City of Jasmine (4 page)

He shrugged. “It is a pretty and popular piece, madame.”

“I think it is more than that. I believe you paid the conductor to play it. Why?”

His dark eyes gleamed. He was enjoying himself. “Madame is observant.”

“Madame is a little impatient, as well. Why did you pay him? Did someone pay you?”

He shrugged again. “It is customary to pay extra for special services,” he said blandly.

The hint did not go amiss. I fished in my tiny beaded bag and withdrew a paper note. His eyes lit with avarice and he plucked the note from my fingers, whisking it into his pocket before I could object.

“To answer your question, madame, yes. I was asked to make this request of the conductor.”

“By whom?”

He rolled his eyes heavenward and I took out another note. He made to take it, but this time I held it just out of reach.

He sighed. “Ah, madame grows cynical.
Quelle dommage.
Very well. I was given money to request the song, but monsieur was most insistent that it be played immediately.”

“Describe monsieur for me, please.”

He thought. “My own height, perhaps a little less slender. Dark hair and dark eyes with tiny moustaches. An Arab,” he added. “And a very young one. Not yet twenty.”

My racing heart slowed. It could not be Gabriel. The maître d’ was less than five foot eight and inclined to slight embonpoint around his middle. Gabriel had been six feet even and well-built. Even more damning, although he had dark hair, his gentian blue eyes would have given him away even if he could have passed for someone almost two decades his junior, which I distinctly doubted.

The maître d’ winkled the note out of my fingers. “Does madame have any more questions?”

“Yes,” I said suddenly. “How much did he pay you?”

“Two hundred francs.”

“And how did he pay?”

“In two 100-franc banknotes, madame.”

“You gave one to the conductor?”

He gave an indulgent laugh. “Madame underestimates me. I gave him fifty francs.”

I pulled out the largest banknote I had in my bag. “Give me the notes he gave you.”

He took the note from me and held it up to the light.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m no counterfeiter!”

He threw up his hands with a gusty sigh. “Madame must forgive my cynicism, but it is the burden of the Frenchman. When a lovely woman wishes to pay him far more for his money than it is worth—” He trailed off, leaving me to draw my own conclusions.

“You’re quite right to be cautious. But I think there may be something for me on one of the notes.”

He lifted his brows, a delighted smile playing about under his moustache. “La! An intrigue! Why did madame not say so before?”

He drew out the two hundred-franc notes and handed them over, happily pocketing the larger note I had given him in exchange. He leaned over while I examined the notes.

“What do they say, madame? Anything?”

I scrutinised the notes in the dim light. “Nothing,” I said, but even as the word was out of my mouth, I saw it. In faint pencil, on the very edge of the note. REAPERS HOME.

“But what does this mean, madame?”

I forced a bright smile and brought out another banknote to press into his hand. “It is an assignation. I must trust in your discretion, monsieur.”

He pocketed the banknote swiftly as he bowed. “But of course, madame! I am the very soul of discretion. It is more than my life is worth not to be,” he added with a wistful smile. No doubt he had seen his share of intrigues and thought himself a sort of Cupid, helping them along. Or he simply enjoyed the extra money he extorted for his silence.

I slipped the notes into my décolletage and slid out of the alcove, fluffing my hair as I made my way back to the table.

Halliday rose and handed me a fresh glass of champagne.

“Feeling better?” Aunt Dove asked.

“Much. It was wretchedly hot on that dance floor,” I said, turning from one to the other with a smile. I lifted my glass in a toast. “To Damascus. To old friends and new.”

We drank together and Halliday and Aunt Dove fell into conversation about what we ought to see and do in Damascus. I tried to keep up my end, but my thoughts kept turning to the banknotes rustling in my cleavage, and when Halliday at last dropped us at our hotel I was grateful to bid Aunt Dove good-night and go directly to my room. To Aunt Dove’s disappointment, Halliday hurried away, and I felt a trifle guilty I had warned him off. He was a big boy. I had no doubt he could take care of himself and would be gentleman enough to be gracious to Aunt Dove when he rebuffed her advances. Still, it was sometimes better to head off trouble at the pass, I had found, and I would have hated to lose Mr. Halliday as a connection. I had a feeling he could prove useful to us, and with so little to go on, I wanted every possible advantage in tracking down the facts behind the photograph.

I pulled out the banknotes and studied them again. There was nothing remarkable about them, no other pencilled messages, no distinctive scent. Just those two words and the song the orchestra had played. “Salut d’Amour
.
” It was a beautiful melody with just a touch of nostalgia to save it from sentimentality. There was something haunting and old-fashioned about it, and although Gabriel and I had quarrelled good-naturedly about music, it was the one song we had agreed upon. I could never convince him that jazz was going to be the next big thing any more than he could make me love Palestrina. But “Salut d’Amour” had been ours. We had danced to it the first night we met and every night after. No matter how badly we fought or how cold our silences had become, every evening after dinner Gabriel had started up his gramophone and played it, taking me in his arms and leading me into a sweeping turn that left me dizzy.

I tucked the banknotes into my cleavage and wound up the tiny gramophone I carried with me on my travels. It took me a few minutes to find the right recording, but at last I did. I went to the window, opening the pierced shutters to look out over the sleeping city. The moon was waxing and hung half-full like some exotic silver jewel just over the horizon. From the courtyard below rose the scent of jasmine on the cool night air. A slender vine had wound its way up to the balcony, and I reached out, pinching off a single creamy white blossom. I lifted it to my nose, drinking in the thick sweetness of it as it filled my head, sending my senses reeling. There was something narcotic about that jasmine, something carnal and ethereal at the same time. I crushed the petals between my fingers, taking the scent onto my skin. It was not a fragrance to wear alone. It was too rich, too heady, too full of sensuality and promise. It was a fragrance for silken cushions and damp naked flesh and moonlit beds. I rubbed at my fingers, but the scent clung tightly, keeping me company as I sat in the window, listening to a song I had almost forgot and thinking of Gabriel Starke and the five years that stretched barrenly between us.

Three

The next morning I popped in to see Aunt Dove just as she finished her breakfast in bed.

“Oh, this apricot jam is absolutely exquisite. Did you have some, dear?” she asked, feeding the last bits to Arthur Wellesley on a piece of bread.

“I did, and it was sublime. What shall we do today?” I asked. I was already washed and dressed and only the tiniest bit put out that she hadn’t even risen yet.

She gave me a wan smile. “Do you mind terribly going on without me? I’m afraid I’ve caught the indolence of the East and I’m feeling lazy as a harem girl today.”

It wasn’t the East so much as the relentless travel of the past few months, I thought. Her complexion was a little paler than I liked, and in spite of her delight in the jam, most of her breakfast had gone untouched.

“You’re off your feed,” I said, helping myself to a fig. “Shall I call the doctor?”

She flapped a hand, startling Arthur, who retreated to the bedstead, squawking irritably.

“Heavens no! You know what English doctors are like—all purgatives and little pills. No, I just need rest, child, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. You’ll see.”

“If you’re sure,” I said a trifle uncertainly.

“Quite,” she assured me, clipping off the syllable sharply. “Now, I don’t like the notion of you bumbling around Damascus on your own. You’re far too pretty for that. You will want a dragoman.”

“Aunt Dove, really! I hardly think they go in abducting women off the streets. I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe.”

She wagged a finger at me. “I mean it, Evie. I know this part of the world. Arabs could teach the English a thing or two about courtesy, but there are more than Arabs in Damascus. Some of those wretched Turks—”

I held up a hand before she had a chance to warm to her theme. “I’m sure there are perfectly courteous Turks to be found, as well. But if it makes you happy I’ll engage a dragoman and see the city in style. Is that better?”

“Much.” She began thumbing through the letters on her tray, clearly finished with me now that I had promised to be a good girl.

I left her then, dropping a kiss to her cheek and nearly getting pecked by Arthur for my troubles. I opened my phrasebook and began to sound out a few key words. I was so immersed that I completely missed the last step of the stairs, stumbling neatly into a young Arab man.

He caught me, setting me gently on my feet, then dropped his hands at once, bowing gracefully.

“Oh, forgive me,
sitt!
It is not proper to put hands upon a lady. I have offered the gravest offence.”

“Don’t be silly. You saved me from a nasty fall,” I said, smiling to reassure him I was not offended.

I didn’t bother to ask how he knew to address me in English. The hotel catered to an international crowd, and English or French was any Damascene’s best bet if he wanted to make himself understood.

I thought my smile and pleasant tone would convince him I was not bothered, but he looked up at me, his expression stricken.

“But you must permit me to make amends.”

I bit back a smile. He was very young, no more than fifteen, I guessed, and so earnest, I hadn’t the heart to let him think I found him amusing when he was taking the whole thing so seriously.

I inclined my head with as much gravity as I could manage. “That isn’t necessary,” I assured him. “There is no offence, and I thank you for your quick thinking.”

I moved to go past him, but he darted in front of me, his dark brown eyes snapping brightly.

“Then the
sitt
will consider hiring Rashid as dragoman,” he said suavely.

That time I did smile. He was slender as a girl and far younger than the dragomen who clustered about the court waiting for clients. But he had a true entrepreneur’s spirit, and he had seized the advantage in speaking to me.

Still, I thought a fellow with experience might be best, so I shook my head.

“Thank you, but no.”

I stepped forward and he dodged in front of me again, his striped robe billowing.

“Then the
sitt
speaks untruly, for she has not forgiven me,” he said, his face mournful as he turned those expressive dark eyes heavenward.

“Oh, really, that’s not fair,” I said, laughing. “You can’t think I would actually hold a grudge over something so trivial. I promise, I haven’t. It’s just that I want a dragoman with experience.”

He rose to his full height, which was very nearly my own, and lifted his chin as his hands sketched a graceful gesture. “I have experience,
sitt.
I am a gentleman of this city.”

The words were spoken with a solemnity beyond his years, and I suppressed another smile.

“And I suppose you have twelve cousins who all own shops and want you to bring business there, is that it?”

He scowled a little. “I have no kinsmen in
trade,
” he said, nearly spitting the word. “I am a son of the desert.” He finished with a little flourish and a phrase that sounded something like
ibn al-Sahra.

“You are a Bedouin then?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself. To the casual traveller, all Arabs were alike. But I had learned enough from Gabriel to understand that the Bedouin were special. Nomadic and proud, they were held to be the very embodiment of Arab virtues. They were more than a little fascinating, and I found myself giving way almost before I knew it.

“I haven’t much money to pay you,” I warned him. I had finally opened the fuel bill for the
Jolly Roger
and it had been so horrifying I had thrust it at once into the toe of an old boot.

He made another graceful gesture and named a price. It was so low, no other dragoman would have taken as much to get out of bed in the morning, but I was in no position to question him. I agreed and he grinned—a beautiful, engaging smile. He was a remarkably handsome young man, and he must have set a dozen hearts fluttering back home.

But he was all business as we ventured into the city. He might have charged me a pittance, but he was determined to be the best dragoman in Damascus. He hailed taxis, nipping neatly into traffic to snatch them up before anyone else could. He kept a sunshade firmly over my head, scolding me for coming out with only a small-brimmed hat as we made our way through the old city.

Rashid was as good as his word. He was knowledgeable and courteous, and when it was time to lunch, he guided me to a small restaurant where a Western woman eating alone would not attract too much unwanted attention. There was no menu—only Rashid, speaking firmly to the staff about what he wanted. They brought out dish after dish of delicious things, from stewed chicken with pistachios to a pomegranate custard that melted on my tongue. I finally pushed away from the table, groaning a little as I did so.

“I ought never to have doubted you, Rashid,” I told him. “That meal alone was worth engaging your services.”

He made another of his courtly bows. “Now, the
sitt
must see the city as only a Damascene can show it.”

“I thought you were a son of the desert,
ibn al-Sahra,
” I replied mischievously, mangling the phrase as I tried to repeat what he had said earlier.

“Only a son of the desert can truly appreciate the city of princes,” he replied smoothly.

He guided me through the temples and mosques and
souks,
making our way from one end of the old city to the other. Together we strolled the stony streets and Rashid, much to my surprise, kept his word about keeping the merchants away. He waved off the fruit sellers and spice merchants alike, turning down offers of excellent prices on rugs and perfumes and brassware. It was only when a fabric merchant flung himself in front of us and unrolled his wares that I paused.

“You know, that stuff isn’t half-bad. I think I’d like to have a look,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes. “It is not good enough for the
sitt,
but he will have better inside the shop.”

“Will he?”

He shrugged. “Of course,
sitt.
He will not keep his best wares in public view. The most special things are guarded for the very best customers.”

I followed him into the shop where the merchant stood bowing and expressing his delight at having an exalted English lady in his place of business. He ordered his wife to bring tea and while we waited he showed me his stock.

Rashid frowned at him and the merchant held up his hands, darting a quick apologetic glance at me. “But I think you would not be interested in such trifles. For you I will bring out the very best of my fabrics.”

His wife entered with the tea then, and we paused to observe the customary civilities. I had already learned that negotiations with an Arab were not a thing to be undertaken quickly. Like most Easterners, they were immensely hospitable and expected any interaction between people, even strangers doing business, would be punctuated with refreshment and pleasant conversation. In this case, the tea tray was laden with glass cups full of black tea heavily sweetened and spiced with a little crushed cardamom. His wife had brought biscuits, as well, dry things that tasted a little soapy, but I soon discovered they were edible if I dunked them quickly in the tea.

“Ah, how clever madame is!” the shopkeeper proclaimed, and he dunked his, as well. He leaned closer and gave me a knowing look. “My wife is very beautiful and she bears me sons, but her cooking...” He rolled his eyes heavenward, and threw up his hands.

We drank several small, heavily sweetened glasses of tea while the merchant talked about his shop. He had taken the business over from his father, who had sold beautiful fabrics, as well, and
he
had learned the trade from
his
father, and so the conversation went, pleasant and innocuous, but heightening my anticipation besides. It was masterfully done, and by the time he unrolled the fabrics, I was already persuaded I would buy from him no matter the cost.

He needn’t have bothered with the theatrics. The fabrics would have sold themselves. In the end, I chose for Aunt Dove an inky blue damask, heavy and expensive. “It will make a splendid dressing gown for her,” I mused aloud. “Perhaps with a nice hanging sleeve. Something deliciously medieval. She can play at being Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

The merchant bowed, but Rashid gave me a disapproving look. “The
sitt
does not buy for herself? This will not do.” He went to the shelves and rummaged through the treasures until he unearthed a deep green silk shot with gold. “This,
sitt.
A gown of this to match the green of your eyes.”

“I don’t have green eyes. They’re brown,” I corrected.

He shook his head. “They are the same colour as the spring grass on the breast of Mount Hermon,” he said flatly. “Green and brown mingled together. This is a welcome colour to the Bedouin,
sitt.
I do not make a mistake.”

“Fine, they’re hazel,” I responded, compromising. “And I suppose this green will light them up.”

“In this colour, the
sitt
will be irresistible to all men.”

I raised a brow at him, but he wasn’t wrong. Green did bring out the best in my eyes, coaxing the hazel to something altogether more brilliant. Gabriel had loved me in green for that very reason. I hadn’t worn it since his death, but in that crowded little treasure trove of a shop, I did not let that stop me. I signalled to the merchant that I would take a length of it, and I threw in a length of white patterned on white, as well. Rashid nodded his satisfaction at the price and told the fellow to send them along to the hotel when they were parceled up.

When we emerged into the sunlight, I felt a little dazed after so much time in the dim shop and so many glasses of sweet tea. We walked slowly so that I could enjoy the shop fronts, and I sighed over one piled high with gorgeous confectionery.

“All things shall be as the
sitt
wishes,” he said. He darted into the shop, my stalwart cavalier in a striped robe. I moved on to the next window wondering if Rashid were going to present a problem. He had been sweetly authoritative, but the last thing I needed was a boy following me about like a hound puppy. A wiser woman might have paid off Rashid and let him go at the end of the day, but it occurred to me he was a stellar dragoman and seemed to know everyone and everything about the city. It was just possible he might be able to help me stumble onto some clue to Gabriel’s whereabouts.

Rashid returned quickly, wearing a satisfied expression. He reached into his robe and pulled out a paper parcel, opening it to reveal a slab of pistachio toffee layered with crushed, sweetened rose petals. “For you,
sitt.
That you may know fully the sweetness of Damascus.”

“How lovely. Thank you, Rashid.” I broke a piece free and nibbled a little off one corner. “Oh, that is sublime!”

He made a grave bow. “Now I think we shall go to the Great Mosque.”

He led the way while I walked slowly, eating my rose-scented toffee. The Great Mosque was the centrepiece of Damascus, the most recognisable landmark in the whole city, and while we made our way there, Rashid gave me a brief history lesson.

“The Umayyad mosque is the Great Mosque of Damascus,
sitt,
and one of the largest and oldest in the whole world. There has been a holy place in this spot for more than three thousand years. First, the pagan gods of which your Bible speaks. Then the Romans built a temple, and after that the Christians made a church here. But after this came the Umayyads, the great caliphs of this land. They were architects and poets. They settled the nomadic tribes here and built the city as it stands today—magnificent!” At this he threw his arms wide to encompass the whole of the dome that shimmered in front of us. “And it is the fourth-holiest place to the followers of the Prophet, peace be unto him.”

As it happened, showing the proper respect meant draping myself with the shapeless black robe and head covering that Rashid rented for me at the door. The garments were tolerable, although I suspected they’d be suffocating to wear on a hot day. I could not imagine how the Arab women tolerated the beastly things, but as I looked around at the dozens of women similarly attired, I suddenly understood their compliance. The veil had been ordered by men to protect female chastity—a sensible precaution since their honour was dependent upon their womenfolk not getting up to mischief—but women had found certain advantages to the arrangement. To begin with, once veiled, a woman was virtually impossible to distinguish from any other. Oh, certainly, one could judge the colour and shape of the eyes, and perhaps learn something from the hands, but it would take a keen eye to pick out a familiar shape under the enveloping yards of black fabric. There was something almost anonymous about wearing the veil.