rooftops by a wizened mullah in a pink tower. Then she would think about the Little One for a few quiet minutes. Mrs. McCross had a knack for ringing her at such times.
“Julia, dear! It’s Mrs. McCross. Come shopping with me. I know where we can find some lovely Fortnum and Mason Earl Grey, better than that ghastly peppermint tea, which, between you and me, raises havoc with my plumbing! What time shall I pick you up?”
Julia soon learned to ignore the telephone’s midday ring.
Sometimes, when Uda was available, she would set off on a solitary mission to evade her melancholy by exploring the Grand Bazaar with its rug sellers and spice merchants. She found withered old men seated before mounds of salt, cumin, paprika, and turmeric, and smiling merchants who invited her into their plush, muffled enclaves to display any rug she desired—Kilim, Tabriz, Sarouk, Ferreghan, Serapi, Bokhara, and more—and to enjoy tea served from silver urns. There were stalls full of glass jars, powder to enhance your fertility or your lover’s virility, and poisons for your worst enemy. Goat meat sizzled on portable grills, smoke spiraled into the latticework overhead in blue trails.
Once, when a group of children swarmed around her with palms extended, and Julia was about to reach into her purse, a sharp voice from behind caused them to flee. She glanced back and saw a man in a white suit. He smiled, extending one hand from his heart in greeting, and she thought of Clark Gable with an unusually dark suntan.
“Pleased to escort you, madam?” he said.
“I’m quite fine, thank you.” Julia blushed, doing a quick about-face.
“The medina is like a maze,” warned the gentleman. Julia glanced back at him, wondering whether this was friendly advice or a threat. He had a thin mustache and clean-shaven cheeks; his hair might have been lifted from one of Gable’s glossies back when he filmed
It Happened One Night
.
“I have a map, thank you,” she replied, and, with her heart beating quickly, took the first left turn. But she led herself into a dead end where an old man and a boy sat hammering brass nails onto ornamental chests while a cat lay wheezing in the dust. Consulting the map, she turned right through the muddy courtyard of a tannery, where the foul chemical smell made her swoon; she staggered hurriedly through the only escape, a narrow alley. Still, she saw that white suit in her peripheral vision. Whether by fear or fact, it refused to depart from the corner of her eye.
She started talking to herself—“Now,
listen,
Julia, two rights and a left should bring us out here,” as if common sense would stifle her panic. Down another alley, she noticed a little girl with crossed eyes, wailing, and then three old women with sagging faces who passed a single cup of tea among themselves. Frantic, Julia thought of what Howard would say: “Follow the flow of the water, go downhill, and trace your way back along the river.” She took this path and eventually found herself at the noisy entrance of the medina.
Here, the sunlight was intense, and the bustle of people and livestock was joyous. She saw no sign of the white suit, yet she felt his presence. She had paused to catch her breath when a high-pitched voice interrupted her flight.
“Fancy meeting you here, Julia dear! I was just picking up my tea!”
Mrs. McCross pinched her elbow particularly hard, and before Julia could refuse, she was propelled through the crowd by the woman’s enormous bosom.
“A white woman can’t be too careful here, dear. We’re ever so much better off together. So glad I bumped into you!”
Julia wondered why she could spurn a dashingly handsome Arab and yet be helpless against bloody Mrs. McCross.
“And what brings you here alone?” she asked.
“Just some shopping,” said Julia.
“Splendid. I’ll join you.”
Julia tried to bore the woman by spending an indulgent hour in a pottery shop, but Mrs. McCross removed a small brown
“Julia, dear! It’s Mrs. McCross. Come shopping with me. I know where we can find some lovely Fortnum and Mason Earl Grey, better than that ghastly peppermint tea, which, between you and me, raises havoc with my plumbing! What time shall I pick you up?”
Julia soon learned to ignore the telephone’s midday ring.
Sometimes, when Uda was available, she would set off on a solitary mission to evade her melancholy by exploring the Grand Bazaar with its rug sellers and spice merchants. She found withered old men seated before mounds of salt, cumin, paprika, and turmeric, and smiling merchants who invited her into their plush, muffled enclaves to display any rug she desired—Kilim, Tabriz, Sarouk, Ferreghan, Serapi, Bokhara, and more—and to enjoy tea served from silver urns. There were stalls full of glass jars, powder to enhance your fertility or your lover’s virility, and poisons for your worst enemy. Goat meat sizzled on portable grills, smoke spiraled into the latticework overhead in blue trails.
Once, when a group of children swarmed around her with palms extended, and Julia was about to reach into her purse, a sharp voice from behind caused them to flee. She glanced back and saw a man in a white suit. He smiled, extending one hand from his heart in greeting, and she thought of Clark Gable with an unusually dark suntan.
“Pleased to escort you, madam?” he said.
“I’m quite fine, thank you.” Julia blushed, doing a quick about-face.
“The medina is like a maze,” warned the gentleman. Julia glanced back at him, wondering whether this was friendly advice or a threat. He had a thin mustache and clean-shaven cheeks; his hair might have been lifted from one of Gable’s glossies back when he filmed
It Happened One Night
.
“I have a map, thank you,” she replied, and, with her heart beating quickly, took the first left turn. But she led herself into a dead end where an old man and a boy sat hammering brass nails onto ornamental chests while a cat lay wheezing in the dust. Consulting the map, she turned right through the muddy courtyard of a tannery, where the foul chemical smell made her swoon; she staggered hurriedly through the only escape, a narrow alley. Still, she saw that white suit in her peripheral vision. Whether by fear or fact, it refused to depart from the corner of her eye.
She started talking to herself—“Now,
listen,
Julia, two rights and a left should bring us out here,” as if common sense would stifle her panic. Down another alley, she noticed a little girl with crossed eyes, wailing, and then three old women with sagging faces who passed a single cup of tea among themselves. Frantic, Julia thought of what Howard would say: “Follow the flow of the water, go downhill, and trace your way back along the river.” She took this path and eventually found herself at the noisy entrance of the medina.
Here, the sunlight was intense, and the bustle of people and livestock was joyous. She saw no sign of the white suit, yet she felt his presence. She had paused to catch her breath when a high-pitched voice interrupted her flight.
“Fancy meeting you here, Julia dear! I was just picking up my tea!”
Mrs. McCross pinched her elbow particularly hard, and before Julia could refuse, she was propelled through the crowd by the woman’s enormous bosom.
“A white woman can’t be too careful here, dear. We’re ever so much better off together. So glad I bumped into you!”
Julia wondered why she could spurn a dashingly handsome Arab and yet be helpless against bloody Mrs. McCross.
“And what brings you here alone?” she asked.
“Just some shopping,” said Julia.
“Splendid. I’ll join you.”
Julia tried to bore the woman by spending an indulgent hour in a pottery shop, but Mrs. McCross removed a small brown
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