apothecary jars and hanging bunches of herbs and peppers. It exuded the fragrance of lavender or thyme, and, if I was right—for I am only beginning to take an interest in culinary things—some sort of anise concoction resembling the odor of pastis, a nasty French drink I’d never liked. Bottles of rose water and fleur d’oranger lined the shelves, and little fragrant mountains of powdered cumin and turmeric were composed on a plank in front. Burlap sacks of pods and dried leaves were artfully opened to add to the richness of the array. A wind would have wafted the whole of his treasure into the air, but there was no wind.
Rashid saluted the owner, a fat, slow old man in a wrinkled polyester robe, and went to crouch against the wall opposite, watching us. In a droning voice, the old man began an almost mechanical spiel about unguents and remedies, especially directed at Posy, for an easy childbirth, for a beautiful child. Posy brought him back to saffron. I suppose my mind wandered, for suddenly Posy was counting out dir‐hams and he was pressing waxy balls of something wrapped in paper into our hands. After his effusive good-byes and bows, we stepped back into the lane and looked for Rashid, who was now talking in a group of men. He left them and came over to us, and nodded at the paper-wrapped balls we carried.
“You must eat them,” he said. “To acknowledge your trust in his products. They are sweets, with your fortune inside.”
“ ‘Your thoughts are perfumed with the words of the Prophet,’ ” Posy said, reading the writing on the inside of the wrapper.
So I opened mine, and it said, “The Bearer Angel may safely communicate with Aladdin the Eagle through the trusted dealer in spices,” and it contained some other words that must be mentioned in any communication of this sort, known only to my colleagues and me. Aladdin the Eagle, that is, some agent of that designation, was getting in touch with me, therefore knew that I am me, and that I’m the Bearer Angel.
Taft had told me that someone would be in touch with me, but I hadn’t expected it so soon. He had said people undercover might go years without much or any contact; we were taught that our problem would be to keep up a sense of purpose and reality, except in the form of a generalized indignation fueled from reading in the papers about people dying at the hands of suicide bombers, car bombers, roadside bombers in Israel, in Cairo, in Rome, on sunny Pacific islands, with an increasing sense of disgust at fanaticism of any kind.
Of course I couldn’t let her read my message, so I made something up—very ill-judged, exactly wrong, suggested, I suppose, by Posy’s pregnant form. “This one says, ‘The happiness of motherhood awaits you,’ ” I said, the first thing that came to my head, realizing only too late that she would think such a message was meant for her, that our fortunes had been strangely swapped, and that she would want to save such a propitious message. I stuffed it in my pocket, mind speeding up with the possibilities of who had sent it. Was it the old man himself or someone known to him? What was Rashid’s role?
“Here, let me keep it,” she said.
“I was kidding. Mine is too horrible, I just made it up. I’d rather think my thoughts are perfumed with the words of the Prophet,” I said, and I hastily dropped it onto the filthy cobbles, where she wouldn’t pick it up. “How stupid of me. Never mind.” And I drew her along.
We walked on, and when Posy stopped to look at some brass trays in one of the stalls, I started back to retrieve the paper. But Rashid was already bending to pick it up.
11
During a journey, Mohammed found a man who started a fire and had endangered some ants. Mohammed was very disturbed to see this. “Who made this fire?” He asked. “I made the fire, O Messenger of Allah!” came a reply. “Put out the fire! Put out the fire!” was Mohammed’s teaching.
—The Hadith
“Y ou’re
Rashid saluted the owner, a fat, slow old man in a wrinkled polyester robe, and went to crouch against the wall opposite, watching us. In a droning voice, the old man began an almost mechanical spiel about unguents and remedies, especially directed at Posy, for an easy childbirth, for a beautiful child. Posy brought him back to saffron. I suppose my mind wandered, for suddenly Posy was counting out dir‐hams and he was pressing waxy balls of something wrapped in paper into our hands. After his effusive good-byes and bows, we stepped back into the lane and looked for Rashid, who was now talking in a group of men. He left them and came over to us, and nodded at the paper-wrapped balls we carried.
“You must eat them,” he said. “To acknowledge your trust in his products. They are sweets, with your fortune inside.”
“ ‘Your thoughts are perfumed with the words of the Prophet,’ ” Posy said, reading the writing on the inside of the wrapper.
So I opened mine, and it said, “The Bearer Angel may safely communicate with Aladdin the Eagle through the trusted dealer in spices,” and it contained some other words that must be mentioned in any communication of this sort, known only to my colleagues and me. Aladdin the Eagle, that is, some agent of that designation, was getting in touch with me, therefore knew that I am me, and that I’m the Bearer Angel.
Taft had told me that someone would be in touch with me, but I hadn’t expected it so soon. He had said people undercover might go years without much or any contact; we were taught that our problem would be to keep up a sense of purpose and reality, except in the form of a generalized indignation fueled from reading in the papers about people dying at the hands of suicide bombers, car bombers, roadside bombers in Israel, in Cairo, in Rome, on sunny Pacific islands, with an increasing sense of disgust at fanaticism of any kind.
Of course I couldn’t let her read my message, so I made something up—very ill-judged, exactly wrong, suggested, I suppose, by Posy’s pregnant form. “This one says, ‘The happiness of motherhood awaits you,’ ” I said, the first thing that came to my head, realizing only too late that she would think such a message was meant for her, that our fortunes had been strangely swapped, and that she would want to save such a propitious message. I stuffed it in my pocket, mind speeding up with the possibilities of who had sent it. Was it the old man himself or someone known to him? What was Rashid’s role?
“Here, let me keep it,” she said.
“I was kidding. Mine is too horrible, I just made it up. I’d rather think my thoughts are perfumed with the words of the Prophet,” I said, and I hastily dropped it onto the filthy cobbles, where she wouldn’t pick it up. “How stupid of me. Never mind.” And I drew her along.
We walked on, and when Posy stopped to look at some brass trays in one of the stalls, I started back to retrieve the paper. But Rashid was already bending to pick it up.
11
During a journey, Mohammed found a man who started a fire and had endangered some ants. Mohammed was very disturbed to see this. “Who made this fire?” He asked. “I made the fire, O Messenger of Allah!” came a reply. “Put out the fire! Put out the fire!” was Mohammed’s teaching.
—The Hadith
“Y ou’re
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