O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [117]
“Well, if you plan an underground outing in the near future, do keep me in mind.”
“I shall indeed. In fact, why not next week? We could organise a family picnic into Solomon’s Quarries. Some of the younger children have never been in there. It might take a few days to clear the entrance of débris and check the roof for rocks that have worked their way loose, but it would be great fun. Do you know, I can’t remember the last time we did anything just for the pleasure of it.” His sallow cheeks had taken on a degree of colour, and he looked younger than he had before.
“What are Solomon’s Quarries?”
“An enormous cave directly beneath the city—its entrance is near the Damascus Gate. It was actually once a quarry, one can still see the chisel marks and a few half-separated blocks, but it’s probably not, as tradition has it, the source of the Temple blocks. As I remember, the stone is too soft.”
It would have to be a very large cave indeed to stretch to the Cotton Bazaar, thus undermining half the city, but it was underground, and underground was where my interests lay.
“I should be very interested to see it. How far back does it reach?”
“I don’t remember the exact measurement, offhand. Perhaps one hundred fifty, even two hundred yards.” My interest increased. Five or six hundred feet was a goodly distance in the tiny city.
“How does one enter it?”
“There used to be an iron gate, just east of the Damascus Gate. In fact, our store here at the Colony used to sell tickets for a franc. Not since the war, though. Just let me ask—O’Brien! Say, have you noticed any tourists going into the Cotton Grotto lately? No? I didn’t think so. We were just thinking of getting up a picnic down there. Miss Russell here—”
“What did you call it?” I interrupted urgently.
“Call what?” The intensity of my voice confused him. Several of our neighbours glanced over at me, but I paid them no mind.
“The cave. What did you just call it?”
“The grotto? Yes, that’s the other name for it. Less grand than Solomon’s Quarries, which is the name the tour books use. Locals go by the Arabic name. The Cotton Grotto.”
* * *
TWENTY-THREE
ل
The arts are well established in a city only after sedentary culture has a long duration there.
—THE Muqaddimah OF IBN KHALDÛN
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The conversations around our end of the table began to founder around the bulk of my stunned silence, until I pulled myself together, closed my jaw, and made some inane comment such as, “How very nice.” Voices started up again, but I did not dare look down to the other end; I could feel Holmes’ eyes drilling into me, but there was nothing for it now. We had to get through dinner first.
Fortunately, the pudding course was being set before us, soon to be followed by cheese, and then we ladies would excuse ourselves. Ought I to escape then? Or might there be further information to be got across the dining table? No, that would not be wise; I had not only monopolised a partner who was not my own but drawn attention to myself in the process. Best not pursue it now, I decided, and, gathering patience to me as firmly as I could, I turned to the small, nervous Belgian on my left. “What brings you to Jerusalem, Monsieur Lamartine?”
My patience was chafing me badly by the time we left the gentlemen to their cigars. I followed my hostess with a degree of apprehension; I have never been good at women’s conversation, for my mother died before I could learn the art of small talk with individuals who had no employment aside from needlework and children, and in addition I had not begun the evening with an image guaranteed to endear me to them. However, I need not have worried. In truth, I was impressed with these women, particularly the recently arrived Helen Bentwich, who had been active in the Land Army movement in Britain during the war. The war had changed us all, and although these ladies dutifully began with polite, shallow questions, we were very soon happily embroiled in three or four separate topics, the main two being Zionism’s relationship to Arab nationalism