must or she’d never be able to leave. She was helped into a small living room crowded with furniture: cabinets, chairs, a sofa, pictures on the wall, a television set, plastic curtains at the windows. The television set was turned on, showing American cartoons with subtitles in Arabic. Thank heaven she still had her purse, she remembered, with aspirin in it as well as her passport and money. Sheopened it and managed to choke down three aspirin without water and reassured the boy, saying,
“Naam
, I rest until dark.”
“Where, please, you go?” he asked.
At this she closed her eyes, feigning sleep because she didn’t know how to answer him. It was time to think, and to think hard, to remind herself that Farrell, wherever he was, and whatever he was enduring, was more professional than she could ever be, and would somehow deal with it. She had to weigh her own possibilities and choices now. There was no American Embassy in Tadmor, and no one to whom she could appeal without becoming conspicuous. It was time to admit that the
mukhabarat
had outwitted them; they must have realized their surveillance was noticed, and they had cleverly removed their trench coats and dark glasses and donned djellabas and kaffiyehs instead, to haul Farrell off to the police station and interrogate him. Not at once, she thought forlornly, no, not at once … this was not a country where human rights were honored, but she had to forget Farrell for the moment, he would want her to; they had faced both death and captivity together in earlier times and she knew his courage and his resourcefulness. If, with luck, he could talk his way out of arrest and imprisonment there were only two places to find her again: either at the hotel in Damascus, or at the archaeological camp that lay to the south of the Qasr al-Hirt east, and she had no interest in returning defeated to Damascus.
He would know this, she thought. It was what Carstairs had asked of them, and they had a name and a destination now.
Her headache was subsiding and she’d stopped shivering from shock; touching her forehead she found the woman had placed a bandage over it. She would soon stand up and try to walk.
Presently the woman walked quietly into the room and placed something beside her, and opening her eyes Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was carrying her straw carry-on bag that had dropped in the alley when she fell. She sat up, surprised, and looked questioningly at the woman, who only smiled and nodded. The boy followed her into the room. He said, “She see it there. Is yours?”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and said, “How do I leave when … when
aswan
—dark?”
“Where, please, to go?” asked the boy.
“ ’Ala otel?”
From the pocket of her jacket Mrs. Pollifax drew out her guidebook to Palmyra, found page 118 and tore it out. “The eastern Qasr al-Hirt,” she told him, and pointed.
The boy looked at the picture and then at her, bewildered. “There is nothing there but rocks. Old—what do you say, antiquities?”
“But not far from it,” said Mrs. Pollifax hopefully, “there is a—do you know the word
tell
? Where men dig? Dig up ruins? Antiquities?”
“Ah …” he murmured, nodding.
“Naam,”
and he explained to his mother what she had said.
His mother looked shocked and spoke quick words to her son, who looked at Mrs. Pollifax. “No man?
Kultu?
Man?”
She understood at once that a woman alone, even American, was looked upon with either great pity or much suspicion here. She would have to manufacture a son waiting for her at the archaeological camp; she remembered the name for mother was
umm
but she had to search her memory for the word son. At last,
“Ibn!”
she said triumphantly, and held up the picture again with her destination.
“Ahh …” murmured the woman, smiling and nodding.
“Ibn, naam,”
and glancing at her son spoke to him rapidly in Arabic.
He nodded eagerly. To Mrs. Pollifax he said, “My cousin go to …” He scowled,
“Naam
, I rest until dark.”
“Where, please, you go?” he asked.
At this she closed her eyes, feigning sleep because she didn’t know how to answer him. It was time to think, and to think hard, to remind herself that Farrell, wherever he was, and whatever he was enduring, was more professional than she could ever be, and would somehow deal with it. She had to weigh her own possibilities and choices now. There was no American Embassy in Tadmor, and no one to whom she could appeal without becoming conspicuous. It was time to admit that the
mukhabarat
had outwitted them; they must have realized their surveillance was noticed, and they had cleverly removed their trench coats and dark glasses and donned djellabas and kaffiyehs instead, to haul Farrell off to the police station and interrogate him. Not at once, she thought forlornly, no, not at once … this was not a country where human rights were honored, but she had to forget Farrell for the moment, he would want her to; they had faced both death and captivity together in earlier times and she knew his courage and his resourcefulness. If, with luck, he could talk his way out of arrest and imprisonment there were only two places to find her again: either at the hotel in Damascus, or at the archaeological camp that lay to the south of the Qasr al-Hirt east, and she had no interest in returning defeated to Damascus.
He would know this, she thought. It was what Carstairs had asked of them, and they had a name and a destination now.
Her headache was subsiding and she’d stopped shivering from shock; touching her forehead she found the woman had placed a bandage over it. She would soon stand up and try to walk.
Presently the woman walked quietly into the room and placed something beside her, and opening her eyes Mrs. Pollifax saw that she was carrying her straw carry-on bag that had dropped in the alley when she fell. She sat up, surprised, and looked questioningly at the woman, who only smiled and nodded. The boy followed her into the room. He said, “She see it there. Is yours?”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and said, “How do I leave when … when
aswan
—dark?”
“Where, please, to go?” asked the boy.
“ ’Ala otel?”
From the pocket of her jacket Mrs. Pollifax drew out her guidebook to Palmyra, found page 118 and tore it out. “The eastern Qasr al-Hirt,” she told him, and pointed.
The boy looked at the picture and then at her, bewildered. “There is nothing there but rocks. Old—what do you say, antiquities?”
“But not far from it,” said Mrs. Pollifax hopefully, “there is a—do you know the word
tell
? Where men dig? Dig up ruins? Antiquities?”
“Ah …” he murmured, nodding.
“Naam,”
and he explained to his mother what she had said.
His mother looked shocked and spoke quick words to her son, who looked at Mrs. Pollifax. “No man?
Kultu?
Man?”
She understood at once that a woman alone, even American, was looked upon with either great pity or much suspicion here. She would have to manufacture a son waiting for her at the archaeological camp; she remembered the name for mother was
umm
but she had to search her memory for the word son. At last,
“Ibn!”
she said triumphantly, and held up the picture again with her destination.
“Ahh …” murmured the woman, smiling and nodding.
“Ibn, naam,”
and glancing at her son spoke to him rapidly in Arabic.
He nodded eagerly. To Mrs. Pollifax he said, “My cousin go to …” He scowled,
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