by Serena Janes
Nothing. Very few tourists of any height or coloring.
So she went inside, padding along the sumptuous carpets, hoping there wasn’t any bird shit stuck to the soles of her feet. The interior of the grand mosque was exquisitely decorated, one of the grandest buildings Julie had ever been inside. It was lit by high grilled windows and enormous crystal chandeliers hanging at close intervals. A small area was roped off for the devout to pray, but most of the massive interior was open for visitors to explore. She wandered through the smaller rooms that ran along one wall, peeking into each one. They were filled with women mostly. Almost all wore the black abaya, heads covered, feet bare. Most seemed to be very interested in the reliquaries on display behind thick class windows. Bones—Julie didn’t know whose—in silver-encrusted vessels. And, allegedly, the head of John the Baptist.
But no Tor.
After taking her fill of photographs, she ditched the cloak and walked out into the busy street, toward the souk. As far as souks went, this one was relatively new, having been built in the nineteenth century. But its sheer size and the variety of the shops inside made it seem exotic and endlessly fascinating. Last year she’d spent an entire afternoon looking at everything, getting hopelessly lost. But this time she didn’t waste time peering into the hundreds of little shops. She was on a mission.
It was crowded and noisy inside. The high arched metal roof was riddled with shrapnel holes from the last attempted coup, and spears of bright light pierced the dim interior like laser beams. Julie made her way slowly through the masses of morning shoppers, sweeping her gaze around as she went. Fortunately, Tor stood taller than most people, even if his hair color didn’t make him noticeable. But she saw no one who looked even remotely like her Dane as she made her way along.
She passed shops that sold every imaginable product—pastries, clothes, nuts, toys, dishes, strings of dried fruit, belly dancing costumes, jewelry, shoes, knitting wool, purses, underwear, ice cream, spices, furniture, sexy lingerie, metalwork, fruit juices.
Boys pushed carts loaded with nuts and candy, and delivery trucks piled high with empty plastic water bottles vied for right of way at the corners. After an hour or so she knew she’d somehow got turned around. When she passed the same mannequin wearing a white lace wedding dress—western style—its soiled hem sweeping the stone pavement with every gust of air, she knew she’d been retracing her steps. The plan had been to search the maze in some sort of orderly fashion, but she had to accept that was impossible. This marketplace was not built on a grid.
Of course, that was what made it so marvelous. Julie particularly loved the open-air section, built around a number of Roman columns and the remnants of an arched wall. The ruins reminded her of Palmyra, and of what she and Tor had done in the theatre. She wondered if Roman ruins would remind her of Tor for the rest of her life.
After almost three hours, she needed a break. Dizzy and tired, she tried to find a toilet. But wherever the Ladies was hidden, she knew she’d never be able to find it. She couldn’t read a word of Arabic, and there was no English or even French signage anywhere.
Finally she spotted an English word—Restaurant. Grateful, she entered the spacious room, its tables set with white tablecloths and vases full of greenery, and was greeted by a smiling waiter who motioned her inside. It was too early for most people to eat lunch, so she sat alone beside a gurgling fountain. But she didn’t mind. She ordered some lentil soup and bread, made use of the restrooms, and was able to relax.
All the food she’d eaten in Syria had been delicious. It was simple, fresh, and beautifully presented. Even though she avoided the fresh fruits and salads, she still enjoyed beautifully seasoned cooked vegetable dishes, light-as-air hummus, and fabulous desserts. Lentil soup was always her first choice for a light meal, and it never failed to impress her. Every time she ordered it she was served something a little different, but always so much better than the over-salted, gummy soups she got back home.
Soon she’d be in Jordan and then Egypt, home of two of the worst cuisines in the world, in her opinion. She ate her soup slowly and felt her batteries recharge.
She paid her bill, not wanting to leave the pretty little restaurant, but she was on a quest.
By four o’clock, Julie was done. It had been a long, unproductive afternoon. Deflated, she limped back to her hotel, hot, dirty and unhappy. She took a shower and lay down on her bed to decide what to do next.
She had no idea.
Slowly she let acceptance settle over her. Yes, she’d met a wonderful man. Yes, she’d had what was by far the most explosive sex ever. Sex with Richard had been great, or so she’d thought. Now it seemed nothing in comparison. A mere spark next to a forest fire.
But Tor is gone. It’s over. Over, done and never-to-be-repeated. No matter how many miles of pavement I pound.
“You’re here!” her mother said when she found Julie in bed a few hours later. Dusk was just falling. “Did you have a good day?”
Julie yawned and stretched, her muscles aching a little. “Yeah. It was okay. I guess I fell asleep.” Her mouth felt fuzzy and she was hungry. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven. We need to get dressed and be downstairs to meet everyone by seven-thirty.”
“Did you fire Bish?”
“I sure did.”
“And?”
“And we won’t be seeing him again.”
“I mean, how did he take it?”
“Like you might imagine. But Marc was great,” Hannah said, a flush beginning to spread across her face. “When I gave Bish an envelope of cash for services rendered, less two days’ wages, Marc told him he was lucky we didn’t lodge a complaint.”
“Lodge a complaint? With whom?”
“I don’t know.” Hannah laughed. “It didn’t seem to matter. The threat was enough to shut him up.”
“So we’re done with Bish. Hooray. Do you think you can go without a Syrian guide next time?”
“I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time. If the rumors are true, the country’s heading toward trouble. I highly doubt it will blow over quickly. This may be our last visit to Syria for quite a while, sweetheart, so we should enjoy it while we can.”
The next day, Julie was saddened by the knowledge she might never visit Damascus again. She was also sure she would never see Tor again. Even if he was in town, the city was simply too big. Too crowded. And besides, she asked herself, do I really want to go chasing after him?
I want him to chase me down.
But he wouldn’t have any more chance of finding her than she had of finding him.
She had to let him go. And she had to get back to work.
With Bish gone, Julie had to join her mother in leading the group again. Hannah wanted to take everyone to the National Museum, which, she explained, would help them understand and appreciate the country’s archaeological sites. Then, after a falafel lunch, everyone would be free for the rest of the day. Because this was their last chance to do any shopping in Syria, Hannah suggested they all spend at least a few hours in the souk.
Julie halfheartedly dressed for museum slogging, putting on her blue silk shirt and baggy linen pants. Then she pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and set out, trotting along behind her mother. No make-up. If she wasn’t going to see Tor again, she didn’t care what she looked like.
At the last minute she slipped her camera into her pants pocket, hoping to take some photographs of the Azem Palace room inside the museum. The museum was plastered with signs warning No Photographs, if she remembered correctly. But this was her second visit and now she understood that those warning signs didn’t really mean what they said. They really meant Photographs 100 SYP. By slipping a security guard one hundred Syrian pounds, roughly the equivalent of a Canadian dollar, she could take as many pictures as she liked. Maybe it wasn’t ethical, but she felt she was a responsible visitor, never using her flash. And she really wanted some images of that room
, with its spectacular carved ceiling, one of the most beautiful in the Arab world.
Chapter Seven
You’re an idiot, Torval Henrik Jensen. A complete and utter fool. You’ll never find her. Not in a city of more than a million people. Not in a million years.
He twisted hard on the throttle and sped as fast as the road would allow, leaving Palmyra in his dust.
Last night had been about getting laid. Nothing more. And as far as that went, it was a success. He got laid, all right.
Trouble was, he wanted it again. From the same damned woman.
And that meant he had to find her.
He knew her bus left at ten, but he’d promised to do a few things for his cousin, to repay him for his hospitality. He didn’t get his bag strapped onto his bike until lunchtime. Then without stopping to eat, he hit the road.
At the rate he was going, Damascus was probably less than two hours away, he figured. He’d have plenty of time to check into the room John had recommended. While he drove, he planned what to do after that.
Traffic grew heavy as he approached the downtown area. His guesthouse was just inside the old part of the city, and he had a hell of a time finding it in the narrow, twisting streets, cluttered with traffic, pedestrians, street vendors and pushcarts. His GPS was practically useless once he pulled off the main road and he had to maneuver his heavy bike carefully over cobblestones and potholes. At over eight hundred pounds, not including his own considerable weight, it would go down like a stone plinth if he lost his balance. He’d never be able to pick it up on his own, even if he was unhurt, which would be unlikely.
Eventually he found what he thought was the right street, but none of the doors was numbered. He was ready to give up when a small sign in English caught his eye—Mirage Guesthouse. The proprietor spoke English perfectly and led Tor through his gate to a place where he could safely park his bike. Tor registered and was taken up to a small but beautifully decorated room on the second floor. The windows looked over the rounded roofs of a mosque—its delicate minarets pointing to the clouds above—and several hundred pigeons.
After a shower and a change of clothes Tor had to find something to eat. He set out on foot and stopped to grab a donair and a Coke from a kiosk on the street. Then he put his plan into action.
He knew Julie had seen Damascus before. If she’d been on her own, she probably wouldn’t be hanging around the main tourist areas. But she was working, sort of. She had to be with her mother and that asshole of a guide. His best guess was that they’d be at one of the big mosques or wandering through the souk.
There was no hope of ever finding out which hotel they were staying in. The city was far too big, and their group small enough to be lodged in any number of mid-sized hotels catering to foreigners. So his first stop would be the Great Mosque. With a folded map tucked into his pocket so he wouldn’t get lost, he set out on his search.
A quick tour of the mosque proved fruitless, and he regretted he couldn’t take the time to appreciate its beauty.
Later. After I find her, I’ll come back.
So then it was the souk, but he made the time to duck into two more mosques on the way. By the time he got to the market, it was approaching dinnertime, and the streets were full of shoppers. He stared at the faces of the women walking past, looking for one without a headscarf, with a pale face—a pretty face—surrounded by long brown hair. And with the dark eyes of a temptress. Immediately he realized that almost every woman in the place had dark eyes. But none of them were Julie’s. It didn’t take long for the individual faces in the crowd to blur, all starting to look alike.
Some of the women slid their eyes sideways at him from behind their veils, from under the black scarves of their abayahs. He thought he probably looked exotic to them, clearly Nordic, a forbidden Viking, from a continent and a world away, just as they looked exotic to him. And absolutely out of bounds, he reminded himself.
If only he’d realized that back in Istanbul. That mistake had almost cost him a significant part of his anatomy.
Sophia had picked him up in the underground Roman cisterns the second morning of his visit to that great city. She was a native of Istanbul, but cosmopolitan, having studied abroad and traveled widely. It never occurred to Tor that he was treading on dangerous ground when she took him to her family home and let him seduce her on the living room carpet. Her parents were away, she’d said. There was nothing to worry about.
Until the next morning.
Her parents might have been out of town, but her older brother was home. One look at Tor sitting at the breakfast table and the young man leaped to defend his sister’s honor. Luckily, the boy was no match for Tor’s strength, and he and his kitchen knife were easily overpowered. Sophia wept and pleaded with Tor to let it go, but he threw on his clothes and ran. That, he swore, would be the last time he’d ever enjoy the charms of a Muslim girl. It was just too dangerous.
He needed to find Julie. Not only was she safe, she was the sweetest, juiciest piece of ass he’d ever had.
Absolutely delicious. And she seemed to enjoy fucking as much as I did. I was so wrong about her being reserved. She’s as hot as they come.
He wandered through the souk, getting lost in the crowds, thinking about what he’d do to Julie if he was lucky enough to find her again. With sex on his mind, again and again his attention was caught by the flamboyant lingerie on display in the tiny shops. He remembered seeing similar shops in the ancient souk of Aleppo. Again, he was both surprised and amused by the sexy—often gaudy—assortment of skimpy lingerie flaunted in the marketplaces of a nation that required most women appear in public swathed from head to toe in loose-fitting black fabric.
Not only were the little shops stuffed to the roof with colorful bras, panties, thongs, belly-dancing outfits and g-strings, Tor noticed they were all staffed by men. And the only customers he saw were male.
He was fascinated by the novelty items. Bras and panties decorated with plastic flowers or toys, flashing mini-lights, feathers, sequins and fake fur. One set of bikini panties played music. Another had a pocket sewn in the front with a plastic cellphone tucked inside.
He saw PVC bodysuits with zippered openings. Others were made of stretchy fishnet fabric and had grab-holes at the nipples and crotch. Edible thongs. Vibrating panties. The variety was astonishing, even if some of it was more silly than titillating.
But everything he looked at made him long for Julie even more. Then he saw a pair of bikini briefs with an embroidered honeybee on the crotch.
She’s got the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted. These are for her.
He walked into the shop, greeted the middle-aged proprietor, and bought the panties.
Then he resumed his search, holding onto an irrational hope that the panties would bring him luck.
Soon he grew irritable, and by late afternoon, he was tired, hungry, feeling pangs of loneliness and acute disappointment. Successful in almost every aspect of his life, Tor didn’t handle disappointment well. Usually, he turned it into anger. But tonight he didn’t have the energy. He headed back to his room and flopped onto the bed.
He was so tired he almost cancelled the dinner his cousin had arranged for him. John knew a businessman in the city who was interested in improving relations between Muslims and Christians. He generously opened his doors to visitors from Western nations to give them a chance to learn a little about his culture, customs and cuisine.
Tor decided he should go. It would be rude to refuse such a generous offer from a stranger. So he showered, changed his clothes, and called to confirm the time of his arrival. Then he went outside and programmed the address into his GPS.
After about forty-five minutes of highway driving, he pulled onto a side road and headed up into the hills. Then he stopped beside a gate in a tall wall. When he rang the bell, the gate opened and he was ushered into a lush garden by a man who appeared to be a servant. Tor saw a sparkling swimming pool surround
ed by palm and citrus trees. Oleander bloomed in large pots, and roses sent their exquisite scent into the early evening air.
Then he smelled something else. Grilling meat. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he was glad he’d bothered to make the long journey. He was famished. He spied three large barbecues manned by chefs wearing clean, white aprons. Nearby, the entire wall of a large bungalow was folded open, revealing a banquet table loaded with dishes, glasses, cutlery and bottles of water and soft drinks. About a dozen guests mingled around the table, drinks in hand, talking in low tones. Soft music was coming from speakers set up on the patio.
The main house sat at the other end of the property. It was a two-story building of quality vastly superior to the usual concrete and exposed rebar structures so common in the city. A door opened and Tor saw a tall, attractive man dressed in an elegantly embroidered didashah walk toward him with his hand outstretched, speaking in English.
“Hello, my friend. You must be Torval.” He shook his hand then opened his arms in a gesture of benevolence. “My name is Abdul Salam Habib, and you are welcome here in my home. Please, come this way and make yourself comfortable.”
With a perfectly-manicured hand he waved toward the bungalow and smiled serenely as he looked at his guests. Some were obviously foreigners, but a few were wearing traditional Arab clothing. Among them were two women in burquas. Impeccably dressed servers poured drinks, and Tor soon found himself holding a glass of lemon soda and being drawn into a discussion about Muslims in Scandinavia.