O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [100]
Holmes started to rise, then paused to address Ali. “Shall I take it that you are now convinced of the need for this operation of ours?”
“If the monk in Wadi Qelt saw a man who looked as he described, by God, yes. Most certainly, there is urgent need.”
Holmes nodded, and stood up. He ducked across the corridor to his room and came back in a moment pushing his tobacco and rough papers into a pocket and carrying his sheepskin coat, which he proceeded to put on.
“I expect I shall be back before dark,” he told me. “If anything comes up, I shall try to send a message.”
“Wait and I’ll get my coat,” I said, getting to my feet.
“You have some sleep,” he said firmly. “If Mahmoud rounds up any newspapers or dispatches, go through them, see if anything catches your eye.”
“I don’t need any sleep.”
“Bazaar talk is a job for one person” (“one man,” he said in Arabic) “and I may need you tonight.” He left before I could formulate any lucid objections, a sure sign of my fatigue, so I went across to my own airless cubicle, jammed a wedge beneath the door, wrapped myself up on the mat, and so to sleep.
I awoke to the harsh, flat clang of bells. The crack of light around three sides of my door was dim, but natural, not from a lamp. I stretched, scratched myself thoroughly (the room had not been as free from insect life as I had optimistically thought), knotted my hair securely into my turban, and kicked away the wedge.
It was still daylight, but only just. There was no sign of Holmes, Ali, or Mahmoud, and no indication they had been back since I had gone to sleep. I felt logy, my bladder was full, and my teeth were covered with fur. I took up my abayya and made my way downstairs, used the privy and ran some water from a spigot to wash out my mouth and splash my face, and began to feel human again. I have never been one for naps in the afternoon.
As I walked back into the courtyard, a voice hailed me from one of the open doors, asking if I would drink tea. I agreed, with pleasure, and I did so, squatting against the sun-warmed stones with the young boy who brought it. Daylight was little more than a deepening blue in the square of sky over our heads, but the tea was flavoured with mint, hot and sweet and revitalising. I blew and slurped at it with pleasure indeed, and ate a handful of the candied almonds he offered me as well. When we had each asked politely half a dozen times how the other’s health was, and reassured each other that the tea was most agreeable, thanks be to God, I asked if he had seen my tall friend with the blue kuffiyah. The boy was heartbroken to admit that he had not seen the man since he had been seen walking through the gates into the street some time since, but he assured me that my friend would undoubtedly return soon, if it were God’s will. As I suspected that even Allah had little influence over the actions of Sherlock Holmes, I thought I might go out and see for myself.
I thanked the boy for his hospitality and we wished each other peace and good fortune. As I went out the gate, adjusting my abayya across my shoulders, it occurred to me that I had just conducted my first true conversation with a native speaker.
Our inn was at the edges of the Christian Quarter, a place well supplied with pilgrim hostels. I walked back towards the Jaffa Gate, and in the open place before the Citadel I turned past the Grand New Hotel and dived into the bazaar, picking my way cautiously down the slippery, uneven stones that were more stairway than street. On either side of me the sellers of carpets and clothing, mother-of-pearl knick-knacks, copper pots, and narghiles kept watch. When a European woman and her lieutenant escort approached, the raucous calls of “Bakshish!” and “See my carpets, madam, finest quality!” and “Olive-wood crosses from Bethlehem, effendi!” merged into a single sound which heralded their