being to him suddenly, no longer a load to deliver.
After this Mrs. Pollifax fell asleep, much needed, a comforting sleep, too, soothed by the knowledge that through a succession of miracles she had met with help in this country of surveillants and fear; her errand for Carstairs had not been aborted after all.
She opened her eyes when they reached the lights of the desert town of As Sikhneh and the truck came to a halt. It was dark now and the moon was high in the sky. Men’s voices were heard as Salim’s truck was unloaded, she was aware of—restaurants? warehouses?—and then Salim returned to the truck and once out of town he stopped.
“Wein?”
he asked. “Where?”
She thought it had been explained to him by the boy, but, fumbling for the pocket flashlight in her purse she drew out the photograph of Qasr al-Hirt and showed it to him, and then with a pencil marked an X and drew a line south into the desert. “Tell Khamseh?” Bringing out her Arabic dictionary,
“Hâjora?
Stones?” and made the motion of digging.
“Ah … Khamseh!” He nodded and with a shrewd glance at her held out his hand, ostensibly for more money.
Again consulting her dictionary she said apologetically,
“Ba ’dein
. Later?” and at once felt guilt at not completely trusting him, but it was late, it was dark, and she desperately wished to be delivered to the right place, not abandoned on the road in some strange town.
He accepted this. He could have wrested the money from her, she realized—really she was being foolish—but now that she was awake the cut on her forehead was throbbing again, and she yearned for more sleep. “My
ibn,”
she told him. “My son,” and hoped that he thought her nonexistent son would pay him on arrival.
The unloading of food in As Sikhneh had taken time; it was past ten o’clock when they reached the sign directing the passerby down a road thirty kilometers to the Qasr al-Hirt. Here Salim left the truck to look for a path or track leading to the south and when he returned he was smiling cheerfully. “
Mashallah!
You did not say near al-Kom.” He pointed south. “A small village on the wadi. I know now what place you seek.”
“Allah be praised,” she told him with a smile.
“Your son dig at camp?”
“Yes,” she said untruthfully.
“I have sons—
arba’a,”
he told her, and held up four fingers.
“Good—
taib,”
she said, trying to sound cheerful about this empty landscape with only a dim moon to light the way, and of course it was growing cold—deserts were always cold at night—and her coat hung on a hanger in the closet of the Cham Palace in Damascus. After a bone-jarring drive of nine or ten miles she saw a scattering of lights flickering ahead, and as the truck grew closer she realized they were lanterns placedon the ground at intervals between what appeared to be tents, from the shape of them. At a distance the moonlight picked out one solitary large building, black against the night sky. Reaching the first tent—and it
was
a tent—Salim braked.
“I stop,” he said and pressed his hand on the horn, the sound of it piercing the silence.
A young man stuck his head out of the tent, observed the truck and walked toward them, scowling. Caught in the headlights of the truck he was a tall young man with a lean, very tanned face, tousled dark hair, an unshaven jaw, his eyes hidden by glasses that glittered in the light. He was wearing shorts, a heavy sweater, and thick boots.
Salim stepped down from the cab and said proudly, “Your
umm
I bring to you.”
Mrs. Pollifax winced at this, but apparently the young man wasn’t aware that
umm
meant
mother
, since he only smiled and said pleasantly, “Welcome,” as he helped her out of the truck.
“No luggage?” he asked politely.
“N-n-not with me,” she stammered, shivering with cold.
“Of course,” he said, and turning to Salim he spoke to him in what sounded like fluent Arabic, which startled Mrs. Pollifax,
After this Mrs. Pollifax fell asleep, much needed, a comforting sleep, too, soothed by the knowledge that through a succession of miracles she had met with help in this country of surveillants and fear; her errand for Carstairs had not been aborted after all.
She opened her eyes when they reached the lights of the desert town of As Sikhneh and the truck came to a halt. It was dark now and the moon was high in the sky. Men’s voices were heard as Salim’s truck was unloaded, she was aware of—restaurants? warehouses?—and then Salim returned to the truck and once out of town he stopped.
“Wein?”
he asked. “Where?”
She thought it had been explained to him by the boy, but, fumbling for the pocket flashlight in her purse she drew out the photograph of Qasr al-Hirt and showed it to him, and then with a pencil marked an X and drew a line south into the desert. “Tell Khamseh?” Bringing out her Arabic dictionary,
“Hâjora?
Stones?” and made the motion of digging.
“Ah … Khamseh!” He nodded and with a shrewd glance at her held out his hand, ostensibly for more money.
Again consulting her dictionary she said apologetically,
“Ba ’dein
. Later?” and at once felt guilt at not completely trusting him, but it was late, it was dark, and she desperately wished to be delivered to the right place, not abandoned on the road in some strange town.
He accepted this. He could have wrested the money from her, she realized—really she was being foolish—but now that she was awake the cut on her forehead was throbbing again, and she yearned for more sleep. “My
ibn,”
she told him. “My son,” and hoped that he thought her nonexistent son would pay him on arrival.
The unloading of food in As Sikhneh had taken time; it was past ten o’clock when they reached the sign directing the passerby down a road thirty kilometers to the Qasr al-Hirt. Here Salim left the truck to look for a path or track leading to the south and when he returned he was smiling cheerfully. “
Mashallah!
You did not say near al-Kom.” He pointed south. “A small village on the wadi. I know now what place you seek.”
“Allah be praised,” she told him with a smile.
“Your son dig at camp?”
“Yes,” she said untruthfully.
“I have sons—
arba’a,”
he told her, and held up four fingers.
“Good—
taib,”
she said, trying to sound cheerful about this empty landscape with only a dim moon to light the way, and of course it was growing cold—deserts were always cold at night—and her coat hung on a hanger in the closet of the Cham Palace in Damascus. After a bone-jarring drive of nine or ten miles she saw a scattering of lights flickering ahead, and as the truck grew closer she realized they were lanterns placedon the ground at intervals between what appeared to be tents, from the shape of them. At a distance the moonlight picked out one solitary large building, black against the night sky. Reaching the first tent—and it
was
a tent—Salim braked.
“I stop,” he said and pressed his hand on the horn, the sound of it piercing the silence.
A young man stuck his head out of the tent, observed the truck and walked toward them, scowling. Caught in the headlights of the truck he was a tall young man with a lean, very tanned face, tousled dark hair, an unshaven jaw, his eyes hidden by glasses that glittered in the light. He was wearing shorts, a heavy sweater, and thick boots.
Salim stepped down from the cab and said proudly, “Your
umm
I bring to you.”
Mrs. Pollifax winced at this, but apparently the young man wasn’t aware that
umm
meant
mother
, since he only smiled and said pleasantly, “Welcome,” as he helped her out of the truck.
“No luggage?” he asked politely.
“N-n-not with me,” she stammered, shivering with cold.
“Of course,” he said, and turning to Salim he spoke to him in what sounded like fluent Arabic, which startled Mrs. Pollifax,
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