The Photographer's Wife by Joinson Suzanne

Author:Joinson, Suzanne [Joinson, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781620408322
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2015-08-19T09:50:21+00:00

Jerusalem, 1920

Ihsan found Prue standing at the point where David Street became the Street of the Chain. If she stood here for long enough she might exist, like a stone lion statue in the heart of an Italian square. She had read of such a square somewhere along the train-tracks of her life and there was always the temptation to be magical and believe that such a place had been spread out like a painted set, just for her, that she had invented it. But really, she knew well enough that the places of the world existed whether she was in them or not.

At the end of each day the Holy City shut down like a toy put back in its box. It was as if all the doors and windows were slamming and closing in front of her.

‘Prue?’

Ihsan was tightly wrapped in a thick coat, his face half-covered with scarves. The temperature had dropped further. She hadn’t seen him for a few days and he looked a little odd. Not quite himself.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

When she saw him the part of her that was keeping her balanced on the ground snapped and she swayed. Ihsan took off his coat and put it over her and it was only when he did this that she realised that she was freezing, out in the cold air wearing a thin dress, not even a cardigan. It was windy, as well as cold. Since being here Prue had become frightened of the wind. She felt it might carry her away, or blow her apart.

‘Come with me. Walk to warm up.’

They walked quickly, in silence. Out of the Old City, out through Damascus Gate, and along the Nablus road. Her nostrils were sore. Ihsan was clearly on his way somewhere. She should make a polite exit; she knew as they walked he was thinking up ways to deposit her somewhere, just as everyone else did. Today, however, she had no pride.

‘Wherever are you going, Ihsan? Can I come with you?’

He frowned and tried unsuccessfully to hide it. Normally she would let Ihsan be, knowing herself unwanted, but today, without understanding why, she was frightened of being alone.

‘Of course. You come with me.’

There was a blue gate on the curve where the Nablus road climbs up the Mount of Olives towards Mount Scopus. Ihsan banged out a coded knock on the door and they were let inside by a man with a birthmark across the whole of his right cheek. The steps were steep and lined with tall, well-established cedars, like a scene from a Germanic fairy tale rather than a desert-dwelling garden. At the top they were met by a man whose mouth dropped open when he saw Prue at Ihsan’s side. In Arabic, he said, ‘You can’t bring an English child into the house of Abu Swayy, you louse.’ Her Arabic was shaky, but she worked out the essence.

‘Is Hassan Fahmi here?’ Ihsan said and then Prue, who was looking at the floor, heard him say in Arabic: ‘There is method.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.