The Haj - Leon Uris [220]
‘I know ... I know, Ibrahim,’ Gideon whispered.
‘Gideon, my brother, I am beaten.’ He wept.
Gideon held him tightly, then fell into the desk chair and hid his face in his arms on the desk.
‘If it had been up to you and me, Gideon, we would have made peace, wouldn’t we?’
Gideon shook his head no. ‘Only if you didn’t have your hands on our water valve.’
There was a desperate silence.
‘Only Allah can give me peace now,’ Ibrahim grunted.
Gideon heard the library door close. The Haj was gone forever.
16
THOSE OUTDOOR UMBRELLAED TABLES, so colorfully arrayed along the quays of the Limmat River, broke camp under the steady march of increasing cold. Although Ibrahim could no longer afford his daily respite of coffee, he remained welcome at the café. Franz still greeted him as a respected guest, found him a quiet corner table, and supplied him with coffee, sweets, and an occasional bowl of soup when the weather outside was particularly foul.
‘Haj Ibrahim.’
‘Yes, Franz.’
‘There is a telephone call for you in the manager’s office.’
‘For me?’
‘It is a lady. She asked to speak to me and she said, are you the gentleman who serves an Arab gentleman every day? She said she was an old friend whom you met in Damascus.’
‘Where do I take the call?’
Franz ushered him into a speck of an office and left discreetly.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Is this Haj Ibrahim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who this is?’ Ursula’s voice inquired.
‘It is a warm voice in a very cold place,’ he replied.
‘I am sorry I had to reach you in such a mysterious manner. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘There is something extremely important I have to discuss with you. Can you meet me?’
Ibrahim became cautious. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Do you know the Bahnhofstrasse?’
‘Only to look into store windows at things I cannot afford.’
‘That’s the street. Near the Baur au Lac Hotel you will find a shop called Madame Hildegard’s, which sells beaded and tapestry purses. I am calling from there. Can you come soon and make certain you are not being followed?’
Ibrahim did not answer.
‘I know what you must be thinking. I can assure you that you will be safe. I have kept many rendezvous here over the years. Hildegard is a close personal friend. We have done each other many favors ... without questions.’
‘All right, I will be there shortly,’ Ibrahim said after another pause.
‘Use the trade entrance. Hildegard has a small showroom in the back for special clients. She will be alerted for your ring.’
The Bahnhofstrasse, one of the world’s pricier shopping avenues, wore an elegant uniform of nearly matched, almost perfect nineteenth-century buildings. The shops therein contained a king’s hoard of treasured merchandise.
Ibrahim found Madame Hildegard’s and after a final hedging of suspicion pushed his finger on the doorbell. The door opened. He imagined the woman before him to be close to fifty years, but she was scented, beautifully bloused, elegantly coiffured, and obviously well traveled in the top echelons.
‘Ursula is waiting,’ she said and led him to the private showroom door. He entered and looked about. A small sitting room for the elite. Ursula stood in shadows wearing a hat with a veil.
‘This is where Hildegard shows the bags with the jeweled clasps.’
‘Is that you, Ursula?’
‘Forgive me for not greeting you more warmly. You will realize in a moment that I have been ill.’ She stepped forward and slipped into a brocaded easy chair but was still shadowed. Ibrahim approached and took the chair opposite her. Through the veil he could distinguish a face gone pasty. ‘I have been on drugs,’ she said, startling him with her candor. ‘I am not the Ursula you knew in Damascus.’
‘But I would still like to make love to you,’ Ibrahim said.
She pecked out a laugh. ‘You are gallant.’
‘It is not a lie,’ Ibrahim said.
‘Can we speak now?’
‘Yes, please tell me why