searching for the word, and disappearing into another room he returned with a small book. Running through the pages he said, “Delivers! Delivers!” and turning pages added, “Kerosene, chickens, lamb, beer.”
“Where?” asked Mrs. Pollifax quickly.
“To As Sikhneh.” He rubbed two fingers together. “With a little money he go more miles to digging place.”
A flood of relief nearly overwhelmed her; this meant no taxi, no struggle to find a bus. “When does he go?” she asked.
“Tonight. After …” Again the shuffling of pages. “After work. In market.”
Wonderful
, she thought, it would be dark. “Can you tell him about me? And for money …” She also rubbed two fingers together. “For money I go with him?” She rummaged through her purse and brought out Syrian pound notes, handing them to him.
The boy counted them, beamed at her, and returned half of them to her. “Good. This money for now to Salim. Other half later. I go now to Salim, okay?”
Mrs. Pollifax thought it very okay, and when he had left she beckoned to the woman to stay with her for a moment and from her straw bag drew out the embroidered black djellaba for which she had probably paid as much as this woman saw in a week. Fumbling for her Arabic phrase book she thumbed through it.
“Hadeeya
—gift,” she told her, presenting it to her.
Astonished, she said with a gasp,
“Hilwah!”
Mrs. Pollifax stood up and helped to lift it over her shabby long dress.
“Hilwah
, yes,” she said, beaming at her. “On you, beautiful!”
But she would keep the long white headscarf, and she wound it around her head.
“Shukren, shukren,”
said the woman happily.
“Shawarma
—sandweech? Eat?”
The boy returned to say that Salim would stop in front of the house at
saba’a
—seven, when dark—and she must be ready. “And,” he added triumphantly, “with money he will go to digging camp for you.”
Mrs. Pollifax sighed with relief and once again thanked them, after which the three of them sat companionably at the table in the kitchen and ate
shawarma
, drank cola, and waited for seven o’clock, and Salim.
6
A t seven o’clock they waited for Salim just inside the door, and when they heard a truck stop outside the house the woman opened the door, examined the shape of the vehicle and then, nodding, led Mrs. Pollifax out to help her up into the seat beside the driver. No words were said, and Salim did not even glance at her; she might have been simply one of the tins and crates piled high in the rear of his truck. In the dim light of the dashboard his face was thin and swarthy, made darker by the snow white kaffiyeh that covered his head. His brows were thick and his mustache so luxurious that Mrs. Pollifax thought it must surely drain energy from such a thin and wiry body. There was neither smile nor greeting: Salim was a man in a hurry, a man, too, who must have worked hard all day in the market since dawn. But to Mrs. Pollifax he was an angel.
He put the truck into gear and they were abruptly off down mean streets, heading out of town toward the desert and to As Sikhneh—or so she hoped, but she had to trust this man. It was twilight but a pale moon softened the shapes of old houses and crumbling walls, and as they left Tadmor behind for the emptiness of land flat to the horizon she admitted relief whenshe saw a sign announcing this was the highway to Deir Ez Zor, for the man at Palmyra—their ill-fated contact—had mentioned the highway to Deir Ez Zor.
He stopped the truck once, a stop that alarmed Mrs. Pollifax until she saw that because it was almost dark he had stepped several feet away from the truck, and after scrubbing his hands in the sand he faced east and sank to his knees. The moon and Mecca, she thought, nodding.
When he returned to the truck she said, “The Ashâ?”
For the first time he looked at her. “You know?” he said in surprised English.
She nodded.
“Taib,”
he said; she had become a human
“Where?” asked Mrs. Pollifax quickly.
“To As Sikhneh.” He rubbed two fingers together. “With a little money he go more miles to digging place.”
A flood of relief nearly overwhelmed her; this meant no taxi, no struggle to find a bus. “When does he go?” she asked.
“Tonight. After …” Again the shuffling of pages. “After work. In market.”
Wonderful
, she thought, it would be dark. “Can you tell him about me? And for money …” She also rubbed two fingers together. “For money I go with him?” She rummaged through her purse and brought out Syrian pound notes, handing them to him.
The boy counted them, beamed at her, and returned half of them to her. “Good. This money for now to Salim. Other half later. I go now to Salim, okay?”
Mrs. Pollifax thought it very okay, and when he had left she beckoned to the woman to stay with her for a moment and from her straw bag drew out the embroidered black djellaba for which she had probably paid as much as this woman saw in a week. Fumbling for her Arabic phrase book she thumbed through it.
“Hadeeya
—gift,” she told her, presenting it to her.
Astonished, she said with a gasp,
“Hilwah!”
Mrs. Pollifax stood up and helped to lift it over her shabby long dress.
“Hilwah
, yes,” she said, beaming at her. “On you, beautiful!”
But she would keep the long white headscarf, and she wound it around her head.
“Shukren, shukren,”
said the woman happily.
“Shawarma
—sandweech? Eat?”
The boy returned to say that Salim would stop in front of the house at
saba’a
—seven, when dark—and she must be ready. “And,” he added triumphantly, “with money he will go to digging camp for you.”
Mrs. Pollifax sighed with relief and once again thanked them, after which the three of them sat companionably at the table in the kitchen and ate
shawarma
, drank cola, and waited for seven o’clock, and Salim.
6
A t seven o’clock they waited for Salim just inside the door, and when they heard a truck stop outside the house the woman opened the door, examined the shape of the vehicle and then, nodding, led Mrs. Pollifax out to help her up into the seat beside the driver. No words were said, and Salim did not even glance at her; she might have been simply one of the tins and crates piled high in the rear of his truck. In the dim light of the dashboard his face was thin and swarthy, made darker by the snow white kaffiyeh that covered his head. His brows were thick and his mustache so luxurious that Mrs. Pollifax thought it must surely drain energy from such a thin and wiry body. There was neither smile nor greeting: Salim was a man in a hurry, a man, too, who must have worked hard all day in the market since dawn. But to Mrs. Pollifax he was an angel.
He put the truck into gear and they were abruptly off down mean streets, heading out of town toward the desert and to As Sikhneh—or so she hoped, but she had to trust this man. It was twilight but a pale moon softened the shapes of old houses and crumbling walls, and as they left Tadmor behind for the emptiness of land flat to the horizon she admitted relief whenshe saw a sign announcing this was the highway to Deir Ez Zor, for the man at Palmyra—their ill-fated contact—had mentioned the highway to Deir Ez Zor.
He stopped the truck once, a stop that alarmed Mrs. Pollifax until she saw that because it was almost dark he had stepped several feet away from the truck, and after scrubbing his hands in the sand he faced east and sank to his knees. The moon and Mecca, she thought, nodding.
When he returned to the truck she said, “The Ashâ?”
For the first time he looked at her. “You know?” he said in surprised English.
She nodded.
“Taib,”
he said; she had become a human
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