Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (19 page)

Here they established themselves, just inside the wall, while Joe left them to scout for some means of transportation. An ancient Suzuki car passed, an old De Soto, three motorbikes, an old Austin car, a truck with a missing hood. A teenage boy with curly brown hair, brown skin, a pair of blue jeans, and sandals peddled past them. “Nice,” murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and ate another date.

It grew boring. “We’ve been here almost an hour, damn it,” said Farrell with a glance at his watch. “It’s nearly two o’clock.”

Amanda said anxiously, “Would he have been arrested?”

Neither of them answered that.

It was ten minutes later when they noticed a native riding a donkey at some distance toward them, and it was another few minutes before Mrs. Pollifax said, “Farrell, can that possibly be …?”

It was. Joe had purchased a mangy, swaybacked donkey for them. “Cost a small fortune, too,” he said. “Only one I could buy. But I learned there’s a secondary road not far down the highway on the right—through two small villages—that leads to Bosra. It’ll get us off the highway.”

Farrell said, “Okay, climb on, Duchess.”

Mrs. Pollifax regarded the donkey doubtfully: a previous experience riding one in Albania had not proved a happy adventure, but before it was necessary for her to approach the animal Joe said sharply, “No! Farrell rides until we’re off the highway. In this country women walk. Later we take turns.”

In this manner they left As Sweida, the apparent father of this apparent family riding the donkey, Joe leading it, while Mrs. Pollifax and Amanda trailed behind in the dust.

“But will we get to Bosra before sunset?” asked Amanda anxiously.

Mrs. Pollifax could only hope so, for it was already nearly three o’clock, and they had added a very stubborn and temperamental donkey to their ménage. It was true that a donkey added a decorative touch to their disguises as Bedu, but she could not help feeling that it would have been faster if they had walked to Bosra without him.

“Will we be there in time?” she replied.
“Inshallah.”

O
nce they left the highway for the secondary road their walk was across a treeless plain, the fields on either side of the road cut to stubble from the summer’s harvest. “Watermelons, probably,” said Joe. “Long since harvested.”

They passed an abandoned truck on the roadside, reduced now to a skeleton, and they gave it a wistful glance—oh, to have a truck!—for the donkey was definitely proving to be a frustration, and even Joe had begun to rue the brilliance of his purchase. “He doesn’t like us,” he said, giving the donkey a reproachful glance. “He balks. He’s stubborn.”

Farrell said grimly, “He doesn’t realize we have a life-and-death appointment in Bosra at six o’clock.”

“But he
has
given us a chance to sit,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax, who guessed that blisters were already forming on her feet. “Do you think we
can
make it to Bosra by six?”

“Prod him harder,” Farrell told Joe. “What time is it?”

Wearing two
abayas
, one over the over, had proven very hot, but Mrs. Pollifax had been happy to sacrifice comfort for the sake of the pockets in the one, and she brought out her wristwatch. “Oh dear, it’s after three o’clock already.”

“Leaving us a scarce three more hours, and I’d guess we’ve covered nine miles—at most ten miles—which leaves eighteen more.” He shook his head. “If we could only hitchhike! Sorry, Joe, we’ve simply got to abandon the donkey; he’s slowing us down. We need to walk, and walk fast. And pray.”

“We can do both,” said Amanda abruptly, “but I notice Mrs. Pollifax’s sandals are too small and mine are so big they flap. I think we could walk faster if we trade them.”

It was her first contribution, and they welcomed it with surprise. The two pairs of sandals were exchanged, the donkey tied to a rock in hope that someone would soon rescue him—“They cost farmers real money,” said Joe, “he should make someone happy”—and once Mrs. Pollifax had torn off shreds of her
abaya
to pad the blisters on her feet she found that she could indeed walk faster. But obviously they were not going to reach Bosra by six o’clock, and she had no idea of what they could do since they didn’t even know the name of the man who was to guide them to the border. They must all realize this, she thought, but it was no time to consider it. At least they could talk to each other in English, and she inquired of Amanda, “Are you still frightened?”

Amanda hesitated and then, “Not with you,” she said shyly, and suddenly she began to talk, tonelessly at first, as if she was unaccustomed to forming her thoughts into words and speaking them. “I was never allowed to be alone,” she blurted out. “Ghadan was always with me, and Ghadan
hated
me, really hated me, because she still thought I’d killed her lover on the plane, except I didn’t.… And over and over we were drilled … pistols, small guns, and rifles, and we had to learn how to hide and camouflage ourselves, and practice
noticing everything—people who might be camouflaged, too, or in hiding and waiting—and Zaki kept score every day of how many things we’d seen that had been hidden from us.” She added sadly, “I could have tried to escape—the fences weren’t electric—but I didn’t know anything at all about deserts, or where I was, or where to go … and sometimes there were pills; they made me take them, to quiet me. Make me sleep. I didn’t like that.…” And then, as if suddenly moving from Then to Now, she looked startled. “If you hadn’t come for me …” she said, and shivered.

Joe said gently, “But Mrs. Pollifax and Farrell did come for you, and later me, too. Are you still scared?”

She said in a small, astonished voice, “There are still miracles, aren’t there?” and with a smile, “I guess what I feel now is more like suspense. And just a little
hope
. But for what I don’t know.”

“If we get through this,” Joe said sternly, “I hope you’re not going to try something crazy again to get yourself killed.”

“It seems so long ago,” she said, frowning. “No,” she added at last, “I begin to feel … begin to feel …” She drew a long breath. “Not dead inside any longer, or well, trapped.”

“You mean like the sniper’s camp,” Farrell said.

Amanda shook her head, not ready yet, thought Mrs. Pollifax, to speak of a life in Roseville that had led her to—one had to call a spade a spade—an attempt to end her life. Impulsively Mrs. Pollifax reached over and gave her a hug and was startled by her reaction: Amanda was not accustomed to affectionate hugs.

“How about reading to us, Joe?” she said, continuing her attempt to keep them occupied. “Amanda, hand over the guidebook in your pocket and—”

“Yes,” said Farrell. “So we can find out where the hell the Citadel is in Bosra. It’ll make us walk faster.”

She obligingly reached into her pocket and handed the book to Farrell, who glanced at the index, turned pages and skimmed through the report on the town. “It’s a ‘backwash’ now,” he read, “but once a very busy place when there were caravans. Still a number of ruins … ah, a tiny map, good! The main streets are laid out north to south and east to west in straight lines, and—Hey, it has the best-preserved Roman theater in existence—and this is weird, the Citadel was built around the theater.”

“Yes, but where’s the Citadel?”

“If we enter by the north gate—if it’s still standing—we can walk in a straight line down the main street past a mosque and through a marketplace to the Citadel at the end of the street.”

“I like straight lines,” said Joe, glancing over his shoulder. “Deliver us from alleys and mazes.”

“What’s more—” began Joe.

“Car coming,” warned Mrs. Pollifax, and Joe quickly returned the book to Amanda to conceal in her
abaya
.

A shabby gray Austin rattled past them with a man driving it who glanced briefly at them and then, not far up the road, stopped his car. Leaving it, he knelt beside it, plunged his hands into the earth to clean them, and then, prostrating himself, appeared to begin his prayers to Allah.

Observing this, Joe frowned. Glancing at the position of the sun in the sky he said, “Something’s wrong, it’s not time for the ’Asr, it’s far too early, and look, he’s not even facing east.”

“You think he’s waiting for us?”

Stoically Mrs. Pollifax said, “We keep walking, there’s nothing else to do.”

Joe nodded. “Okay, stay casual. Amanda, stop looking so scared.”

“Things just keep
happening,”
she told him. “Of course I’m scared.”

As casually as possible they walked toward the parked car, taking care not to look at the man, except for Joe, who gave him a nod as he rose to his feet.

The man said in English, “I look for four Bedouin on their way to Bosra.”

We’ve been trapped
, thought Mrs. Pollifax.

“On way to
Citadel,”
he emphasized.

They looked at each other in consternation. They had not expected this.

Joe said, “
Meen hadetak?
Who are you?” and politely,
“Shu btusgtughal Hadertak?”

“Delil. La tekhaf
—do not fear.
Habid
—friend.” And losing his patience he said angrily, “For the love of Allah, get into my car. My name is Antun, I have looked and looked for you. There is trouble—come!”

Thoroughly alarmed, as well as confused, they tugged at the door to the Austin and climbed in.

“What
trouble?” demanded Farrell.

“I am betrayed,” he said. “I must go to Jordan with you
alyum
. Today.”

“Betrayed?” echoed Mrs. Pollifax.

With the car in motion he had to shout over its noisy rattlings. “It was three days ago Fuad ibn Zazi came to village, he—”

“Who?” interrupted Joe.

“
Ash-shurta
—police of here. He questions me, do I smuggle people to border? I say I am innocent, but he does not go away, he watches—for three days he has watched. It is now my knowledge that two peoples I take to border one week ago betrayed me, may Allah curse them. So Fuad watches. He waits.”

Astonished, Mrs. Pollifax said, “And in spite of that you’re still
here
—to take us to the border?”

He said simply, “I need the money you will pay me.”

There was logic in this, and Mrs. Pollifax nodded.

“But there is more,” he said, frowning. “This morning—early this morning—very
gharib
—”

“Very strange,” interpreted Joe.

“Excuse, yes … strange. Two men come to the village—strange ones—looking for one man and two women in Bedu clothes, if they have been seen, they ask.”

“But we are four,” Amanda said quickly.

“And we have not been followed,” pointed out Mrs. Pollifax. “I know this, we have
not
been followed.”

Antun glanced in his rearview mirror and seeing no traffic he pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. Turning to look at them he said, “You must tell me where have you come from, you are so sure you have not been followed.”

Joe spoke to him at length in Arabic but the only words they understood were
Camp Al-Khamseh, Amanda, As Sikhneh, bus
, and
Damascus
.

Antun frowned. “So you waited on Deir Ez Zor highway for bus at As Sikhneh, at night, up north in desert. Four of you as Bedu?”

There was a startled silence and then Mrs. Pollifax, pointing to Joe, said, “No, he traveled in American clothes.”

“So in As Sikhneh there were three of you,” said Antun. “And these
gharib
men look for three.”

“But how could they know?” protested Mrs. Pollifax. “We were careful, very watchful, and it was night. I can’t believe this.”

Antun shook his head. “It is like the hunt for small animals. If you learn the hole they go into you can guess where they will come out. There is no need to follow if enough is known. If you must get to a border to leave Syria there are only four borders: Turkey, Iraq, Lebanon, Jordan, and if you are American it would be Jordan. You waited long at As Sikhneh?”

“Several hours,” said Joe.

“For the
Damascus
bus?”

“Yes,” said Farrell, looking puzzled.

Antun nodded sadly. “They need only know that. It is this girl they are after?” He gave Amanda a curious glance. “If you were seen there—a woman, a man and this girl—”

“But we weren’t seen,” protested Farrell.

Mrs. Pollifax said, “No, and I don’t understand why you suspect—oh dear God,” she said abruptly.

“Oh dear God
what
?” asked Farrell.

“You were asleep,” she told him. “Amanda, too. There
was
a man, the only one who looked,
really
looked at each of us as he passed us. But he didn’t get on the bus when it came.”

“You didn’t tell us,” said Farrell.

She said helplessly, “How was I to know? We were at As Sikhneh, miles from Damascus, and a fair distance from where we found Amanda, and disguised, or so we thought. And it was night, and although I watched him he didn’t get on the bus with us.”

Antun sighed. “We have a saying: ‘Man is a target for the accidents of time.’ Damascus?” He shook his head. “If they look to you to flee the country Damascus would mean Jordan. And not Der’aa, where tourists cross.” He shook his head. “They look for you at small towns near border.” His sigh deepened. “The village police are human. A few questions of Fuad and he
might
tell them there is man in Bosra he has learned may smuggle peoples across the border. I do not know if Fuad takes baksheesh but this is always possible. The police in this country—the
mukhabarat
especially—they are Alawis, as is President Assad—and that is all that matters. Some are—what is word, weak? No, corrupt? But Fuad is in Bosra, and the two men were here in the village, early.”