From Souk to Souk by Robin Ratchford Page A

to look in the large window, I wondered how I could have missed it earlier. Two paintings, one of what looked like a Damascene street scene, the other a still life with fruit, were propped on easels surrounded by an assortment of
objets d’art
. Yet it was not the paintings that caught my eye, but a marble bust on the floor between them. A strange mixture of the modern and the traditional, it was evidently new, though at once evocative of ancient Assyrian art, famous for its stone reliefs of human-headed winged lions and bulls. I looked at the long, angular face of the bust, the beard carved with deep-cut swirls; the thin, unseeing eyes little more than two lines, a stark contrast to the generous, almost pouting, lips. My eyes drifted to the sharp patterns of the carved headdress, deliberately broken off on one side at an angle. I was intrigued, I was tempted, and I knew exactly where in my house I could put it. For a while, I just stood gazing at the bust. The more I looked at it, the more I liked it and felt drawn to it. Suddenly, reflected in the shop window, I saw a dark figure, hands in pockets, leaning against a wall on the other side of the street behind me. A wave of nervousness slid over my body, cold even in the warmth of the Syrian afternoon: I was sure it was the same man I had seen before. Paranoia now gained the upper hand, choking off any rational thoughts. I decided to seek refuge in the shop.
    Closing the door behind me I felt, illogically, as if I had reached sanctuary amidst the art. I looked around at the hotchpotch of paintings, some hanging in frames, others stretched over canvases and stacked against the rough stone walls. Smudged women reclined in the cooler corners of the shop, a strange contrast to alpine landscapes in thick oils and abstract compositions of lines and circles. There appeared to be no theme to the gallery, but all the works seemed recent and, in some, one could see the hand of the same artist.
    â€˜
Bonjour
!’ said the gallery owner, rising from a wooden chair next to a desk covered with stacks of papers. Brushing crumbs from his shirt, he began to make his way carefully past the obstacle course of canvases that were leaning against various tables.
    â€˜
Bonjour!
’ I replied, somewhat surprised. Although Syria had been part of the French Mandate between the wars, the thin-haired man now approaching was the first person here to address me in the language of Molière; in neighbouring Lebanon, half the country seemed to speak French. He adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses that sat on the bridge of his broad nose before looking me up and down. I imagined the man outside observing me just as closely.
    â€˜
Vous êtes français, monsieur?
’
    â€˜
Non, je suis anglais mais j’habite en Belgique,
’ I replied.
    â€˜Ah! English!’ His eyes flared a little and his eyebrows, two unkempt lines of fur, arched momentarily. ‘Welcome to my gallery. You are interested in Syrian art? As you can see, I have a lot of fine things here. Come, let me show you something: I have a beautiful painting by a local artist that I think you will like. Syrian art is becoming very popular, you know.’
    â€˜Actually, I wanted to ask the price of the bust,’ I said, turning to point a hand towards the statue, just visible from where we were standing. Now facing the window, I discreetly looked towards the street. The man with his hands in his pockets was still there, but, looking at him directly rather than merely seeing his reflection, I could see more clearly. He was wearing a black shirt, not a navy polo top. I felt my shoulders relax as I realised I had never seen him before: dazzling sunlight, strange shadows and preconceived ideas were potent fuel for the imagination in the ancient streets of Damascus.
    â€˜Ah, that! It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ said the gallery owner, wiggling his fingers in mid-air as if about to help himself to a display of