Dasein führen, jeden Augenblick gewärtig, von den launischen Wellen überrascht zu werden. Oft war auch das, was ich für Zelte hielt,
nichts weiter als die Segel der Meheileboote, die rechts oder links über der Wasserfläche emporragten und denen wir dann in großem Bogen, den der Euphrat beschrieb, begegneten. Meine Leute mußten schließlich nackt ins Wasser hinein, um uns nur vorwärts zu bringen. Dabei war die Insektenplage fast unerträglich. Wenn wir abends an einem öden Strand vertäuten, durfte ich mein Licht nur für mein schnelles Abendbrot brennen lassen. Überall schwirrte und surrte es von Insektenschwärmen, die in dieser Sumpfgegend und bei der tropischen Hitze myriadenweise gediehen. Das innere Dach meiner Hütte war mit einer schwarzen, kribbelnden Decke bezogen, plumpe Käfer stießen gegen die Wände, törichte Nachtfalter taumelten in die Flamme und plumpsten mit verbrannten Flügeln in mein Eßgeschirr. Die Grillen zirpten um die Wette, die Frösche quakten im Sumpf und das höhnische Lachen und langgezogene Heulen der Schakale ging in unheimlichen Wellen über die Steppe. Die schlimmsten Quälgeister aber waren Mücken und Moskitos, von denen immer einige durch die Maschen des Moskitonetzes schlüpften. Ein brennendes Jucken lief über den ganzen Körper, und an Schlaf war in diesem Bett von Brennesseln nur wenig zu denken. Am Morgen, wenn sie dickgefressen und zu faul waren, wieder hinauszufliegen, hatte ich wenigstens die Freude, blutige Rache nehmen zu können. Die Morgenkühle pflegte das Jucken zu beseitigen.
Dorf in der Gegend von el-Beschiri
Am 4. Mai erschien endlich über der glatten Steppe das Minarett von Feludscha, erst im Südosten, dann im Nordosten, denn der Euphrat macht hier wieder einen mächtigen Bogen nach Süden. Als wir den Landungsplatz erreichten, war das erste, was ich sah, ein Schahtur von Schrenks Batterie; die Abteilung des Roten Kreuzes war noch hier und sollte am nächsten Tag aufbrechen.
Bei Feludscha ist der Euphrat ungewöhnlich schmal. Diesem Umstand hat der Ort seine Entstehung zu verdanken. Denn hier geht die große Karawanenstraße über den Strom. Die Brücke war aber des Hochwassers wegen eingezogen; die Pontons lagen am Ufer und sollten auch nicht mehr verwendet werden, da die Brücke für die Fähren nach Risvanije ein gefährliches Hindernis war Die Reisenden müssen sich daher damit abfinden, daß sie und ihr Gepäck auf einzelnen Prahmen über den Euphrat gesetzt werden.
Von Feludscha aus konnte ich nun zu Wagen auf der Karawanenstraße nach der Stadt der Kalifen gelangen oder zu Schiff bis Risvanije weiterfahren, das durch eine kleine Feldbahn mit Bagdad verbunden ist. Bei ruhigem Wetter rechnet man zu Wasser
bis Risvanije acht Stunden. Ich entschloß mich daher, auf der Fähre zu bleiben, mußte aber bald diesen Entschluß bereuen. Gegenwind und Gewitterregen, dazu ein tüchtiger Weststurm, zwangen uns immer wieder stillzuliegen und dehnten die acht Stunden zu mehr als einem Tag. Die Araber sind gegen nichts empfindlicher als gegen Regen; vor jedem kleinen Schauer ließ meine Besatzung die Ruder im Stich, flüchtete unter Deck und war erst wieder aufzutreiben, wenn wir zu kentern drohten. Einmal wären die Leute, als sie die Fähre ins Schlepptau nehmen wollten, beinahe alle im Schlamm ertrunken. Ich atmete daher erleichtert auf, als ich endlich am 5. Mai Risvanije erreichte und mein tüchtiger Doppelschahtur seine Reise von 1040 Kilometern ohne schwere Unfälle vollbracht hatte.
Phot.: Schölvinck.
EEine Guffa auf dem Tigris.
Neuntes Kapitel.
Einzug in Bagdad.
s regnete in Strömen, als ich meine Fähre verließ. Am Ufer erwarteten mich Herr Kettner und der Flugzeugmonteur Knitter, der zur Fliegerabteilung des Hauptmanns Niemayer gehörte. Ich kam gerade recht, ein Zug von zweiundzwanzig Wagen sollte nach
Bagdad abgehen, sobald der Regen aufhörte. Ich eilte daher zum Kommandanten von Risvanije, dem Kurden Ahmed Mukhtar aus Suleimanije, einem gewandten, höflichen Mann, der in der französischen Missionsschule zu Bagdad die klangvolle Sprache der Boulevards gelernt hatte. Alles ging nach Wunsch: der Zug sollte warten, bis ich reisefertig sei.
Ich speiste also mit den Deutschen zu Mittag und trank Tee bei Ahmed Mukhtar. Mittlerweile packte Sale meine Sachen. Die Fähre, auf der ich unvergeßliche Stunden verbracht hatte, stellte ich unter den Schutz des Kommandanten. Vielleicht konnte sie zur Fahrt nach Babylon noch gute Dienste leisten.
Das Gleis der Feldbahn führt bis zum Strand hinunter. Die Wagen sind aus Eisen und haben dieselbe Form wie die schwedischen Erzwagen auf der Linie Luleå-Reichsgrenze, sind aber viel kleiner. Die Lokomotiven waren noch nicht fertig; das einzige Zugmittel war Menschenkraft; Araber wurden zum Schieben der Wagen ausgehoben. Bis Bagdad wurden die Leute sechsmal gewechselt, jedesmal fünfzig Mann. Sie erhielten drei Brote am Tag und zusammen ein Lamm. Ihr Sold war unbedeutend, und oft genug rissen sie wieder aus. Demnächst sollten aber die Lokomotiven fertig und damit die Leistungsfähigkeit der Bahn bedeutend gesteigert werden. Jeder Wagen faßte zwei Tonnen. Die Güter, die mit meinem Zug befördert wurden, waren Kriegsmaterial und Proviant. Mein Gepäck wurde auf den letzten Wagen geladen; oben drauf thronten ich selbst und mein Diener Sale.
Um 3 Uhr hatte der Regen aufgehört. Die Luft war frisch und kühl. Alle Mann standen an ihren Wagen bereit, und auf ein gegebenes Zeichen begann der wunderliche Eisenbahnzug sich in Bewegung zu setzen. Schnell ging es nicht, und wir als letzte mußten wohl oder übel jeden Aufenthalt mitmachen, den einer der vorderen Wagen verursachte.
Zu beiden Seiten der Bahn breiteten sich Weizen-, Korn- und Haferfelder aus, denen ein Kanal Wasser aus dem Euphrat zuführte. Die ganze Gegend heißt Risvanije oder Nasranije, wie man es auch ausspricht. Der angebaute Feldstreifen war aber nur schmal, und
bald fuhren wir wieder durch die Wüste. Zu beiden Seiten der Schienen hatten die Füße der schiebenden Araber in den graugelben Alluviallehm Rinnen getreten, die jetzt voll Wasser standen.
In der Nähe des Ufers waren wir durch eine kaum ein paar Meter ansteigende Höhe gefahren. Ein zweiter Hohlweg dieser Art bei Jusfije ließ vermuten, daß diese Höhen nichts anderes waren, als Dämme zu beiden Seiten uralter Kanäle. Links vom Wege lag, von einigen grauen Ruinen umgeben, die Grabmoschee Brahim-el-Halil Imam, auf der anderen Seite eine kleine Anhöhe namens Tellachijen. Hier erhielt der ganze Zug Befehl zu halten, und mein Wagen wurde auf einem Nebengleis an die Spitze geschoben. So hatte ich nun freie Bahn und freie Aussicht, und wir ließen den übrigen Zug bald weit hinter uns.
Die Bahn läuft schnurgerade nach Bagdad. Die ganze Entfernung beträgt nur 45 Kilometer; sie ist die kürzeste zwischen Euphrat und Tigris an der Grenze zwischen Mesopotamien und dem Irak.
Kurz nach 5 Uhr erreichten wir die erste Station Kal’at Risvanije, wo neue Araber als Schlepper eintraten und ein neuer Gendarm zu uns stieß. Dieser berichtete mit bedenklicher Miene, in der vorigen Nacht sei zwischen der ersten und zweiten Station ein Zug von Räubern angefallen worden. Durch Gewehrschüsse habe man zwar die Angreifer in die Flucht gejagt. Immerhin sei es gut, an der gefährlichen Gegend so schnell wie möglich vorbeizukommen, denn man könne nie wissen! Unter diesen Umständen wäre es zweifellos vorsichtiger gewesen, bei den andern Wagen zu bleiben, die eine türkische und deutsche Eskorte hatten. Aber da ich den Arabern schon ein tüchtiges Trinkgeld versprochen hatte, wenn sie ordentlich liefen, mochte es nun auch dabei bleiben.
Der Gendarm hatte es so eilig, daß er selber mit schob. Vor jeder Anhöhe aber rannte er mit einer unermüdlichen Ausdauer, obgleich ihn Mantel und Gewehr beim Laufen hinderten, voraus, um die Bahn entlang zu spähen; war nichts Beunruhigendes in Sicht, so gab er von oben ein Zeichen, die Leute legten sich kräftiger ins Zeug, und
er selbst kam atemlos wieder herbeigesprungen. Der gefährlichste Punkt war eine Stelle, wo der Zug wieder einen alten Kanaldamm kreuzte: hier hatte die Räuberbande heute Nacht auf der Lauer gelegen. Wir kamen aber unbelästigt auch durch diesen Hohlweg hindurch und an dem Hügel Tell Wabo vorüber. Rechts von der Straße erhob sich in der Ferne Hamudija, eine kleine, an der Karawanenstraße zwischen Bagdad und Hille gelegene Anhöhe.
Dann fuhren wir über ein Feld, das mit zahlreichen Ziegelscherben bedeckt war. Welche Schätze aus der Zeit babylonischer Größe mochte wohl diese Erde im Schoße bergen! Über dem Horizont wurden die einfachen Hütten des Dorfes Taldama sichtbar, und vor 6 Uhr waren wir dort. Beim Stationsgebäude lagerte eine Schar Araber auf Strohmatten; sie warteten darauf, ihre Kameraden an den Wagen abzulösen. In der Nähe standen fünfundzwanzig Zelte. Schmale, neuangelegte Kanäle mit kleinen Brücken führten den Feldern Wasser zu, aber offenbar zu wenig, denn das Korn sah kümmerlich aus. Heuschrecken waren hier zahlreich, und viele von ihnen fanden auf den Schienen einen schnellen Tod.
Meine Araber liefen, was das Zeug halten wollte; der Schweiß tropfte ihnen von der Stirn, und sie keuchten wie atemlose Hunde. Als einmal zwei leere Wagen die Strecke sperrten, hoben sie das Hindernis einfach vom Gleis herunter und ließen es daneben stehen.
Die Sonne war blutrot untergegangen, und die Dämmerungsstunde nahte. Über Bagdad flammten bläuliche Blitze. Am Horizont war der Himmel klar. Die Sterne traten hervor, und der Mond zeigte seine Hörner. Im Norden flackerten die Feuer arabischer Nomaden bei dem Hügel Abu Hanta.
Das Stationsgebäude bei Tell-Essued hatte ein auf Pfosten ruhendes Schutzdach, unter dem die Araber lagen und schliefen oder ihre Wasserpfeifen rauchten. Hier wurde Rast gemacht, im „Mangal“, dem Kohlenbecken, Feuer angezündet, und Sale mußte Tee kochen zu einem schnellen Abendessen aus Brot und Eiern. Kurz vor ½9 begann die vierte Wegstrecke.
Der Mond hatte sich hinter Wolken verkrochen. Über Bagdad aber leuchtete es wie der Widerschein heftigen Artilleriefeuers. Die Gefahr eines Überfalls schien jetzt vorüber zu sein, wenigstens wurde nicht mehr davon gesprochen. Zu beiden Seiten lag die Wüste still und dunkel.
Die fünfte Wegstrecke reichte bis Jesr el-Cher. Der Mannschaftswechsel dauerte ein paar Minuten; die alten Leute empfingen ihren Backschisch, und die neuen sahen sich dadurch angespornt, die sechste und letzte Strecke bis zum Tigris mit größter Geschwindigkeit zu nehmen. Auf einer Eisenbahnbrücke überschritten wir den großen Kanal Jesr el-Cher. Dann wieder eine letzte Strecke Feld, und schon tauchten Lichter und Laternen auf, die immer zahlreicher wurden. Palmen traten aus dem Dunkel wie gespenstige Schatten hervor. Nebengleise zweigten sich ab, Güterzüge mit Kriegsmaterial standen hier und dort, und schon hielten wir am Ufer des Tigris. Hammale, Lastträger, kamen gesprungen, bemächtigten sich meines Gepäcks und schleppten es zu einer Treppe, an deren Fuß eine gewaltige Guffa vertäut lag.
Wir stiegen an Bord, und drei Mann ergriffen ihre kurzen, breitblattigen Ruder. Sie standen im Vorderteil der Guffa, soweit man bei einem Boot, das wie ein kreisrunder Korb ist, von Vorder- und Hinterteil reden kann, stießen die Ruder mit beiden Händen soweit wie möglich vor dem Boot ins Wasser und arbeiteten sich mit schnellen und immer gleichmäßigen Ruderschlägen vorwärts. Wären nur zwei Ruderer da, so würde das Boot sich bald im Kreise drehen; deshalb arbeitete der mittlere bald mit dem linken, bald mit dem rechten Nachbar, ohne beim Wechseln von der einen Seite zur andern Seite den Takt zu verlieren. So schaukelte das originelle Fahrzeug über den Tigris, Bagdad entgegen.
Bagdad schlief bei meiner Ankunft. Nur hier und da brannte in einem Fenster noch ein Licht oder eine Öllampe. Im übrigen war das linke Tigrisufer stockdunkel. Beim Schein der Blitze waren nur hin und wieder Schattenrisse von Hausdächern, Minaretten und Palmen zu erkennen.
Wohin nun? Als die Guffa an dem sanft abfallenden Ufer gelandet war, fragte ich die Ruderer, ob sie ein Haus wüßten, wo deutsche Offiziere wohnten. Freilich! Sie schulterten meine Sachen und hießen mich ihnen folgen. Einer von ihnen mußte mich führen, denn Straßenbeleuchtung gab es nicht, und man konnte die Hand nicht vor den Augen sehen; man merkte nur, daß man durch fürchterlichen Schlamm watete.
Endlich hielten meine Führer vor einem Tor. Auf dreimaliges Klopfen mit dem Eisenring öffnete ein Diener.
„Wer wohnt hier?“ fragte ich.
„Einige deutsche Herren. Aber sie sind schon alle zu Bett bis auf einen, der noch nicht zu Haus ist.“
„Ist noch ein Zimmer frei?“
„Ja, eins.“
„Führ mich dahin!“
Vom Hof ging es eine Treppe hinauf über eine offene Galerie in das Zimmer. Ein Licht wurde angezündet, mein Feldbett mit dem Moskitonetz aufgestellt und mein Gepäck auf Tisch und Stühle gelegt. Es war gegen 1 Uhr. Bei wem ich mich einquartiert hatte, ahnte ich nicht. Aber ich machte mir darüber auch keine Gewissensbisse. Denn die Fahrt auf Euphrat und Tigris an einem Tag und auf der merkwürdigen Eisenbahn hatte mich ermüdet, und ich sehnte mich nach Ruhe.
Als getreuer Wächter hatte sich Sale vor meiner Zimmertür auf den Boden gelegt. Eben wollte ich unter das Netz kriechen, da erklangen feste Schritte auf der Galerie, und ein deutscher Feldgrauer trat herein. Als er mich erblickte, stutzte er und stand da wie ein fleischgewordenes Fragezeichen. Er hatte das Licht brennen sehen und geglaubt, der rechtmäßige Besitzer des Zimmers sei zurückgekehrt.
„Wer ist denn der?“ fragte ich.
„Der Tibetforscher Professor Tafel aus Stuttgart.“
„Wie, Tafel? Mein alter Freund aus der Berliner Richthofen-Zeit!“
„Ja, eben der. Er war einige Tage krank und ist in Behandlung bei Dr Herle.“
So hatte der Zufall mich, der ich bei stockdunkler Nacht Bagdad betrat, ohne daß jemand von meiner Ankunft wußte, nicht nur in das Haus, sondern auch in das Zimmer geführt, das ausgerechnet ein Tibetforscher bewohnte, und noch dazu einer, den ich schon seit vielen Jahren kannte!
Nachdem mich Hauptmann Müller — denn das war der Feldgraue — noch eine Weile über die Verhältnisse in Bagdad unterrichtet hatte, wünschte er mir gute Nacht und überließ mich dem Schlaf.
Abdurrahaman Gilani, Nakib in Bagdad.
Am Morgen des 6. Mais erwachte ich bei einem wahrhaft tropischen Wetter. Es goß in Strömen; wie Glas stand der Regen vor dem Fenster, er klatschte auf die steifen, blanken Palmenblätter, er schäumte aus den Dachrinnen, rieselte die Veranden herein und brodelte in Strömen über den Hof. Der Donner rollte durch schwere, blauschwarze Wolken. Ohne Zweifel tat das tüchtige Sturzbad der nicht gerade sauberen Stadt recht gut: aber sachkundige Leute meinten, es käme viel zu spät; Regen im Mai sei eine ungewöhnliche Erscheinung.
Das Minarett Suk-el-Gasl in Bagdad
Als das Unwetter einigermaßen vorüber war, machte ich mich fertig, durch den Straßenschmutz nach dem Hause des früheren deutschen Konsuls Richarz zu wandern, wo Herzog Adolf Friedrich zu Mecklenburg, mein liebenswürdiger Wirt von Bapaume, seit einiger Zeit sein Zelt aufgeschlagen hatte. Die Wechselfälle des Krieges hatten ihn jetzt nach Asien geführt; sein Wunsch, als Führer einer eigenen kleinen Armeegruppe an einer der türkischen Fronten kämpfen zu dürfen, war jedoch zu seinem Bedauern nicht in Erfüllung gegangen. Übrigens war er kein Neuling in diesem Lande, denn in seiner Jugend, vor ungefähr zwanzig Jahren, war er von Jerusalem nach Berlin geritten.
Eben trat ich aus meinem Zimmer auf die Galerie hinaus, da kam mir der Herzog schon entgegen, frisch und munter wie gewöhnlich. Er hatte von meinem nächtlichen Einzug gehört und wollte der erste sein, der mich willkommen hieß. In unsere Regenmäntel gehüllt wanderten wir über die vornehmste Straße Bagdads, die Halil Paschas Namen trägt, zum Hause des Herrn Richarz, einem gewaltigen Viereck, das ein schattenspendender Garten umgab. Offene, überdachte Galerien, die auf geschnitzten und buntbemalten, aber verwitterten Säulen ruhten, boten freie Aussicht über Nachbarhöfe und enge Gassen, auf den großen königlichen Strom und sein anderes Ufer.
Herr Richarz war 1894 bis 1907 deutscher Konsul in Bagdad und von 1912 bis 1914 amerikanischer. Dann hatte er seinen Abschied genommen, war aber hier wohnen geblieben; er mochte sein Haus nicht im Stich lassen, es auch nicht während des Krieges zu einem Spottpreis verkaufen. Außerdem liebte er Bagdad und hatte sich im Lauf der Jahre an sein eigenartiges Klima gewöhnt und sich in diese bunte orientalische Welt, ihre Sitten und Sprachen — Richarz beherrschte fließend ihrer elf — so eingelebt, daß er mit seinen sechzig Jahren dieses ruhige, sorgenlose Dasein nicht ohne Zwang aufgeben wollte. Wie dunkel und farblos waren die Straßen Berlins und Hamburgs verglichen mit den Gassen Bagdads! Mit der Genauigkeit eines Uhrwerkes hatte er sein Tagewerk geregelt; pünktlich zur Sekunde nahm er seine Mahlzeiten, seine Bäder, machte er seine Spaziergänge, las er seine stark verspätet
einlaufenden Zeitungen oder die Schätze seiner Bibliothek, und ebenso regelmäßig verrichtete er seine Arbeiten für den deutschen Nachrichtendienst. Salon, Arbeitszimmer, Bibliothek und Speisesaal gingen auf die Galerie hinaus, die um den Hof lief. Im Salon stand ein über Meer und Ströme beförderter Flügel, dessen Innerm sein Besitzer schöne Melodien entlockte, denn er war sehr musikalisch und fand in einsamen Stunden am Klavier die beste Gesellschaft.
Graf Wilamowitz und Konsul Richarz auf dessen Kai in Bagdad
