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"Hello", she said, "I’m Ely." She paused for affect, so I nodded gravely.

"You are Dr. Dixon. I am to be your secretary.

Again the pause, so this time I spoke, firmly but pleasantly. "That will be nice."

"And your personal assistant", she breathed.

"I will sit out there," she pointed dramatically to an outer office, "and be at your call and beck." "At my what?" I asked, now with interest and a little alarm. "At your call and beck. You people say ‘beck and call’, but like so many things you are wrong." This time a note of mystery had crept into her voice, but before I could react she had made a theatrical exit to her typewriter in the wings. Faced with this new situation I decided not attempt to disturb the due processes of fate. So I sat it out until the next act.

Her name was Elionora and I think I would have loved her for that alone, in that poetic land of wine and oil. She had been at school in England and, I suspect, longed to return. But now a husband and two small children trapped her in the sprawling city between sand and mountains. I met her children once, the one aged three, so like Ely, riding a tricycle around the table top while sipping at my whisky, and the other so like her husband, laying across the table to be ridden over twice every revolution. Typically, I had gone to her apartment one afternoon with the veiled promise of things to come only to find her children, her maid, her husband’s mother and her husband there, with not the slightest hint of an explanation as to the reason for my presence. She told me afterwards that she had done it to see how I would react.

She reappeared before luncheon to announce the arrival of my motley crew, assembled from the outposts of our far-flung Empire. "This" she said breathlessly, "is your leader, Dr. Dixon." and then introduced them to me one-by-one and with considerable formality, quoting from time-to-time from their curricula vitae. She new very well that I had worked with them for ten years or more and that we had all dined together in London only 24 hours before.

Dazed from the upset to their metabolic clocks and the affects of heavy and continuous drinking throughout their circuitous journey, the team stood fidgeting, awaiting the call to luncheon and the attendant liquid refreshment. Ely looked them over, slowly. Then she turned to me. "You people will be no match to these people. These people will drive you mad with good manners and deceit. You will achieve nothing and go home broken men, like poor Mr. Elberry, they played mouse and cat with him as they will with you, until finally they pounce." Her longest speech yet, but no exit this time, clearly awaiting a reply, perhaps a policy statement or a speech of defiance.

"We will now retire for luncheon." I announced diplomatically.

That afternoon Ely had the air of an efficient secretary, clattering away on her typewriter, although we had given her no work to do, and sending in, every few minutes it seemed, strong tea or black coffee. It takes more than that to disturb my equanimity so I awaited her next gambit with growing confidence. It came just as I was about to pack my important-looking brief case and to put on my customary air of bustling efficiency prior to leaving that haven of oriental bureaucracy. She came in, circumnavigated my desk and myself, and placed her hands on my shoulders, with her hair lightly touching my cheek. "Good heavens," I thought, "is she going to strangle me?" But I retained my icy calm, determined that if I had to go, I would go with dignity. After an aeon she spoke, this time registering an almost maternal concern. "I have come to warn you. At lunchtime you were observed. You must be more careful, these people will stop at nothing to discredit you people."

"Observed?" I enquired.

"Yes," she said "by a shy and sensitive girl from the typing pool. She was deeply shocked and was sent to the medical centre for a sedative. Of course, she had to explain the reason."

"Perhaps she could share her shocking experience with us?" I asked.

"You people had six bottles of wine with your luncheon and you made speeches and laughed."

"The wine was no laughing matter," I explained, "the first two bottles were so bad, we had to drink them quickly to dull our palates prior to the next four. And anyway the bottles appeared to have very thick walls. Further to that it is our custom to make speeches on formal occasions such as luncheon and to exchange merriments over the cigars and brandy."

Her arms slipped over my shoulders and her hands rested on my chest. "That may be true in England, but here, with these peoples’ cigars and brandy and their prying eyes it is impossible to be merry unless you were drunk."

"You are a very perceptive girl, Ely", I mused, as she slipped out of my office and ran down the corridor towards the lifts.

Ely was Armenian and expressed both contempt and fear of "These people" and often hinted that she would rather be with "You people". Her way of hinting was to tell us that we must not be disappointed that she might not be able to come back with us, but that she had her husband and her children to think about and anyway she would probably drive "You people" mad.

Despite her suspicions of "These people" she regularly held court in her outer office at lunchtimes with half-a-dozen so admirers, all jockeying to sit next to her and discussing at length in their tongue the idiosyncrasies of "You people". On my return from luncheon she would dismiss them with a gesture of her hand and they would scurry away like rabbits to compose memoranda to each other for the remaining part of the day. She explained that they were all deeply in love with her, unlike the rest of "These people" who only wanted a "nasty and cheap affair".

One morning she came and stood silently in front of me. (I had taken to standing up whenever she entered as a precautionary measure against being strangled.) After a minute or so, with panic creeping up on me, she murmured meaningfully, "the others have all gone to meetings. We are alone!"

"Just the two of us", I said, playing for time.

"You may kiss me, but only, as yet, on the cheek."

"But it is only eight o’clock in the morning."

"Kiss me," she said, "I will not tell these people."

Afterwards she was happy for an hour or two, clattering away at non-existent typing, telephoning to make appointments for me with people who had long since died and sending in, this time, glass after glass of hot milk..

Then she came in again and gripped me tightly by the wrist, for all the world as if she was about to execute a ju-jitsu throw. "You must not be too disappointed that I do not go to bed with you," she instructed, "I have slept only with my husband, and then not before marriage."

"Well done." I said weakly. It was still only ten-thirty in the morning and I had the beginnings of acute stomach discomfort from over-indulgence in hot milk.

Ely was always extremely well informed, not only on the attitudes and prejudices (real and imaginary) of "These people" towards our particular brand of patent management medicine, but also of the antics and peccadilloes of my team. It has been my practice over many years to ignore completely the continuous innuendo that engulfs our little projects and to defend staunchly the specific allegations made against my colleagues. Never have I considered it necessary or even desirable to ascertain the true facts behind a particular accusation and on those rare occasions when they have been forced upon me I have treated it subsequently as an unpleasant dream bought upon by poor port or over-ripe Stilton.

With Ely, however there was some macabre fascination in hearing her tell of outrageous behaviour and the forthcoming dire consequences. There was Baker for example who she did not like, middle aged and apparently pedestrian, who with the staid fussiness of the confirmed bachelor had prepared himself for a tour of the desert installations. Among other things this had involved an entourage of local linguists, advisors and travelling companions and a military helicopter so, as he had put it, "a third dimension may be added to our views on administration within the arid sector."

"The conceit of the man," she announced, "what circumstance and pomp! Anyway he will be sick as dog in front of these people when helicopter drops like stone and will have to continue by road."

Baker had in fact won a rather good Military Cross for jumping out of moving aeroplanes and dropping lightly in the middle of enemy troop concentrations to reap havoc until captured. However Ely was convinced that "he was pushed out of aeroplane for overbearing attitude and on reaching ground lashed out like frightened animal until overpowered and locked up."

It was clear from the start that the helicopter would go to Baker’s head. Far from sick as dog, Ely’s intelligence reports showed that he was setting a pace much too hot for his native bearers who in the main were travelling behind in car and truck. They would arrive at one township at midday to find Baker replete after a formal luncheon with the mayor, and about to hop over a mountain range for a further civic reception at the next town down the line. Some hours later they would arrive bedraggled, dusty and thirsty to hear that the red-faced Englishman had flown on for dinner aboard ship somewhere in the Gulf. Once they had arrived just as his helicopter lifted dustily and noisily off the town square to the sounds of ‘There’ll always be an England’ played by a makeshift military band sweating it out at 120 degrees in the shade. In the great Oil City on the Gulf he had apparently given a speech of welcome on behalf of the government to a group of visiting Mormons and had received a free guarantee of eternal happiness. He had also read from the works of the poet to a diplomatic mission from communist China.

Ely approved of none of these goings on, but Baker was still at large and apparently unstoppable. Then came the Incident which Ely was convinced would bring not only his downfall but also result in the removal of the entire team. She wore black the day she told me of it.

"We must not kiss today, it would be unseemly. There is grave news from the desert concerning your Mr. Baker." She waited for me to break down.

"Tell me it quickly, it will be easier that way." I implored.

"He has killed a donkey."

"What, in hand to hand combat?" I gasped.

"It does not matter how. The donkey remains on the roadside for all to see. These people will hear of it and that will be the end of your precious Mr. Baker."

"Ely," I said, "the Irish have what they call a Wake on occasions of bereavement. You will come with me to seek solace in that same manner."

Actually, the affair of the donkey did threaten to blow up into a major incident, completely vindicating Ely’s perspective of relative importance. Baker was called in front of some high authority set up to investigate fully the demise of the lowly quadruped. The Embassy regretted that "in view of the oil, etc,etc" and Ely was convinced that Baker would "once again be put behind foreign bars", implying that his incarceration would be richly deserved for invading the peace and quiet of helpless peasants and for the possession of an iron constitution.

On Baker’s return, which in itself was a bitter disappointment to her, she was for the only time I has witnessed, rendered speechless by his review of the proceedings. "It could have been sticky", he drawled, "but luckily the chairman of this bloody donkey committee used to fag for me at Harrow."

Ely also developed a strong dislike for Evans, another, younger, bachelor who had appealed to her at first because he did not appear to be in love with her, but, for the very same reason, quickly went out of favour.

"He is such a timid boy, quite frightened of women. I was sorry for him at first, but he does nothing to help himself. He is perhaps a homosexual or maybe he only loves his mother."

Evans, like many Welshmen was greatly over stimulated sexually and annoyingly successful in the pursuit of women. The reason why he had resisted Ely’s advances was that his paranoia had convinced him that she was a Colonel in the Secret Police, and for purely tactical reasons I was not disposed to disillusion him. Anyway, he could easily have been right.

The cumulative affects of physical proximity to Ely, her hints at his lack of manliness and his unshakeable conviction that even a high pulse rate would lead to his indefinite imprisonment without trial was bound to have a violent ending. Evans left the hotel one evening with some inebriated offshore oil riggers and quite a roll of notes. I had my report from Ely first thing next morning.

"He ran amok. Street girls said they had never been so insulted and even taxi drivers had not heard such bad language. Restaurant says he sang many times about some welcome waiting on a hillside and that he is not so welcome himself now. At nightclub he danced on table with shirt undone, like Tree in Storm. The police they were frightened of him and so could not take him home. They had to wait until he was exhausted and unconscious before they could return him to you."

"Well", I said, "boys will be boys."

"Last night", she said, "he was a man!" If I hadn’t known her better I would have sworn that there was a tear in her eye.

An hour later she rushed into my room, and before I could adopt a defensive posture she flung her arms around me. "Mr. Evans is dying. We must fetch an ambulance, but it is already too late, he is being sick and with much blood. A haemorrhage." I did not like to tell her that for once her spies had failed her, for Evans had indeed been delivered to my hotel room where to quieten him down I had given him a bottle of cherry vodka, which no doubt accounted for his alarming and colourful vomiting.

"These people cannot understand your Mr. Cash," announced Ely, "in the day he shouts at them and tears his hair and in loud asides to your people he refers to them as wogs. Yet at night he dines with these people, eats their caviar and drinks their champagne with arms around their women."

"A remarkable performance for a man of his age."

"Be quiet and listen," she continued, dismissing my interjection. "He is now telling them that he is to apply for citizenship. Imagine, Mr. Cash one of them!"

Nothing Cash does suprises me, especially if is in the atmosphere of caviar, champagne and other peoples’ women, but I was mildly interested in how a sixty year old English Nationalist intended to become a citizen of the Orient.

"He is first to become a Muslim, which he says is merely a matter of a donation in the right place. Then he is eligible to take one of their women as a second wife. This will give him an automatic right to citizenship." I know Cash’s existing wife, and I am sure she would disapprove of the scheme, but before I could comment, Ely went on. "I know he is not serious, he is drunk when he says these things, but these people do not know that. They are fearful that at his age, with one of their women he would die of a surfeit of passion. These women once they have hold of a man will not let him go for nights on end."

Cash has since that time survived many a passionate night under his new name, Abou Ben Cashmoodi. He has not restricted himself to four wives either, nor has he bothered to complete the formalities of becoming a Muslim and claiming his right to citizenship. I do not think he has mentioned the arrangement to Mrs. Cash, either.

"So today you are going to meet His Majesty to discuss your report. I have read it all, even though you did not trust me with the typing of certain parts. The foolish girl who you did trust was not able to work the copying machine and so had to ask me." Earlier Ely had been angry that certain pages were missing, but now that she had triumphed, her rebuke was of a gentle and forgiving nature.

"These people will not in twenty years be able to implement even the first page of your recommendations. It is only their conceit that makes them pretend that they can understand it. Also they do not know that you are laughing at them and treating their national aspirations with levity."

"We are professional people, Ely. We must stand back and be objective, and they on their part must move with the times."

"You lie with a smile on your face," she cried with glee, "that is why they are beginning to like you. Anyway I have come to warn you that you must not treat His Majesty with levity. Unlike them he is not a fool, and unlike the donkey man he was not at school wearing short trousers with your Mr. Baker. He will say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and that will be final."

We returned directly from the Imperial Palace, to find Ely waiting for us at the empty offices. "I have heard that you were in the presence of His Majesty for thirty four minutes. That means he has said ‘yes’. You have won." She then left immediately, but popped her head back through the door, "You have set these people back fifty years." Her laughter reverberated through the empty corridors.

We sat together in the candle-lit restaurant, as always when Ely was around, the focus of attention. She would insist on a table in an alcove or in the darkest part of the room so that we should avoid recognition, and then by knocking the wine over or picking an argument with a waiter, ensure that all around knew of our clandestine dinner. To me it did not matter, it was her company I sought. To her it was all important that an atmosphere be generated, of mystery, intrigue or mad jealousy. It would no doubt have stimulated her appetite had I sought fit to have indulged in a knife fight with a fellow diner prior to the aperitifs, but the nearest we had come to violence had been when she had announced with excitement that her husband was demanding an explanation from me.

"He wants to know what you are doing with me when the working day is done."

"Have you told him that we sit in the market drinking pomegranate juice with Abou Ben Cashmoodi, or that we recount together tales of the Baker’s progress through the arid sector?"

"Of course not. He would not believe such things. I have told him nothing and now he wishes an explanation from you."

"Then he must ask for it in the appropriate way. He must send a note by his manservant or cast a glove into my face."

"He is too shy," she explained, "he is young and does not understand you people. I will tell him he must no longer enquire of our relationship."

We could see the giant aeroplane glistening in the heat with the backdrop of the snow-clad mountains. "You are going now," she said, with the appropriate touch of sadness, "perhaps you will come back some day, for these people now like you. They realise that you mean them no harm and that they can continue to go along their polite and deceitful ways."

"Even after the haggis?" I enquired.

"The haggis!" She squealed with delight. "Weren’t these people all so ill and sick! And the bagpipes, like dying cats, and Mr. McGillies reading from his Scottish poet! And you people all dressed up in skirts and these people doing a belly dance with Mr. Evans. They knew then they had met their match."

One more mouthful of caviar, one more sip of champagne.

"Good bye, Elionora."

"Good bye, Dr. Dixon, think of me sometimes. Wherever you people are going you will not meet another Ely."

As always, she was so right.

©  Vic Forrington  2003