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The spider-priest accepted the
shekels and gave him another plastic cross. I'm tired, Tom thought, as he left
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This is all too much for a first day.
    He studied
his map, looking for the shortest route back to Damascus Gate. The sun had
dipped behind the rooftops. Sharp-edged shadows crept from rancid walls. With
streets and alleys almost empty now, he traced his route with a finger on the
map, hesitating, sensing he'd made a mistake. He passed under a series of
crumbling arches and then along a narrow, high-sided section of cobbled street,
a passage smelling of piss and chlorine and rotting vegetables. His footsteps
echoed hollowly. Emerging on to a deserted thoroughfare, he stopped to check
the map. The street should have been straight like an arrow, but he'd just made
two left-hand turns. He'd entered some gloomy zone of the Old City where, it
seemed, the sun never penetrated.
    He was
distracted by a movement some yards away, where a truncated alley ended under a
scrolled arch. A locked and rotting gate stood to one side of the arch. In the
shadows beneath, a veiled Arab woman beckoned.
    The
gesture was feeble, yet compelling; His instincts told him not to be caught,
but something held him, something mesmerizing in her gesture. He took a step
forward and was assailed by an odour of spice, deep, pungent spice, like
balsam.
    The woman
was dressed in rough clothes. Her black veil fell below her chin. She was an
old woman, with hands like crumpled, tanned hide. He caught the lustre of an eye
through the veil.
    But
something was wrong. Tom's stomach turned. Something about the old woman
frightened him.
    She beckoned
again. Then she raised her hand to her mouth, touching her dry finger to her
tongue through the black material of the veil. She turned slowly and with her
index finger wrote something on the wall at the back of the arch. The corroded
stone crumbled to powder at her touch. It was a D.
    'I have to
go,' Tom tried. 'I have to . . .'
    The woman
continued to write. More figures began to appear on the wall, as if chiselled
there by a mason. But the letters were unfamiliar, maybe Hebrew or Arabic,
indecipherable to Tom. The odour of spice became almost sickening. Tom dropped
his map, retreating quickly, leaving the old woman scratching on the wall.
    Within
moments Tom had found his way back to Damascus Gate. He stopped to lean against
a wall. He was breathing heavily. He felt ashamed of himself. Two small boys
mounted on a donkey trotted by, staring.
    At the recollection of
the old woman, his stomach contracted. Feeling ridiculous, he made his way out
of the gate. The crowds had gone. The sun was spilled across a low bank of
cloud.
    When
he reached his hotel room, he locked the door behind him and closed the shutters.
He took off his shoes, lay down on the bed and thought about Katie. He wept
before falling asleep.
    Then he heard the voice.

 
    5
    'I'm trying to
tell you what happened,' said Katie.

6
    'It's simple. I quit.'
    'But, monsieur. To be a teacher is a state of mind. It is not a toga to be put on and taken
off. One does not cease to be a teacher because this or that government stops
paying you.'
    'Call me Tom.'
    'May one ask
why you turned your back on prestigious and rewarding work?'
    'Shall I
make more coffee?' Tom got up. 'It was never prestigious and only occasionally
rewarding.'
    Conversation, Tom was
learning, was what David Feldberg lived for. He lurked in the kitchen, waiting
for subjects. He was skilled in leading quickly from innocuous remarks about
the weather to matters of contention, until you realized you'd been recruited
into a set-piece conversation. It was like-finding yourself seated in front of
a backgammon board, with your fingers being gently closed around a dice-shaker.
There was a frame and certain rules to this type of conversation: no loose
remarks permitted, words all carefully selected and any throw-away comment
held up to the light for a bout of sporting