Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (4 page)

“But of course,” he said, returning her smile. “No problem.”

“After breakfast,” she emphasized, aware of the man leaning against the counter not far away, “I’ll wish a taxi to take me to the souks.” Holding up her guidebook she added, “This says the Citadel is in the top northwest corner of the Old City. That would be the best place to begin?”

Politely he leaned over to look at the small map. “Yes. You will want to see the Great Mosque, too, very near to it, but the Citadel is a good place to start. The taxi can stop you at the Souk Al Hamadye. You wish a guide?”

“Oh no, thank you. But a taxi, yes?”

He nodded. “When you have completed breakfast we will have taxi to wait. No problem.”

She thanked him cordially and went downstairs to the room where long tables had been arranged for buffet breakfasts. There she found that Farrell had preceded her and had been captured by an enthusiastic young couple who were plainly American, too. As Mrs. Pollifax joined them with her tray of food the young woman said, “We were just telling your cousin how you
must
take a drive up Mount Qasiyun; you can see all of Damascus spread out below you and there are cafés, and fun rides for children, and on the way”—she lowered her voice—“on the way our tour driver said we passed what they call the ‘security triangle,’ quite hidden, where the president, Mr. Assad, lives. On the mountain, way above the Sheraton Hotel.”

“And there’s a mosque on top of the mountain, too,” added her companion. “Going there certainly takes one above the smog, I might add. Finished, Becky?”

“Quite,” she said, beaming at them both, and put down her cup of coffee. “So nice talking to you,” she added. “We did the souks yesterday. Today …” She made a face. “Today the tour takes us to the museums.”

When they had gone Farrell said with a lift of an eyebrow, “Well, Duchess?”

“There will be a taxi,” she told him. “The Citadel being in the top corner of the map, it’s nicely accessible. My inquiries
were overheard, as expected … a short man with a mustache in a black suit.”

Farrell nodded. “I was up early and went out for a walk. Very crowded city, Damascus, a hell of a lot of soldiers posted everywhere—I suppose it solves the unemployment problem—and quite a traffic jam, so much so there are actually bridges built over the roads for pedestrians to cross.” He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips, and before sipping it added, “I was followed.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I think we are going to have to be
very
imaginative, ingenious and resourceful, Farrell. It’s strange, because on the surface everything is so benign, so ordinary, but underneath …”

“Exactly.”

She finished her egg, the cup of strong sweet coffee, and half of the unleavened bread they called
khobz
, dropping the other half into her purse for later. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Off we go, Duchess, but no Mount Qasiyun for us, alas.”

They ascended in the elevator to the lobby, where the hotel clerk looked disconcerted to see that she was not alone, but, rallying, he smiled. “The taxi, yes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He gestured to a porter, who led them out of the lobby and past the tour buses to an ancient Studebaker painted bright yellow, parked and waiting. “There,” he said. “Tak-see!” and to the driver, “Souk al Hamadye … la Citadelle!”

The driver leaped from the car to hold the door open for them, a broad-faced beaming man in a bright print sweater.
“Amerikâni,”
he said, tenderly helping Mrs. Pollifax into the rear seat.
“Aslan!
Welcome! My name is Abdul!”

“Shukren
, Abdul,” she told him cheerfully.

Once behind the wheel he shouted above the rattles of the car, “Me, I have cousin in”—he fumbled for the word—“Minapolis?”

“Minneapolis,” she said. “Lovely city.”

Farrell gave her an interested glance and she shrugged; certainly Minneapolis must be lovely, even though she’d never seen it. As they reached an intersection she nudged Farrell, discreetly pointing to the traffic policeman who was mounted on a high platform with what struck her as a charming black-and-white-striped miniskirt around its base. The car turned the corner with reckless abandon and Abdul said, “There is National Museum, you see?”

With a soldier and rifle, she noted.

“And that is army museum.” Again he slowed to point.

Two
khaki-clad soldiers on guard. “And the central post office.” Again soldiers with rifles. “And now Martyrs’ Square. Very busy this hour.”

“What are they doing?” Farrell asked, peering from the window. “Tossing out cartons of cigarettes?”

Abdul shrugged. “From Lebanon, they come each morning to sell.”

“Smuggled,” whispered Farrell, and to Abdul, “And for whom is Martyrs’ Square named?”

Abdul lifted both hands alarmingly from the wheel to shrug. “From many years back, you know? World War One.” Mercifully he returned his hands to the steering wheel. “The Ottomans very cruel; they hang patriots here. But now you see the gate and walls of Old City? I leave you at entrance to the souks, you walk straight—past shops—and there will be Citadel.”

He stopped the car, rushed to open doors for them and they shook hands with him, liberally tipping him, before he rattled off again in his Studebaker. “That car,” said Farrell, watching him leave, “has to be held together by baling wire and prayers. But Carstairs was certainly right about people being friendly.”

“Not everyone,” commented Mrs. Pollifax. “Don’t look now, but another car stopped behind Abdul, and there’s a man in dark glasses and a black suit getting out.”

“Tiresome,” murmured Farrell. “If it’s us he’s interested in, we have …” He glanced at his watch. “We have a little less than two hours to lose him. The trick will be to lose
him
, but
not
our way back to the Citadel, because from the look of the map the Old City’s a real maze.”

“We could sprinkle bread crumbs as we go,” said Mrs. Pollifax brightly. “Like Hansel and Gretel.”

Farrell laughed. “If I remember
that
nursery tale the birds then ate all the crumbs, removing all possibility of their return. How’s your sense of direction?”

“Only fair,” she admitted.

“Well, mine’s pretty well honed. Let’s go.”

“To be an authentic tourist I shall buy something,” she told him. “Didn’t it surprise you the amount of money Carstairs gave us?”

Farrell said dryly, “I’m not sure gifts were what he had in mind. Bribes, more likely. Baksheesh and all that.”

She didn’t question this, preferring not to, and in any case they were passing the ancient crumbling walls and entering old Damascus. They were also leaving behind the bright sunlight—it needed a moment for the eyes to adjust to the roofed passageways—but they exchanged sunshine for people, bright colors, the sound of shuffling feet on the cobbles,
voices, and from somewhere there came music, a woman singing in Arabic, with guitars plucked and men chanting. “Wonderful,” breathed Mrs. Pollifax.

“It would be
more
wonderful if we weren’t being followed,” growled Farrell.

She glanced back and sighed. “He does cling, doesn’t he … if discreetly.”

Ignoring him they gazed into stalls selling ice cream, tourist souvenirs, candy, and embroidered linens. Black-robed women passed them, and chattering schoolgirls in jeans and T-shirts, a man with a long white beard wearing a shabby djellaba, and everywhere merchants called out to them the pleasures of their merchandise.

Mrs. Pollifax abruptly stopped. “I must take a picture of this.”

“You brought a
camera?”

She nodded, smiling. “For Cyrus. I promised,” and she snapped a picture of a counter piled high with tubs of dates, eggplants, figs, and cucumbers. The merchant beamed at her and called to her,
“ ‘Berrid ‘alâ kalbak!”
and she snapped a picture of him, too. Strolling on past several more stalls she stopped in midpassageway and put out a hand to halt Farrell, pointing. “That man sells clothes,” she said. “I want a robe.”

The attentive man behind the counter smiled. “For women,
galabiyyas
 … very nice brocade, you like?”

“Oh no, a quiet one.” She selected a richly woven black robe with embroidery, tried it on, and without bargaining paid his price. “Just in case I need to blend into the scenery,” she told Farrell in a low voice, and looking him over critically added, “A pity you no longer have a mustache, you’re tanned, enough to almost look a native.” Turning back to the merchant she said, “And that white headscarf, please?”

“
Isharb
—kerchief,” she was told, and he showed her how it could be intricately wound around her head to fall in soft folds. Once both purchases were wrapped in brown paper and string they walked on until it was Farrell who stopped. “Good-looking sharp knives,” he said, fingering one. “How much?
Addaish?”

“Just in case?” she said dryly.

“Gives one a bit of confidence,” was all that he would say, pocketing it.

The narrow street of booths grew brighter, they saw light ahead and emerged in a broad square dominated by a large sand-colored building of intricately cut stones, surrounded by scaffolding.

“The Citadel,” breathed Farrell, pointing to a sign that identified it and explained in Arabic, French, and English that it was being restored. “So—we’ve found it,” said Farrell.

Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes, but it’s barely eleven o’clock and we can’t stand here for an hour.”

“Take a picture while I consult the guidebook,” said Farrell, and brought out his copy. “There’s a Street Called Straight recommended—that seems to really be its name, and—What’s the matter?”

“My camera, it’s jammed. Do you know anything about cameras?”

He thrust the guidebook at her. “Look up how we get to the Street Called Straight, I’ll see what I can do.”

Mrs. Pollifax traced lines on the tiny map and announced, “We walk to the Great Mosque and turn down whatever street we find across from it. It says the Street Called Straight proceeds all the way to the East Gate, where it ends. If it really is straight, Farrell, we shouldn’t get lost.”

“How old is this camera?” demanded Farrell.

Mrs. Pollifax made a face. “Quite old.”

He returned it to her with a shake of his head. “If it has gears, they’re worn out. If it doesn’t have gears I don’t know what else is wrong but Cyrus is going to have to settle for postcards. Let’s go, Duchess. On our way back to the Citadel—he’s still wandering around behind us, isn’t he?—we can detour into these smaller alleys and lose him.”

“Which we must,” she said, nodding, and regretfully put away the camera.

Once on the Street Called Straight she began to wish that she were a true tourist, for they passed exquisite silks, antique Turkish swords, Persian rugs, and tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “The Park Avenue of old Damascus,” she said, but at 11:20 they left the street to shake off their surveillant, turning into narrow alleyways with interesting twists and turns. Quickening their steps they ducked into an alley crowded with people, took a quick left turn and then a right, and found refuge behind a rug hanging seductively outside a shop, where they had the pleasure of seeing their surveillant pass them. A minute later they ducked out and retraced their steps. Once the Citadel was in sight they hung back until five minutes to the hour, and then strolled out into the square to stand conspicuously in front of the Citadel while Farrell ostentatiously examined their guidebook.

“No watchdog in sight,” she reported uneasily. “I believe we lost him. Not many people here either.”

A small group of tourists, not far away, surrounded a guide, listening to his lecture. A pair of women in dark robes and headscarves walked past them. With a glance at her watch Mrs. Pollifax dropped the map to the ground. A boy of nine or ten in a bright red sweater passed the tourists, and as he strolled toward them glanced down at the map. Before she
could stop him he politely bent over to pick it up, fumbled with it for a moment and handed it to her.
“Khud
, madam,” he said with a smile and a small bow.

But he had returned to her not only the map but a slip of paper with the printed words:
FOLLOW BOY, NOT FAST
.

Mrs. Pollifax reached into her pocket for a coin—an American fifty-cent piece—and gave it to him.
“Shukren,”
she said gravely and handed Farrell both the map and the note. “We go,” she said. “But slowly.”

“Thank heaven,” said Farrell.

Casually they strolled toward the same alley down which the boy had gone, his red sweater still in sight but at a distance. Seeing him turn left they quickened their pace, passing displays of water pipes, followed by a shop with children’s bright clothes hanging from rods. The boy had turned again, this time to the right, and they hurried lest they lose him in this labyrinth of stalls. They needn’t have worried. The boy paused at a souk displaying carpets of all kinds; he lingered only for a moment and then without looking back he slipped down a narrow brick-lined passage next to the rug stall. Following, they saw him open a handsome door of mahogany and disappear, leaving the door ajar.

“Here we go,” whispered Mrs. Pollifax, and took a deep breath.

Pushing the door open and closing it behind them they found themselves in a storeroom occupied by a desk piled high with papers and surrounded by roll upon roll of kilim and Oriental rugs standing upright, like sentinels. A particularly fine Oriental rug that hung from the far wall caught Mrs. Pollifax’s eye, and as she stepped closer to admire it a hand appeared, the carpet was drawn aside, and a man stepped out. He wore a voluminous striped robe and a checkered kaffiyeh
wrapped around his head and bound with a cord; he also wore sunglasses and a pointed beard so that in the dimness of the room it was impossible to see the features of his face clearly. Only the whiteness of his teeth penetrated the shadows as he smiled and bowed.
“As salaam alaikum.”

Mrs. Pollifax, remembering her adventures in Jordan, smiled and said,
“Alaikum as salaam.”

There was the flash of white teeth again. In clipped English he said, “And how is your health?”