The Damascus Cover by Howard Kaplan

Author:Howard Kaplan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Howard Kaplan
Published: 2014-08-06T14:00:00+00:00

After Muslim troops wrestled control of Damascus from the Byzantine Empire in 635, the Jews and Christians were pressed into those parts of the city farthest from the west winds and fresh waters of Lebanon. Ari thought about this as he squeezed through a crowd of veiled women and sweaty men on the Street Called Straight. Heading east toward the Bab Touma, the Christian quarter, he turned the corner and neared a sherbet seller. Wearing red and white striped robes, with brass ewers strapped to his chest and bowls clicking, the man approached, urging him to “eat the sweet fruits of Damascus and make love five times a day.” Ari shook his head no, and increased his gait, skirting around two dogs fighting over a mutton bone in the narrow street.

The Bab Touma, crushed and confused, its streets wrapped in sudden belts of din and silence, struck Ari as being medieval. The few new houses he spotted seemed to be wedged in against the jumbled architecture of other generations. Decorated coffee tables, shesh-besh boards, mother-of-pearl inlaid boxes, and polygonal stools called kursi spilled onto the sidewalk from open shops. Soon he passed the khan of Suleiman Pasha, a Turkish warehouse, once filled with bales of Chinese and Indian silk. Now, empty oil drums lined its crumbling walls.

As he proceeded north up Dja Afar Street in the direction of the Church of Saint Ananias the lane twisted and narrowed, winding past closed doors. From around a curve in the alley a group of ragged boys emerged, their pajama-like shirts dirty and torn. Realizing from his dress and coloring that Ari was a foreigner, they clustered around him chanting: “Anania! Anania!” in unison. He shook his head, indicating that he was not interested in visiting the church. But they insisted, their cry reminiscent of the bleating of sheep. Ari dug into his pocket, withdrew a handful of coins, and flung them back behind him. The gleeful boys scurried after the money, squealing and shouting as they fought each other for the piasters. Ari hurried out of the alley and through the ancient Roman arch from whose base Azaryeh Street began—certain now that he wasn’t being followed.

Reaching his destination, he walked down a flight of stairs to the dark Café Shaam. Since Ottoman rule the kahwa has been an accepted meeting place for student groups, conspiring merchants, army officers, and government officials. In fact the city’s coffee houses are so closely linked with political factions, according to the affiliations of their customers, that the police and Internal Security Service mapped and classified them, invariably asking suspects which ones they patronized.

Ari stood at the entrance for a while waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Kibbutz Revivim’s scale model of Damascus was exact; Ari had found the café without difficulty. Stepping inside, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. It read 5:30; he was half an hour early. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made

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