I can’t go in there dressed like this! But I have to. My God, he’ll get us both killed!
Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odors, unmistakable odors—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolledcoves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this el Shari el Mishkwiyis was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that many an officer borrowed a subordinate’s clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighborhood.
Men huddled in doorways, to Evan’s annoyance, for they obscured the barely legible numbers on the sandstone walls. He was further annoyed by the filthy intersecting alleys that unaccountably caused the numbers to skip from one section of the street to the next.
El-Baz. Number 77 Shari el Balah
—the street of dates. Where
was
it?
There it was. A deeply recessed heavy door with thick iron bars across a closed slot that was built into the upper panel at eye level. However, a man in disheveled robes squatting diagonally against the stone blocked the door on the right side of the tunnellike entrance.
“
Esmahlee?
” said Kendrick, excusing himself and stepping forward.
“
Lay?
” replied the haunched figure, asking why.
“I have an appointment,” continued Evan in Arabic. “I’m expected.”
“Who sends you?” said the man without moving.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I am not here to receive such an answer.” The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. “Again, who sends you?”
Evan wondered if the sultan’s police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. “I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,” he said rapidly. “I spoke—”
“A bakery?” broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. “There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.”
“Goddamnit,
baklava
!” spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. “Some asinine orange—”
“Enough,” said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. “It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A
baker
sent you, you see?”
“All right.
Fine!
May I go inside, please?”
“First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?”
“For God’s sake, the man who lives here … works here.”
“He is a man without a name?”
“Are you entitled to know it?” Evan’s intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.
“A fair question, sir,” said the Arab, nodding pensively. “However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—”
“Christ on a raft!” exploded Kendrick. “All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me
in
? I’m in a hurry!”
“It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir.
He
will let you in if it
Evan Kendrick hurried down the uneven layers of stone that was the narrow street, past low, run-down, congested buildings and half-buildings—crumbling structures with canvas and animal skins covering blown-out windows; those that remained intact were protected by slatted shutters, more broken than not. Bare wires sagged everywhere, municipal junction boxes having been spliced, electricity stolen, dangerous. The pungent smells of Arabic cooking intermingled with stronger odors, unmistakable odors—hashish, burning coca leaves smuggled into unpatrolledcoves in the Gulf, and pockets of human waste. The inhabitants of this stretch of ghetto moved slowly, cautiously, suspiciously through the dimly lit caverns of their world, at home with its degradation, comfortable with its insulated dangers, at ease with their collective status as outcasts—the ease confirmed by sudden bursts of laughter behind shuttered windows. The dress code of this el Shari el Mishkwiyis was anything but consistent. Abas and ghotras coexisted with torn blue jeans, forbidden miniskirts, and the uniforms of sailors and soldiers from a dozen different nations—soiled uniforms exclusively from the ranks of enlisted personnel, although it was said that many an officer borrowed a subordinate’s clothes to venture inside and taste the prohibited pleasures of the neighborhood.
Men huddled in doorways, to Evan’s annoyance, for they obscured the barely legible numbers on the sandstone walls. He was further annoyed by the filthy intersecting alleys that unaccountably caused the numbers to skip from one section of the street to the next.
El-Baz. Number 77 Shari el Balah
—the street of dates. Where
was
it?
There it was. A deeply recessed heavy door with thick iron bars across a closed slot that was built into the upper panel at eye level. However, a man in disheveled robes squatting diagonally against the stone blocked the door on the right side of the tunnellike entrance.
“
Esmahlee?
” said Kendrick, excusing himself and stepping forward.
“
Lay?
” replied the haunched figure, asking why.
“I have an appointment,” continued Evan in Arabic. “I’m expected.”
“Who sends you?” said the man without moving.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I am not here to receive such an answer.” The Arab raised his back, angling it against the door; the robes of his aba parted slightly, revealing the handle of a pistol tucked into an undersash. “Again, who sends you?”
Evan wondered if the sultan’s police officer had forgotten to give him a name or a code or a password that would gain him entrance. He had so little time! He did not need this obstruction; he reached for an answer. “I visited a bakery in the Sabat Aynub,” he said rapidly. “I spoke—”
“A bakery?” broke in the squatting man, his brows arched beneath his headdress. “There are at least three bakeries in the Sabat Aynub.”
“Goddamnit,
baklava
!” spat out Kendrick, his frustration mounting, his eyes on the handle of the gun. “Some asinine orange—”
“Enough,” said the guard, abruptly rising to his feet and pulling his robes together. “It was a simple reply to a simple question, sir. A
baker
sent you, you see?”
“All right.
Fine!
May I go inside, please?”
“First we must determine whom you visit. Whom do you visit, sir?”
“For God’s sake, the man who lives here … works here.”
“He is a man without a name?”
“Are you entitled to know it?” Evan’s intense whisper carried over the street noises beyond.
“A fair question, sir,” said the Arab, nodding pensively. “However, since I was aware of a baker in the Sabat Aynub—”
“Christ on a raft!” exploded Kendrick. “All right. His name is El-Baz! Now will you let me
in
? I’m in a hurry!”
“It will be my pleasure to alert the resident, sir.
He
will let you in if it
Similar Books
