Requiem Read Online Free Page A

cab cruised by,
looking for a fare. He hailed it and told the driver to head back into the
centre of modern Jerusalem. 'The block where you picked me up,' he asked the
driver on the way, 'would they be mainly Jewish or Arab people living there?'
    The driver
looked over his shoulder and showed a mouthful of gold teeth. He evidently
found the question too ridiculous to answer. Tom produced the hostel leaflet
he'd been handed at the bus station.
    'Would this be a decent place for me to
stay?'
    The driver glanced at it. 'Might not be
too clean.'
    ‘Is there a hotel you could recommend?'
    ‘Hotel's gonna cost you a lotta money. A lotta money.'
    ‘I don't have a lot of money.'
    Gamely blaring his horn at some
pedestrians, the driver said, 'I got an idea. Basic. But it'll keep you out of
some Arab hovel.'
    The hotel
was situated just north of the Me'a She'arim ultra-Orthodox district of Jerusalem, not far from
the Old City. A large sign had been erected at the corner of the street.
    DAUGHTERS OF JERUSALEM!
DRESS MODESTLY AT ALL TIMES.
    The taxi pulled up at a grey-brick
building. It was basic, barely clean and run on the lines of a youth hostel. A
young man with curling black locks, kipah skull
cap and eyes permanently aghast behind thick spectacle glass showed him to a
room. It smelled of warm dust. Tom flicked back the yellowing sheets
doubtfully. The boy assured him they'd been laundered, despite their appearance.
He accepted the room and got a discount by paying in sterling.
    After the
boy had gone Tom flung open the window shutters. Long rays of afternoon sunlight
pierced the room, illuminating mote-clouds stirred by his movements. He didn't
mind the dust. This was ancient dust, mystical dust. The dust of Abraham and
Jesus and Mohammed. These were the sweepings of religion.
    A
clump of jasmine grew outside the window, its cooling scent mingling with the
humid smell of the dust. He was exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night andfrom travel. He wanted to lie down on the bed and
drift, but he was afraid if he did, the knocking on the door might start all
over again. He prayed he'd left that behind him in England.
    In any
event, he was massively stimulated by the thought of Jerusalem. His excitement
was almost erotic. He decided to go out again. Right now he wanted to take a
walk in the world's most holy city.

 4
    ' Greetings, monsieur !’ Welcome! Enchante !' The excessive
gallantry made Tom think perhaps he'd made a mistake. To get from his room he'd
had to pass through a large shared kitchen, where a diminutive white-haired
figure crouched over the sink, rinsing a cup and saucer. The old man turned. 'A
communal kitchen, yes. Please use it. The coffee is undrinkable, the tea
unspeakable. But it's free.' He gestured at a steaming urn as if presenting the
riches of Solomon. Then he thrust out a tiny hand. 'David Feldberg. Are you
Jewish?'
    'No.'
    'Not everybody can be.'
    He
was wearing sweltering layers of cardigans and carpet slippers two sizes too
large. The waistband of his trousers reached almost to his armpits, secured by
a slim leather belt, knotted rather than buckled. His jaw dropped easily into a
smile. A few peg-like yellow teeth remained defiantly in a moist, pink mouth,
like grizzled but loyal troops. He had the physique of a boy but a jaunty,
professorial air.
    Tom liked him
instantly. 'Can I walk to the Old City from here?'
    'By
foot is best. In the foyer we have some maps. Permit me.' He fetched a tourist
map and spread it across a table, marking it with a pencil stub conjured from
the pocket of his trousers. 'Here are we, in our small lives.' He licked his
pencil stub. 'Continue here and you will surely arrive at Damascus Gate.'
    Damascus
Gate! Every place name in Jerusalem was electrically charged. The old man began
marking other places of interest but stopped when he sensed Tom's impatience.
'It's been there for thousands of years. It's not going to go away.' He smiled
as he folded the map. Tom