City of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn
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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,