Mirage (11 page)

After about forty-five minutes of highway driving, he pulled onto a side road and headed up into the hills. Then he stopped beside a gate in a tall wall. When he rang the bell, the gate opened and he was ushered into a lush garden by a man who appeared to be a servant. Tor saw a sparkling swimming pool surrounded by palm and citrus trees. Oleander bloomed in large pots, and roses sent their exquisite scent into the early evening air.

Then he smelled something else. Grilling meat. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he was glad he’d bothered to make the long journey. He was famished. He spied three large barbecues manned by chefs wearing clean, white aprons. Nearby, the entire wall of a large bungalow was folded open, revealing a banquet table loaded with dishes, glasses, cutlery and bottles of water and soft drinks. About a dozen guests mingled around the table, drinks in hand, talking in low tones. Soft music was coming from speakers set up on the patio.

The main house sat at the other end of the property. It was a two-story building of quality vastly superior to the usual concrete and exposed rebar structures so common in the city. A door opened and Tor saw a tall, attractive man dressed in an elegantly embroidered
didashah
walk toward him with his hand outstretched, speaking in English.

“Hello, my friend. You must be Torval.” He shook his hand then opened his arms in a gesture of benevolence. “My name is Abdul Salam Habib, and you are welcome here in my home. Please, come this way and make yourself comfortable.”

With a perfectly-manicured hand he waved toward the bungalow and smiled serenely as he looked at his guests. Some were obviously foreigners, but a few were wearing traditional Arab clothing. Among them were two women in
burquas.
Impeccably dressed servers poured drinks, and Tor soon found himself holding a glass of lemon soda and being drawn into a discussion about Muslims in Scandinavia.

Despite his bad mood, Tor had an enjoyable evening. Habib was charming, eloquent and did everything he could to make his guests feel at ease. The sun set early, and for those who were feeling cold, he provided coats and shawls. If anyone needed a refill, he did the honors himself. Promptly at seven o’clock, dinner was loaded onto the banquet table by the mute servers. There were generous platters of skewered lamb, chicken and vegetables with little pastries folded over ground meat or vegetables, along with creamy dips, filo parcels stuffed with rice,
kibbeth
, and lots of different salads.

Tor ate heartily, enjoying the perfectly seasoned meats with various yogurt and tomato sauces. After the meal, his host made a speech about how he hoped everyone would take home happy memories of the evening. He asked nothing more of them, and Tor was surprised at his generosity.

Throughout the evening, as always, Tor felt women watching him. Although he made it a point to talk to everyone, he was guarded. He didn’t want to encourage anybody to think he was available for more than polite conversation.

Most of the guests were foreign students studying Arabic at the Arabic Language Institute of the University of Damascus. One woman in particular managed to monopolize his attention. She turned out to be Russian, on leave from her role as wife of a schoolteacher and mother of four teenagers. As she smiled and flirted in broken English, Tor began to look for a way to escape. He needed her even less than he needed those two Norwegian nymphomaniacs back at John’s house.

The novelty of the entire experience kept him from thinking too much about his vanished lover, but after dinner he found his mind kept returning to memories of the night before. He would have liked Julie to be there, beside him, enjoying Habib’s hospitality. Then they could ride back to his room together.
And then…

Dessert was a selection of pastries and cookies served with plenty of steaming mint tea. When everyone was finished, Habib introduced his three sons—each a handsome young man sporting the latest Western fashions, wearing an expensive watch and carrying a smart phone. The boys took photographs of their father seated around the pool with his dinner guests, then went off to watch the big, flat screen television in one of the lower rooms of the big house. Mrs. Habib was nowhere to be seen.

When it was time to go, Tor thanked his host, shaking his hand warmly. He knew, as he drove back into the city, he would never forget the man’s generosity. He hoped that whatever the future held for the citizens of Syria, Habib and his family would remain safe.

Back in his room, Tor planned what he would do the next day. Julie would still be in the city, and there were more places to search. As he climbed into bed, he reflected on the events that had lead him to this foreign city, alone, on a quest for what would probably be just another one-night stand.

Ludicrous. Insane. I’m running away from one woman and what do I do? Go flying straight into the arms of another one. Or I would, anyway, if only I could find her.

He fell asleep immediately after turning out the light, slept through two separate calls to prayer from the mosque next door, and awoke at nine, feeling fuzzy-headed.

When he went downstairs, Tor found that his host’s good wife had prepared him a lavish breakfast. He seemed to be the only guest, and he happily stuffed himself. There was excellent coffee, for a change, and piles of thin crepes folded into quarters, covered with segments of orange and drizzled with honey. Pomegranate juice, soft-boiled eggs, and an entire tray of tiny, flakey pastries filled with pistachios, almonds, walnuts and dried fruit.

Fortified, he thanked his hostess, who didn’t speak a word of English, and set out on foot to the last place he could think of—the National Museum of Damascus. Eventually, all tourists the least bit interested in Syrian history and culture would end up there. It housed the best collection of antiquities and treasures in the country. Unless Julie and her group had gone there yesterday, Tor felt pretty sure they might turn up today.

He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. And besides, he rationalized, he liked museums. At least he could enjoy himself while he waited to be disappointed again.

The façade of the museum was once the impressive main gate of the
Qasr al-Heir al-Gharbi
Palace, reassembled stone by stone from its original site west of Palmyra. Tor stopped to admire it, snapping a few photos before he bought his admission ticket. It was fairly quiet inside, so he knew he wouldn’t miss Julie’s group if they came in.

If
they come in? What hope do I have—am I a complete idiot? I’m never going to see her again.

For a few minutes his attention was diverted by an impressive collection of cuneiform clay tablets. He wanted to photograph a few of them, but was well aware of the signs forbidding cameras.

After wandering into another corner of the gallery, he stopped in front of a glass case containing a coin collection. Greek, Roman, Byzantine coins in silver, gold, and base metals. Just as he stuck his face closer to try and read the details on one particularly fine example, he heard someone behind him.

“Psssst!”

Tor looked up, surprised. He thought he was alone in the cavernous room. Then he saw him. It was one of the security guards, dressed in a navy blue blazer with some sort of identification card hanging on a string around his neck.

“Pssst! Hey mister.” He beckoned with a forefinger. “Come and see. Beautiful ceiling. You make picture.”

Tor had seen this sort of thing before. He walked over to the guard, who silently opened one of a pair of large carved wooden doors and slipped inside. Then he turned and looked at Tor. “Very beautiful. You want picture?”

He followed the man into the room, which was sumptuously decorated with tiled walls and floors. Elaborately embroidered fabrics covered the benches and chairs, and a large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the most intricately carved ceiling he’d ever seen. The ceiling was a masterpiece of Islamic design, and he took out his camera, knowing he needed to be quick.

But before he could adjust the settings, the guard held out his hand.

Tor knew he had to pay for the privilege, wrong as it might be. He took out his wallet and peeled off enough Syrian pound notes to satisfy his new friend. Then he began to shoot.

Just then he heard voices. A lot of them. Women’s voices, mostly, and then, as if he’d been hit between the eyes with an arrow, he realized they were speaking in English.

It’s her! It’s got to be!

He practically flew to the door, which the guard had left slightly ajar, and peered out.

Yes! There she is. I can’t fucking believe it. I found her!

Instantly he looked at the guard, whose thin face now wore a worried expression. Smiling broadly, Tor took out his wallet again, opened it, and pulled out some more bills.

* * * *

Julie liked the National Museum. Last year she’d spent almost an entire morning examining every detail of every exhibit.

It didn’t seem to have changed any, she noticed after a quick glance inside the lobby, but she didn’t mind, because now she had her camera.

After her mother and the rest of the gang had moved through to some of the galleries, Julie walked over to the large double doors that she knew lead into the Azem Palace Room, the room she wanted to photograph. She expected the doors to be guarded, and she was ready to pay her bribe, but there was no one around.

Damn. Where’s a guard when you need one?

Then the door opened a crack, and a man pushed his head through, looking right at her. “Pssst!”

She smiled, and felt in her pocket for her change purse.

Stepping back, he opened the door just wide enough for her to enter. Then, instead of holding out a hand for money, he slipped out behind her, closing the door securely.

Julie was stunned to find herself alone in the room. She looked around and blinked. Once, twice. By the third time her eyes had adjusted to the dim light.

Then she saw him.

At first she thought she was just making him up. He was a fantasy—a mirage, her eyes and her brain working together to trick her. He wore khakis and a pale striped shirt, his hair bound into a short braid secured with a cord.

She saw the camera in his hand as he moved across the room toward her. That was when she knew he was real, and he was there, in the very room she herself stood in, hand still clasping a zippered purse full of coins and pound notes.

Her body froze as her mind struggled to grasp the facts.

When he smiled, she had to lean back against the double doors for support.

“I believe it was your turn,” he said with a lopsided grin. “It wasn’t polite of me to run out on you before you took your turn. Was it?”

She shook her head, still stunned that he hadn’t simply vanished in front of her eyes. Then, in a small voice, she said, “No. It wasn’t.”

“So.” He stepped up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her, his grey eyes soft. “Do you want another turn before we go our separate ways again?”

She nodded solemnly. “There’s nothing I’d like more.” There was no point in playing coy. Her heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could hear it echoing off the tiled walls. The skin on her shoulders burned underneath his hands.

He leaned down and kissed her, and her senses exploded. She pushed herself up and into him, wanting to whoop in joy. That was when the guard made a hasty entrance. “Mister! You must go!”

He held the door open just enough to usher Tor and Julie out into the middle of a raucous crowd of school children. Julie laughed when she realized she had no hope of laying even so much as a finger on Tor until they could find a way to get behind another set of closed doors. Somewhere. Anywhere.

It’s my turn!

Julie rushed through the museum, looking for her mother. When she spotted her studying a glass case full of old textiles, she went up to her and in hushed tones explained she wanted the rest of the afternoon and the whole evening off. She would be spending the night with Tor, at his guesthouse. Hannah looked up in surprise, concern on her face.

“Of course I can manage without you. But are you sure you know what you’re doing? You haven’t been yourself at all since you met that man.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?” Julie stifled a chuckle, not wanting to attract Marc’s attention. He and her mother had been practically joined at the hip since they’d fired Bish.

“Where is he?”

“Waiting outside.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you plan this little rendezvous? You could have told me earlier.”

“No, not at all. We just sort of bumped into each other a few minutes ago. And I
really
want to go.” She bounced up and down on her heels like a kid at a circus.

She actually felt like a teenager again, asking for her mother’s permission to go on a date.

Hannah sighed. “All right, dear. But be careful. And make sure you leave your phone switched on.”

“Yes, Mom,” Julie said with a grin. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Go have fun.” She indicated Marc, who was close by, with a tilt of her head.

Grinning from ear to ear, Julie left the museum with Tor by her side. The heat of the late morning was oppressive. The pavement was probably scorching, she thought, but she couldn’t tell because she was walking on air. Part of her still couldn’t believe that she was going to get another go at her lion man. The most intensely sexual man she’d ever met.

And he wants me!

She needed to pick up a few personal things, so first they headed to her hotel. As they walked along the busy streets, Julie was dying to ask Tor if he’d deliberately come to Damascus to seek her out.

Or was it just coincidence that we both ended up at the museum at the same time? I shouldn’t read more into this than it deserves.

She decided to wait and see what he would tell her without prompting. She wouldn’t dare confess she’d spent the better part of yesterday tramping up and down the streets of the city looking for him. It sounded ridiculous, in retrospect, like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. And she didn’t want him thinking she was some sort of neurotic stalker or anything like that.