372
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
Entering a stuffy little office, I talked to Glubb Pasha's
secretary, who said to me in a businesslike manner: "If Glubb
Pasha is not busy you may interview him now."
The Legion chief received me with a cordial smile in a
small room with a battered desk, stiff-backed chair, and two
telephones. A short, personable-appearing man with blond
hair and soft blue eyes, Glubb wore a mustache and a permanent smile that was caused by the removal of part of his
jawbone following an injury. Arabs called him Abou Hunaik,
Father of the Little Chin. Glubb was toying with his string
of amber beads, a habit of twenty-seven years among the
Arabs. He not only spoke the language fluently, but had also
endeared himself to the Arabs by squatting at meals and dipping greasy fingers into a communal dish of roast lamb buried
in a mound of rice with an icing of yoghourt, the Jordanian
national dish called mausaf. It was said that whenever conferring with Bedouins, Glubb—like Lawrence of Arabia—
would even scratch away at imaginary lice in order to establish
a common bond. But if I had any notion that Abou Hunaik
would talk, I lost it very soon. Charming and soft-spoken,
Glubb absolutely refused to answer questions.
"I am just an employee of His Majesty, King Abdullah. He
has engaged me to organize the Arab Legion as he might have
engaged you to do a book on Trans-Jordan."
Though I visited him again later, he refused to go beyond
this incredibly simplified version of his vital role in the complicated drama of Middle East politics. There was nothing for
me to do but forget my frustration and walk into the nearest
restaurant for dinner.
IN ARABIA DO AS THE ARABS DO
IT WAS a small place, heavy with kitchen odors. I sat opposite an Arab who was busy dipping pieces of bread in the