And so I gave him the fidelity I had denied Grady and Chatterton, Lipgloss and Abdul. Each day, like a glittering knight, he ignored the thunder in his bowels and sallied forth to joust with the knavish Qazwini, whose ideas about the formation of a modern army were, to say the least, bizarre. And I trailed after him, his loyal and worshipful Panza.

Those daily disputations in the General’s House of the Martial Spirit were a litmus test of Asso-Israeli amity, a confrontation in a minefield which my father tried to defuse, seeking solutions even as Qazwini yelled and blustered. The very air reeked with the clash of their arguments; the General’s sweat mingled with Ish-Chayl’s redolence of myrrh and sandalwood.

They fought over everything. Every discussion sooner or later went sour, as sour as the General’s sweat. High on Qazwini’s agenda was the question of uniforms. He favored scarlet tunics with gold-braided fourrageres, like the dress regimentals of British officers he had seen in books.

Ish-Chayl tried to point out the advantages of camouflage. “Red scares off enemies,” the General replied. “We get red tunics or godammit I’ll push you through a wall.”

“We’ll put the question of uniforms on hold. Let’s move on.”

“What about the question of weapons? We put that on hold yesterday.”

Qazwini wanted Uzis for his troops. “Not until we can maintain some modicum of discipline,” Ish-Chayl said. “An army must have fire power,” the General said. “Give them Uzis and they’ll damned well learn discipline.” “They’ll shoot each other dead and then you won’t have an army.” “Uzis,” the General said, fingering his horse pistols, “or I’ll shoot you so dead you’ll stink before you hit the ground.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” the Colonel said, resisting arrogance with arrogance, as if he were bulletproof. “What’s next on the agenda?”

“Helicopter.”

My father stared up and away at the sculptured trusses of the enormous room; such was his habit when talk with Qazwini reached an impasse. As in the Hall of Harmony, the beams and columns were carved like snakes with scaly legs. The Colonel seemed to find them fascinating.

“Helicopter,” the General repeated. “Can’t you hear me?”

“We’ve been through this before.”

“I want a chopper to observe maneuvers. If I do not get a chopper I will drive a rock through you.”

“I suggest you control your impetuosity.”

“Why? I am a General. I outrank any Colonel in the whole world.”

On and on, again and again, Qazwini threatening mayhem like a club.