Chapter Four

"Greetings, monsieur! Welcome! Enchanté!" The excessive gallantry made Tom think perhaps he'd made a mistake. To get from his room he'd had to pass through a large shared kitchen, where a diminutive white-haired figure crouched over the sink, rinsing cup and saucer. The old man turned. "A communal kitchen, yes. Please use it. The coffee is undrinkable, the tea unspeakable. But it's free." He gestured at a steaming urn as if presenting the riches of Solomon. Then he thrust out a tiny hand. "David Feldberg. Are you Jewish?"

"No."

"Not everybody can be."

He was wearing sweltering layers of cardigans and carpet slippers two sizes too large. The waistband of his trousers reached almost to his armpits, secured by a slim leather belt, knotted rather than buckled. His jaw dropped easily into a smile. A few peg-like yellow teeth remained defiantly in a moist, pink mouth, like grizzled but loyal troops. He had the physique of a boy but a jaunty, professorial air.

Tom liked him instantly. "Can I walk to the Old City from here?"

"By foot is best. In the foyer we have some maps. Permit me." He fetched a tourist map and spread it across a table, marking it with a pencil stub conjured from the pocket of his trousers. "Here are we, in our small lives." He licked his pencil stub. "Continue here and you will surely arrive at Damascus Gate."

Damascus Gate! Every place name in Jerusalem was electrically charged. The old man began marking other places of interest but stopped when he sensed Tom's impatience. "It's been there for thousands of years. It's not going to go away." He smiled as he folded the map. Tom thanked him and was followed to the door. "Were you thinking of walking the wall, monsieur?"

"Tom. My name is Tom. Why do you ask?"

"I don't want to alarm you, but at this time of day it's not a good idea. There have been incidents. Attacks on tourists. The Arabs have found a new way of disrupting the economy. Better to do it in the morning, when there are more people around. Of course, if I were younger, it would have been a grand pleasure to escort you. But with this leg..."

Tom smiled at the idea of the old man as a minder. "I understand. Thanks for the advice."

David Feldberg escorted him as far as the hotel door.

As he reached the brow of the hill on his way in, the Old City was unveiled. The bone-colored castellated walls. The Golden Dome. The sky a spiritual blue. The city was a polished, faceted stone, hovering in a pearly mist accreted by the centuries. History was a nacreous substance still in the process of delivering the city.

Odd: the flags and banners and fluttering pennants had been taken down. Though, now he came to think about it, perhaps there were no banners. Perhaps he'd imagined them on glimpsing the Old City from the back of the speeding taxi. Perhaps it was only his own elation he'd seen on the battlements. He knew how easy it was to see things which weren't there.

Damascus Gate was in everyday tumult, thronged with people, a riot of motion and color and cries. The bridge spanning the ancient moat was lined with marketeers. Tea vendors bore huge, ornate silver urns on their backs. Spice dealers competed with flower sellers and fruit stalls. Felafel stands belched small clouds of hot oil. Rug traders and bead pedlars spread their wares. The scent of the warm dust of the street was displaced by the spices and the hot olive oil. Guttural Arabic phrases volleyed across the sky.

A pair of eyes was on him. He looked up to see the silhouette of an Israeli soldier high on the parapet of the wall overhead, automatic weapon trailing from his hip. The boiling sun was descending behind the soldier. His face and uniform were in shadow. The image was timeless; his automatic could have been a short Roman sword. Or he could have been a Crusader, or one of Saladin's guard. He was the soldier on the wall. He had always been there.

Someone pressed against him--there was a strong whiff of masculine body odor, a root smell. He switched his wallet from one pocket to another. Meanwhile, a hand palmed his buttock. He looked for the groper, but everyone seemed to be absorbed in trading activity. A small Arab boy, blowing wildly on a penny whilstle, stared at him. it was not until he'd passed through the archway of the gate that he realized he'd been holding his breath against this sensory onslaught.

Beyond the gate the street was cooler and a little quieter, giving way to labyrinthine alleyways. He bought himself a felafel from a vendor near the gate. It seemed ill-advised. But he wanted to cram himself with authentic spices and aromas.

In the teeming Arab souk knots of Arab women in purdah crept about the street, wraiths in black veils. Shutters were going up, and he sensed the crowd thining. A hand brushed his thigh; he turned angrily but, as before, all possible candidates for blame were thoroughly busy.

He left the souk, threading through a few gloomy, dirty, narrow streets before finding himself on the Via Dolorosa, the processional route of Christ's Crucifixion. The sacred path! His eyes fell on a plaque describing the spot as one of the Stations of the Cross.

A handsome young Arab approached. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

He was still looking around him in astonishment. "It's sensational."

"English? I like English people. What you're looking at is nothing. Come here. I'm going to show you s>

Transfer interrupted!

"Believe me. Just five meters away." The Arab stepped up the incline of the Via Dolorosa and indicated something on the ground. Tom followed cautiously. The Arab was pointing at striations in the paving slabs. "That," he announced, smiling proudly, "is the spot where the Roman soldiers cast dice for Jesus' clothes."

"You're joking!" cried Tom, squatting down to look more closely. Sure enough, there were rough carvings, undoubtedly ancient, of squares and circles divided into segjments.

"I don't joke," said the boy. "It's famous. It was a game they played with dice."

Tom ran a finger along the striations in the warm stone. When he stood up again, two other boys came to see what the fuss was about. "Do you like it?" said the first.

"It's amazing."

"My pleasure. I enjoy showing it to friends from England."

"Thank you."

He smiled broadly. His friends smiled too, nodding approval. "Do you want a guide?"

The light suddenly dawned on Tom. He stepped back. "No. Sorry. I can't afford a guide."

The young man was still smiling. "Really? I'm a good guide. I know everything in this city."

"Thanks, but no."

The Arab's features darkened. His friends' faces also darkened. "Would you like," he said, "to give me something for this?"

"For what?"

"For showing you this." He held out a leathery hand for money. Now he appeared less than handsome. Tom looked around. No one else was near.

Tom was a tall man, and, though never violent, he liked to think he could take care of himself. Yet it semed senseless for a coin. He handed over a couple of shekels and chalked the slate of experience.

"It's not enough," said the Arab, moving in.

Tom locked eyes with him. "Suppose I just smack your head against the wall instead?"

The Arab boy jumped aside as Tom made a half-hearted effort to snatch back his coin. Tom moved on, ignoring the mouthings from behind him.

He knew that if he followed the Via Dolorosa, he would come at last to the Holy Sepulcher, but the encounter with the Arab youth had unnerved him. He walked quickly along the Via, ignoring the plaques and the history and the antiquities accruing around him. Here there were more tourists. Another Arab made a hissing noise, beckoning. He played deaf.

At the Holy Sepulcher he was dismayed to see an enormous queue of pilgrims waiting to go into the tomb. It was possible to enter the church built over the sepucher, a vast, domed structure owned by the Greek Orthodoxy, so long as he didn't want to go into the tomb itself. The air was heavy with incense; icons winked in the russet gloom. Some untoward scene was taking place at the front of the queue. Uniformed church guards were dragging away weeping elderly Greek women in widows' black who evidently didn't want to leave the tomb. The pilgrims at the front of the queue looked sheepish; the guards behaved as though this was a daily occurrence.

Tom felt slightly sickened by the brawl. He wandered behind the tomb, where, at the back of the rock, a small shrine was sunk into the floor. He peered in at the tiny altar resplendent with gold and silver icons. Candles flickered within, and the crevice was smoky with incense. By stooping he could just about squeeze into the darkened shrine.

"Welcome!" A fat black spider with a human head popped up from the shadowy recess. Tom stepped back and cracked his head on the rock. "Welcome!" It was a priest in Eastern Orthodox stovepipe hat, crouched in the far corner of the shrine, swathed in black robes. His gray beard reached to his waist and tucked into his belt. Eyes glittering, he nodded enthusiastically at Tom.

"Fuck!" said Tom, nursing his head. His harsh words to the Arab youth echoed back at him. "Fuck!" Then he remembered where he was, so he said, "Shit! Oh, Jesus!"

"Yes! Welcome" This was obviously the limit of the holy man's English. The spider-priest reached up and touched Tom's brow. He removed his hand quckly, making a hissing sound and shaking his head. "Bad!" Then he pressed into Tom's palm a small plastic crucifix. "Donation!" he said, holding out his hand, smiling brightly.

Tom glared back before fumbling for a few shekels. The spider-priest accepted the shekels and gave him another plastic cross. I'm tired, Tom thought, as he left the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. This is all too much for a first day.

He studied his map, looking for the shortest route back to Damascus Gate. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops. Sharp-edged shadows crept from rancid walls. With streets and alleys almost empty now, he traced his route with a finger on the map, hesitating, sensing he'd made a mistake. He passed under a series of crumbling arches and then along a narrow, high-sided section of cobbled street, a passage smelling of piss and chlorine and rotting vegetables. His footsteps echoed hollowly. Emerging on to a deserted thoroughfare, he stopped to check the map. The street should have been straight like an arrow, but he'd just made two left-hand turns. He'd entered some gloomyh zone of the Old City where, it seemed, the sun never penetrated.

He was distracted by a movement some yards away, where a truncated alley ended under a scrolled arch. A locked and rotting gate stood to one side of the arch. In the shadows beneath, a veiled Arab woman beckoned.

The gesture was feeble, yet compelling. His instincts told him not to be caught, but something held him, something mesmerizing in her gesture. He took a step forward and was assailed by an odor of spice, deep, pungent spice, like balsam.

The woman was dressed in rough clothes. Her black veil fell below her chin. She was an old woman, with hands like crumpled, tanned hide. He caught the luster of an eye through the veil.

But something was wrong. Tom's stomach turned. Something about the old woman frightened him.

She beckoned again. Then she raised her hand to her mouth, touching her dry finger to her tongue through the black material of the veil. She turned slowly and with her index finger wrote something on the wall at the back of the arch. The corroded stone crumbled to powder at her touch.

It was a D.

"I have to go," Tom tried. "I have to..."

The woman continued to write. More figures began to appear on the wall, as if chiselled there by a mason. But the letters were unfamiliar, maybe Hebrew or Arabic, indecipherable to Tom. The odor of spice became almost sickening. Tom dropped his map, retreating quickly, leaving the old woman scratching on the wall.

Within moments Tom had found his way back to Damascus Gate. He stopped to lean against a wall. He was breathing heavily. He felt ashamed of himself. Two small boys mounted on a donkey trotted by, staring.

At the recollection of the old woman, his stomach contracted. Feeling ridiculous, he made his way out of the gate. The crowds had gone. The sun was spilled across a low bank of cloud.

When he reached his hotel room, he locked the door behind him and closed the shutters. He took off his shoes, lay down on the bed and thought about Katie. He wept before falling asleep.

Then he heard the voice. >>>

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four