Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled (7 page)

He would know this, she thought. It was what Carstairs had asked of them, and they had a name and a destination now.

Her headache was subsiding and she’d stopped shivering from shock; touching her forehead she found the woman had placed a bandage over it. She would soon stand up and try to walk.

Presently the woman walked quietly into the room and placed something beside her, and opening her eyes Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was carrying her straw carry-on bag that had dropped in the alley when she fell. She sat up, surprised, and looked questioningly at the woman, who only smiled and nodded. The boy followed her into the room. He said, “She see it there. Is yours?”

Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and said, “How do I leave when … when
aswan
—dark?”

“Where, please, to go?” asked the boy.
“ ’Ala otel?”

From the pocket of her jacket Mrs. Pollifax drew out her guidebook to Palmyra, found page 118 and tore it out. “The eastern Qasr al-Hirt,” she told him, and pointed.

The boy looked at the picture and then at her, bewildered. “There is nothing there but rocks. Old—what do you say, antiquities?”

“But not far from it,” said Mrs. Pollifax hopefully, “there is a—do you know the word
tell
? Where men dig? Dig up ruins? Antiquities?”

“Ah …” he murmured, nodding.
“Naam,”
and he explained to his mother what she had said.

His mother looked shocked and spoke quick words to her son, who looked at Mrs. Pollifax. “No man?
Kultu?
Man?”

She understood at once that a woman alone, even American, was looked upon with either great pity or much suspicion here. She would have to manufacture a son waiting for her at the archaeological camp; she remembered the name for mother was
umm
but she had to search her memory for the word son. At last,
“Ibn!”
she said triumphantly, and held up the picture again with her destination.

“Ahh …” murmured the woman, smiling and nodding.
“Ibn, naam,”
and glancing at her son spoke to him rapidly in Arabic.

He nodded eagerly. To Mrs. Pollifax he said, “My cousin go to …” He scowled, searching for the word, and disappearing into another room he returned with a small book. Running through the pages he said, “Delivers! Delivers!” and turning pages added, “Kerosene, chickens, lamb, beer.”

“Where?” asked Mrs. Pollifax quickly.

“To As Sikhneh.” He rubbed two fingers together. “With a little money he go more miles to digging place.”

A flood of relief nearly overwhelmed her; this meant no taxi, no struggle to find a bus. “When does he go?” she asked.

“Tonight. After …” Again the shuffling of pages. “After work. In market.”

Wonderful
, she thought, it would be dark. “Can you tell him about me? And for money …” She also rubbed two fingers together. “For money I go with him?” She rummaged through her purse and brought out Syrian pound notes, handing them to him.

The boy counted them, beamed at her, and returned half of them to her. “Good. This money for now to Salim. Other half later. I go now to Salim, okay?”

Mrs. Pollifax thought it very okay, and when he had left she beckoned to the woman to stay with her for a moment and from her straw bag drew out the embroidered black djellaba for which she had probably paid as much as this woman saw in a week. Fumbling for her Arabic phrase book she thumbed through it.
“Hadeeya
—gift,” she told her, presenting it to her.

Astonished, she said with a gasp,
“Hilwah!”

Mrs. Pollifax stood up and helped to lift it over her shabby long dress.
“Hilwah
, yes,” she said, beaming at her. “On you, beautiful!”

But she would keep the long white headscarf, and she wound it around her head.

“Shukren, shukren,”
said the woman happily.
“Shawarma
—sandweech? Eat?”

The boy returned to say that Salim would stop in front of the house at
saba’a
—seven, when dark—and she must be ready. “And,” he added triumphantly, “with money he will go to digging camp for you.”

Mrs. Pollifax sighed with relief and once again thanked them, after which the three of them sat companionably at the table in the kitchen and ate
shawarma
, drank cola, and waited for seven o’clock, and Salim.

A
t seven o’clock they waited for Salim just inside the door, and when they heard a truck stop outside the house the woman opened the door, examined the shape of the vehicle and then, nodding, led Mrs. Pollifax out to help her up into the seat beside the driver. No words were said, and Salim did not even glance at her; she might have been simply one of the tins and crates piled high in the rear of his truck. In the dim light of the dashboard his face was thin and swarthy, made darker by the snow white kaffiyeh that covered his head. His brows were thick and his mustache so luxurious that Mrs. Pollifax thought it must surely drain energy from such a thin and wiry body. There was neither smile nor greeting: Salim was a man in a hurry, a man, too, who must have worked hard all day in the market since dawn. But to Mrs. Pollifax he was an angel.

He put the truck into gear and they were abruptly off down mean streets, heading out of town toward the desert and to As Sikhneh—or so she hoped, but she had to trust this man. It was twilight but a pale moon softened the shapes of old houses and crumbling walls, and as they left Tadmor behind for the emptiness of land flat to the horizon she admitted relief when
she saw a sign announcing this was the highway to Deir Ez Zor, for the man at Palmyra—their ill-fated contact—had mentioned the highway to Deir Ez Zor.

He stopped the truck once, a stop that alarmed Mrs. Pollifax until she saw that because it was almost dark he had stepped several feet away from the truck, and after scrubbing his hands in the sand he faced east and sank to his knees. The moon and Mecca, she thought, nodding.

When he returned to the truck she said, “The Ashâ?”

For the first time he looked at her. “You know?” he said in surprised English.

She nodded.

“Taib,”
he said; she had become a human being to him suddenly, no longer a load to deliver.

After this Mrs. Pollifax fell asleep, much needed, a comforting sleep, too, soothed by the knowledge that through a succession of miracles she had met with help in this country of surveillants and fear; her errand for Carstairs had not been aborted after all.

She opened her eyes when they reached the lights of the desert town of As Sikhneh and the truck came to a halt. It was dark now and the moon was high in the sky. Men’s voices were heard as Salim’s truck was unloaded, she was aware of—restaurants? warehouses?—and then Salim returned to the truck and once out of town he stopped.

“Wein?”
he asked. “Where?”

She thought it had been explained to him by the boy, but, fumbling for the pocket flashlight in her purse she drew out the photograph of Qasr al-Hirt and showed it to him, and then with a pencil marked an X and drew a line south into the desert. “Tell Khamseh?” Bringing out her Arabic dictionary,
“Hâjora?
Stones?” and made the motion of digging.

“Ah … Khamseh!” He nodded and with a shrewd glance at her held out his hand, ostensibly for more money.

Again consulting her dictionary she said apologetically,
“Ba ’dein
. Later?” and at once felt guilt at not completely trusting him, but it was late, it was dark, and she desperately wished to be delivered to the right place, not abandoned on the road in some strange town.

He accepted this. He could have wrested the money from her, she realized—really she was being foolish—but now that she was awake the cut on her forehead was throbbing again, and she yearned for more sleep. “My
ibn,”
she told him. “My son,” and hoped that he thought her nonexistent son would pay him on arrival.

The unloading of food in As Sikhneh had taken time; it was past ten o’clock when they reached the sign directing the passerby down a road thirty kilometers to the Qasr al-Hirt. Here Salim left the truck to look for a path or track leading to the south and when he returned he was smiling cheerfully. “
Mashallah!
You did not say near al-Kom.” He pointed south. “A small village on the wadi. I know now what place you seek.”

“Allah be praised,” she told him with a smile.

“Your son dig at camp?”

“Yes,” she said untruthfully.

“I have sons—
arba’a,”
he told her, and held up four fingers.

“Good—
taib,”
she said, trying to sound cheerful about this empty landscape with only a dim moon to light the way, and of course it was growing cold—deserts were always cold at night—and her coat hung on a hanger in the closet of the Cham Palace in Damascus. After a bone-jarring drive of nine or ten miles she saw a scattering of lights flickering ahead, and as the truck grew closer she realized they were lanterns placed
on the ground at intervals between what appeared to be tents, from the shape of them. At a distance the moonlight picked out one solitary large building, black against the night sky. Reaching the first tent—and it
was
a tent—Salim braked.

“I stop,” he said and pressed his hand on the horn, the sound of it piercing the silence.

A young man stuck his head out of the tent, observed the truck and walked toward them, scowling. Caught in the headlights of the truck he was a tall young man with a lean, very tanned face, tousled dark hair, an unshaven jaw, his eyes hidden by glasses that glittered in the light. He was wearing shorts, a heavy sweater, and thick boots.

Salim stepped down from the cab and said proudly, “Your
umm
I bring to you.”

Mrs. Pollifax winced at this, but apparently the young man wasn’t aware that
umm
meant
mother
, since he only smiled and said pleasantly, “Welcome,” as he helped her out of the truck.

“No luggage?” he asked politely.

“N-n-not with me,” she stammered, shivering with cold.

“Of course,” he said, and turning to Salim he spoke to him in what sounded like fluent Arabic, which startled Mrs. Pollifax, puzzled, and in the end alarmed her. She could only fumble in her purse for the money still owed Salim and press it into his hand with an embarrassed
“Shukren,”
after which she and the young man watched the truck drive away in a cloud of dust. Mrs. Pollifax dared say nothing; she only waited.

With a smile he turned to her. “I doubt that Dr. Robinson’s still awake, he’s headman here at the digs. We’re shutting down soon, you know. At the end of October we pack up. Law of the land.”

“I see,” she said.

“And you must be tired, also cold,” he added. “We’ll find you a tent—you can share Amy Madison’s, she’s from Australia. Ceramics are her specialty. You’ll have to check in to morrow, of course, we’ve a few guards at the site and—”

She glanced up at him sharply.

“To guard against theft—but that can wait.” He stopped and looked down at her with amusement. “Mind telling me whose
umm
you are?”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “Yes … well, that’s something the driver misunderstood.”

He nodded and said casually, “Your forehead’s still bleeding, the bandage looks red with blood. I think we forget Amy for the moment, I’ll take you back to my tent where I’ve a first-aid kit and blanket.”

She said nothing. There suddenly seemed no way to explain her arrival at eleven o’clock at night in Salim’s pickup truck, exhausted and without luggage and with a bleeding forehead; she could only remember how desperate she’d been to get out of Tadmor and she thought drearily,
I must have assumed that I’d have a very clever explanation by now, but I’m too tired to be inventive
.

“Actually I’ve a second cot in my tent,” he said, opening the flap of canvas for her to enter. “Vido Castrelli left two days ago, so you might as well bunk here with me. No sense in waking Amy, we retire early here because we start work early mornings, while it’s cooler.”

“I see,” she said, and sat down on the empty cot, still shivering. “What are you excavating here?”

“An Umayyad caravansary.” He was lighting a kerosene lamp; once it was lighted he brought out his first-aid kit and examined the bandage on her forehead. Frowning, he said, “It’s pretty well stuck there so this will hurt.”

It did hurt. “This is antibiotic ointment I’m applying,” he explained. “You sure have one big and brutal gash here but I think it’ll be all right. I’ll put a thicker bandage over it. Had a tetanus shot lately?”

She nodded, grateful that he did not ask where, how or why she’d arrived with such a nasty gash on her head.

Bringing out a blanket he wrapped it around her, and then handed her a tin of sardines and a fork. “Eat,” he said. “In return for telling me who the hell you are and why you’re here, of all places.”

Two sardines and a warm blanket brought her slowly back to life. “I’m Emily Reed-Pollifax,” she said, and hesitated before adding, “and I’m here to look for a man named Bazir Mamoul.”

“Bazir Mamoul!” he exclaimed. “But he’s a shepherd.”