Deanna Raybourn - City of Jasmine

I tucked the banknotes into my cleavage and wound up the tiny gramophone I carried with me on my travels. It took me a few minutes to find the right recording, but at last I did. I went to the window, opening the pierced shutters to look out over the sleeping city. The moon was waxing and hung half-full like some exotic silver jewel just over the horizon. From the courtyard below rose the scent of jasmine on the cool night air. A slender vine had wound its way up to the balcony, and I reached out, pinching off a single creamy white blossom. I lifted it to my nose, drinking in the thick sweetness of it as it filled my head, sending my senses reeling. There was something narcotic about that jasmine, something carnal and ethereal at the same time. I crushed the petals between my fingers, taking the scent onto my skin. It was not a fragrance to wear alone. It was too rich, too heady, too full of sensuality and promise. It was a fragrance for silken cushions and damp naked flesh and moonlit beds. I rubbed at my fingers, but the scent clung tightly, keeping me company as I sat in the window, listening to a song I had almost forgot and thinking of Gabriel Starke and the five years that stretched barrenly between us.

Three

The next morning I popped in to see Aunt Dove just as she finished her breakfast in bed.

“Oh, this apricot jam is absolutely exquisite. Did you have some, dear?” she asked, feeding the last bits to Arthur Wellesley on a piece of bread.

“I did, and it was sublime. What shall we do today?” I asked. I was already washed and dressed and only the tiniest bit put out that she hadn’t even risen yet.

She gave me a wan smile. “Do you mind terribly going on without me? I’m afraid I’ve caught the indolence of the East and I’m feeling lazy as a harem girl today.”

It wasn’t the East so much as the relentless travel of the past few months, I thought. Her complexion was a little paler than I liked, and in spite of her delight in the jam, most of her breakfast had gone untouched.

“You’re off your feed,” I said, helping myself to a fig. “Shall I call the doctor?”

She flapped a hand, startling Arthur, who retreated to the bedstead, squawking irritably.

“Heavens no! You know what English doctors are like—all purgatives and little pills. No, I just need rest, child, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. You’ll see.”

“If you’re sure,” I said a trifle uncertainly.

“Quite,” she assured me, clipping off the syllable sharply. “Now, I don’t like the notion of you bumbling around Damascus on your own. You’re far too pretty for that. You will want a dragoman.”

“Aunt Dove, really! I hardly think they go in abducting women off the streets. I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe.”

She wagged a finger at me. “I mean it, Evie. I know this part of the world. Arabs could teach the English a thing or two about courtesy, but there are more than Arabs in Damascus. Some of those wretched Turks—”

I held up a hand before she had a chance to warm to her theme. “I’m sure there are perfectly courteous Turks to be found, as well. But if it makes you happy I’ll engage a dragoman and see the city in style. Is that better?”

“Much.” She began thumbing through the letters on her tray, clearly finished with me now that I had promised to be a good girl.

I left her then, dropping a kiss to her cheek and nearly getting pecked by Arthur for my troubles. I opened my phrasebook and began to sound out a few key words. I was so immersed that I completely missed the last step of the stairs, stumbling neatly into a young Arab man.

He caught me, setting me gently on my feet, then dropped his hands at once, bowing gracefully.

“Oh, forgive me, sitt! It is not proper to put hands upon a lady. I have offered the gravest offence.”

“Don’t be silly. You saved me from a nasty fall,” I said, smiling to reassure him I was not offended.

I didn’t bother to ask how he knew to address me in English. The hotel catered to an international crowd, and English or French was any Damascene’s best bet if he wanted to make himself understood.

I thought my smile and pleasant tone would convince him I was not bothered, but he looked up at me, his expression stricken.

“But you must permit me to make amends.”

I bit back a smile. He was very young, no more than fifteen, I guessed, and so earnest, I hadn’t the heart to let him think I found him amusing when he was taking the whole thing so seriously.

I inclined my head with as much gravity as I could manage. “That isn’t necessary,” I assured him. “There is no offence, and I thank you for your quick thinking.”

I moved to go past him, but he darted in front of me, his dark brown eyes snapping brightly.

“Then the sitt will consider hiring Rashid as dragoman,” he said suavely.

That time I did smile. He was slender as a girl and far younger than the dragomen who clustered about the court waiting for clients. But he had a true entrepreneur’s spirit, and he had seized the advantage in speaking to me.

Still, I thought a fellow with experience might be best, so I shook my head.

“Thank you, but no.”

I stepped forward and he dodged in front of me again, his striped robe billowing.

“Then the sitt speaks untruly, for she has not forgiven me,” he said, his face mournful as he turned those expressive dark eyes heavenward.

“Oh, really, that’s not fair,” I said, laughing. “You can’t think I would actually hold a grudge over something so trivial. I promise, I haven’t. It’s just that I want a dragoman with experience.”

He rose to his full height, which was very nearly my own, and lifted his chin as his hands sketched a graceful gesture. “I have experience, sitt. I am a gentleman of this city.”

The words were spoken with a solemnity beyond his years, and I suppressed another smile.

“And I suppose you have twelve cousins who all own shops and want you to bring business there, is that it?”

He scowled a little. “I have no kinsmen in trade,” he said, nearly spitting the word. “I am a son of the desert.” He finished with a little flourish and a phrase that sounded something like ibn al-Sahra.

“You are a Bedouin then?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself. To the casual traveller, all Arabs were alike. But I had learned enough from Gabriel to understand that the Bedouin were special. Nomadic and proud, they were held to be the very embodiment of Arab virtues. They were more than a little fascinating, and I found myself giving way almost before I knew it.

“I haven’t much money to pay you,” I warned him. I had finally opened the fuel bill for the Jolly Roger and it had been so horrifying I had thrust it at once into the toe of an old boot.

He made another graceful gesture and named a price. It was so low, no other dragoman would have taken as much to get out of bed in the morning, but I was in no position to question him. I agreed and he grinned—a beautiful, engaging smile. He was a remarkably handsome young man, and he must have set a dozen hearts fluttering back home.

But he was all business as we ventured into the city. He might have charged me a pittance, but he was determined to be the best dragoman in Damascus. He hailed taxis, nipping neatly into traffic to snatch them up before anyone else could. He kept a sunshade firmly over my head, scolding me for coming out with only a small-brimmed hat as we made our way through the old city.

Rashid was as good as his word. He was knowledgeable and courteous, and when it was time to lunch, he guided me to a small restaurant where a Western woman eating alone would not attract too much unwanted attention. There was no menu—only Rashid, speaking firmly to the staff about what he wanted. They brought out dish after dish of delicious things, from stewed chicken with pistachios to a pomegranate custard that melted on my tongue. I finally pushed away from the table, groaning a little as I did so.