Requiem Read Online Free Page B

thanked him and was followed to the door. 'Were you
thinking of walking the wall, monsieur?'
    'Tom. My name is Tom. Why do you ask?'
    'I
don't want to alarm you, but at this time of day it's not a good idea. There
have been incidents. Attacks on tourists. The Arabs have found a new way of
disrupting the economy. Better to do it in the morning, when there are more
people around. Of course, if I were younger, it would have been a grand
pleasure to escort you. But with this leg . . .'
    Tom
smiled at the idea of the old man as a minder. I understand. Thanks for the
advice.'
    David Feldberg escorted him as far as the
hotel door.
    As he
reached the brow of the hill on his way in, the Old City was unveiled. The
bone-coloured castellated walls. The Golden Dome. The sky a spiritual blue. The
city was a polished, faceted stone, hovering in a pearly mist accreted by the
centuries. History was a nacreous substance still in the process of delivering
the city.
    Odd:
the flags and banners and fluttering pennants had been taken down. Though, now
he came to think about it, perhaps there were no banners. Perhaps he'd imagined
them on glimpsing the Old City from the back of the speeding taxi. Perhaps it
was only his own elation he'd seen on the battlements. He knew how easy it was
to see things which weren't there.
    Damascus Gate was in
everyday tumult, thronged with people, a riot of motion and colour and cries.
The bridge spanning the ancient moat was lined with marketeers .
Tea vendors bore huge, ornate silver urns on their backs. Spice dealers
competed with flower sellers and fruit stalls. Falafel stands belched small
clouds of hot oil. Rug traders and bead pedlars spread their wares. The scent of the warm dust of the street was displaced by
the spices and the hot olive oil. Guttural Arabic phrases volleyed across the
sky.
    A pair of eyes was on
him. He looked up to see the silhouette of an Israeli soldier high on the
parapet of the wall overhead, automatic weapon trailing from his hip. The
boiling sun was descending behind the soldier. His face and uniform were in
shadow. The image was timeless; his automatic could have been a short Roman
sword. Or he could have been a Crusader, or one of Saladin's guard. He was the soldier on the wall. He had always been there.
    Someone
pressed against him - there was a strong whiff of masculine body odour, a root
smell. He switched his wallet from one pocket to another. Meanwhile a hand
palmed his buttock. He looked for the groper, but everyone seemed to be
absorbed in trading activity. A small Arab boy, blowing wildly on a penny
whistle, stared at him. It was not until he'd passed through the archway of the
gate that he realized he'd been holding his breath against this sensory
onslaught.
     "Beyond
the gate the street was cooler and a little quieter, giving way to labyrinthine
alleyways. He bought himself a falafel from a vendor near the gate. It seemed
ill-advised. But he wanted to cram himself with authentic spices and aromas.
    In
the teeming Arab souk knots of Arab
women in purdah crept about the street, wraiths in
black veils. Shutters were going up, and he sensed the crowd thinning. A hand
brushed his thigh; he turned angrily but, as before, all possible candidates
for blame were thoroughly busy.
    He
left the souk , threading through a few
gloomy, dirty, narrow streets before finding himself on the Via Dolorosa, the
processional route of Christ's Crucifixion. The sacred path! His eyes fell on a
plaque describing the spot as one of the Stations of the Cross.
    A
handsome young Arab approached. 'Beautiful, isn't it?'
    He
was still looking around him in astonishment. 'It's sensational.'
    'English?
I like English people. What you're looking at is nothing. Come here. I'm going
to show you something even more amazing.'
    He immediately became suspicious. 'What?'
    'Believe me.
Just five metres away.' The Arab stepped up the incline of the Via Dolorosa and
indicated something on the ground. Tom followed