Damascus Gate (28 page)

"
My
people?" Lucas asked. "I wish you'd stop thrusting identities on me. I mean, it's a drag. I'm only one fella."

"Yes, of course," Lestrade said contemptuously. "Sorry. By the way," he asked, "who are those people living in Berger's old
zawiya?
The old Jew and his followers? The pretty chichi girl you like? People over here used to think she was old Berger's wife."

"No," Lucas said. "Nobody's. They're sort of Jewish Sufis." He let Lestrade refill his glass. "What does 'chichi' mean?"

"They wouldn't be ultra-Zionists involved in a takeover, would they? Kachniks trying to set up a yeshiva in the Muslim Quarter?"

Lucas began to wonder if Lestrade was asking out of his own curiosity or for the information of his contacts on the Muslim side.

"They're innocents. I think their beliefs come from Sheikh Berger al-Tariq. They're mainly Americans."

Lestrade put a hand on his breast. "Heartbreak Hotel," he declared. "American innocence again."

"Think of them as New Age types."

"Charming," Lestrade said. "I like them already."

In
Götterdämmerung,
the Siegfried motif sounded. Lucas had always been moved by it. The promise of human transcendence, of great things to come.

"Like them or not, they have a right to be here."

"Surely," Lestrade said. "And a whole army to protect them. Two whole armies." He poured more grappa. "Just, why can't they do
their thing
in California?"

"They're Jews," Lucas said. "This is Judea."

"That's the settlers' line. And screw the natives, right?"

Lucas's job, as he well knew, was to inquire into Lestrade's researches around the Temple Mount. But the man himself was a distraction.

"They aren't settlers," he said. "By the way," he asked the archeologist, "what did you mean by 'a continuum'?"

Lestrade seemed to have forgotten.

"You said 'a continuum,'" Lucas repeated. "You said ... the one is like the other. Americans and Jews."

"Ah, yes. The rationalist continuum. A long story. A sort of theory of mine."

"Tell me," Lucas said. "I can ponder it on my way home."

"Peoples given to fiddle," Lestrade said. "Tinkering. Mental monkey-fingeredness. Never mind."

Lucas went over and turned off the record player.

"Go on, man. I'm writing a book."

"There exists," Lestrade said, "a certain dreadful energy. A certain instinct for cheerful intrusion that no doubt is seen as helpful. Helping other people out from under the weight of their illusions. Even if these illusions are thousands of years old and have produced much that is beautiful. Even if they represent the creative force of a race." He winced slightly at his last sip of grappa. "I suppose this is on the record?"

"I suppose so," Lucas said.

"Well," said Lestrade, "I'd best be careful. Employ my well-known tact."

"Definitely."

"A certain despising of other people's excellence. A desire to subvert their culture and their leaders. A noisy, assertive triumphalism that might uncharitably be called vulgar. I realize of course that as an American you don't believe in vulgarity. And at a certain point this becomes profoundly ... profoundly hostile."

"Just to keep things straight," Lucas said, "to whom are we referring at this certain point?"

"The Americans and the Jews. Two peoples who may or may not exist, exactly. We sort of have to take their word for it. Talking tradition, tradition, tradition. But actually rather shallow-rooted. Moralizers, a light to the Gentiles, a city on a hill. Two peoples very congenial to each other.

"But what they can't stand is other people's social order. Bonds and faith and blood—they hate it. They want to liberate everyone. They want to rationalize. They want to help out—bless their little cotton socks. Idealistic, optimistic folks.

"So it's no accident this brave little colony is out here, this far-flung outpost you set up together. Of course I'm not talking about you personally."

"Oh," Lucas said, "I don't know about that. Here I am."

"So a perception grows in the world at large," Lestrade went on, "of enmity. A hostility to your continuum that you perhaps fail to understand. For example, there's a song—I heard it sung in Nicaragua once—about the Yanqui, enemy of humanity. Terribly unfair, but there it is. And for quite real reasons."

"So what do they sing about Jews in Nicaragua?" Lucas asked.

"You're being ironic, Lukash. Good for you. Well, I'll fucking tell you what! They sing about La Compañía," Lestrade said. "And they don't mean the Jesuits. United Fruit. Sam the banana man. Mr. Eli Black." He bit his lip. "What I mean is that this energetic collaboration is perceived as hostile on a fundamental level to many people. To a broad spectrum of the human race who do not have the enlightened privilege of being American or Jewish."

"This may be a naive question," Lucas said, "but isn't this sort of what Hitler believed?"

"I'm glad you asked me that," said Lestrade. "Have you read
Mein Kampf
?"

"No."

"No. Have you read Alfred Rosenberg's
Myth of the Twentieth Century?
"

Lucas shook his head.

"Well I have, you see. And I don't happen to subscribe to the theories expressed in those works. Nor do I happen to advocate murder, nor am I myself a murderer. So a little healthy resistance to the American philo-Semitic juggernaut doesn't make one a Nazi. Nor a practitioner of genocide. Nor a so-called anti-American. The self-pity of the mighty—it's so pathetic."

Lucas considered his answer.

"You shouldn't call people chichi," he said after a moment. "Regardless of what you think of them. Certainly not to their friends."

"Sorry. Old colonial expression. No offense."

"Right," Lucas said. He looked at his watch and found that it was almost one. A long length of dark street lay between him and the Jaffa Gate. "I better go."

"Have another. I'll go to the gate with you, if you like."

"No thanks," Lucas said. He would be damned, he thought, if he would let himself be chaperoned. But he took the drink, to equip himself for the solitary walk. The grappa was excellent, as smooth as any liqueur, a world of taste away from the raw stuff of his own experience. Lestrade was, after all, a connoisseur of things.

"You know," Lestrade told him as they stood on the steps in the spice-scented air, "your Jewish Sufi friends are up to something with Otis and Darletta at the House of G. I've seen at least one of them there."

"Really?" Lucas said. "I wonder what?" He was not sure what to believe. He decided to ask Sonia about it.

"Just a tip," Lestrade said. "Goodwill gesture."

"Thanks," Lucas said. "Next time you'll have to tell me more about the Temple."

Lestrade tapped his swollen forehead. "Sure thing," he said in a flat American tone. "Can't I walk you to the gate?"

"No thank you," Lucas said.

When they had said good night, Lucas made his way uphill along the dark cobbled street. A single naked light strung from a wire burned above sharpened potsherds at the top of a stone wall. Beyond its barren gleam, a medieval darkness prevailed, through which he had to follow the contours of the buildings. Arches along the route formed black passageways that stank of piss and ambush. In one, he heard half-suppressed, unsound laughter and caught a whiff of hashish. The sky above was as lightless as the streets.

Lucas walked trembling with rage, his teeth clenched, his jaw locked. Although for much of his life he had studied and written about war and disorder, he was not comfortable with conflict at personal range. Anger did not suit him.

It was with some relief that he reached the galleries of Al-Wad, among which a few dim lamps burned at intervals. Looking north, he could see lights behind the quarter's shuttered windows all the way to the Damascus Gate.

Entering a narrow street leading to the Khan al-Zait, he found himself passing the juice shop he had stopped at weeks before, the shop where the young retarded sweeper was employed. Its metal grate was closed to the empty street, the far end of which was darkness. As Lucas approached, two men appeared from the shadows. His blood quickened. Caution weighted his steps. Something about the place and the men's bearing promised badly.

Nevertheless he plodded on, giving the pair his best casual glance, practiced in a few tight spots, one that exuded confidence and avoided eye contact. Of course in the darkness eyes went unseen. He registered the fact that they were Palestinians, that one of the men wore a suit and the other was in shirtsleeves. The two of them passed and he breathed easier for a moment, home free. Suddenly there were steps behind him. His relief had been premature.

"Oh, sir," said a false, insinuating voice, its menace smooth with sarcasm.

Lucas chose not to turn around.

"Welcome, sir," said the man behind him.

He stopped then and turned. It was the man in shirtsleeves. Lucas felt they had met before, but the shadows were too deep for him to be certain. The second man was hanging back, at the edge of an arcade.

"Hello," said Lucas.

"Hello, sir," said the Palestinian. "You are welcome."

He could picture, rather than see, the man's insolent smile. A hand was extended. He took it, and the man's thumb and forefinger lightly encircled his wrist.

"For what are you looking, sir? So late."

"Nothing. I'm on my way home."

"You are living here? From where do you come?"

"I live here," Lucas said.

"Please, where is called here?"

"Al-Kuds," Lucas said. The Holy. So as not to call it Jerusalem.

"And from where have you come?"

"I'm an American journalist. On my way home from a friend's house. From the house of Dr. Lestrade."

"Welcome, sir," said the man, who had not let go of his hand.

"Thanks," said Lucas, and he turned to go.

"Welcome, sir. Are you drinking?"

He was being told he smelled of Lestrade's grappa.

"Thanks," Lucas said again. "Good night."

"Welcome," said the man. "Welcome to Al-Kuds. All places to drink are closed."

"So I see," said Lucas. When he started up the street the man kept pace with him.

"Welcome to Al-Kuds," said the man.

"Thanks again."

"Why come here to drink alcohol?" the man inquired. His tone of mixed unction and contempt had not varied.

"I joined a friend," Lucas said, although he thought it might be a mistake to try and explain.

"What friend?"

This time he made no answer. The man kept walking with him. Lucas listened hard, trying to tell whether the second man was trailing them. He might be serving as a lookout.

"Welcome, sir. But the places to drink are gone."

When they did it, Lucas thought, they did it with a knife. In the last case, he remembered, a male Dutch tourist had been dispatched with an ordinary kitchen knife. The man had either been mistaken for an Israeli or was the nearest available infidel. Perhaps, Lucas thought, he'd had liquor on his breath.

"Welcome, sir," said the citizen, laughing. The street grew darker as they went. Various questions occurred to Lucas, in no particular rational order. Was the mocking conversation good or bad, a prelude to murder or the alternative? If there was a knife, would it penetrate his lung? Ought he to respond or simply walk on?

"I think you are courageous person," said the man in the dark street. "Here is very nice. In the day it is very nice. But at night, very dangerous."

"What do you want me to do?" Lucas asked. "Hold your hand?"

It was rash of him to mock the citizen; he had forgotten about being drunk. But he was still angry and mortified at his own fear. The man, at least at first, was too pleased with himself to realize he had been rudely addressed.

"You are welcome, sir. I will walk with you."

"Suit yourself," Lucas said.

"What?" the man asked, less unctuously. "Shall I hold your hand? As friend?"

"Excellent," said Lucas. "We shall go about together. Heard of Shakespeare? Like him? A great American writer."

"Oh, sir," said the citizen after a moment's reflection. "You are laughing. You are joking."

Up the narrow street, about fifty yards away, Lucas saw hard white lights on stanchions and the outline of a jeep blocking the way. It was one of the mobile police posts that the Israelis had set up in the Old City during the intifada. A few border troopers usually occupied a market stall commanding a field of fire, sandbagged it and set up communications.

Lucas made for the lights. He tried hard not to appear to hurry. The man beside him had hold of his wrist, and as they got closer to the police post, he tightened his grip and began to pull back.

"We will go," he said. "We will drink. Find girls."

"How about letting go of me?" Lucas asked.

"Where you are going?" the man asked angrily. "Welcome. We are friends."

He stopped and Lucas pulled his hand away. Plainly the citizen wished not to approach the police post. He was only a passing wit, a wise guy showing off before a pal, flaunting his aggressiveness, patriotism, insolence to foreigners. His English.

"What fun it's been," Lucas told him. "Thanks for the walk. Thanks for the welcome, too."

There were two Israelis at the post, regular soldiers rather than the Border Police, and quite young. Both were curious about Lucas and his late-night stroll. One was polite and friendly, one not so. The friendly one was fair, with a French accent. The unfriendly one asked Lucas for his passport and for a hotel key before motioning him up David Street. Lucas had to explain that he was a resident of the city.

Halfway up the sloping thoroughfare, he paused to get his breath. Looking down toward the police post, he saw one of the soldiers watching through binoculars, talking into a field telephone. The policemen at the Jaffa Gate watched him pass with professional hauteur.

The taxi he hailed outside the gate had come up from East Jerusalem; its driver was an Arab who kept a red-checked kaffiyeh on his dashboard.

"Where you are going?" asked the driver. "What country is your home? Where you are coming from?"