It all started two weeks ago with a walk through the souk in Aleppo in northern Syria. I’d hoped to join a dig in Jableh but that fell through, so I decided to see the centuries-old bazaar before trying my luck in Damascus. No sooner had I found my way to the souk than a pleasant young man approached me, introduced himself as Ahmed and offered in broken English to act as my tour guide. Dubious at first, I shook my head no, but he followed me until I gave in, insisting he had excellent-quality copies of a popular guidebook special today to lady tourists. His boundless enthusiasm and toothy smile won over my incertitude. I couldn’t help but like the slight young man wearing baggy brown trousers and a dark gray shirt two sizes too big for him, wiping the sweat off his face with his twin russet-colored scarves twisted around his neck. He chatted with ease about the abundance of food overf lowing from each stall and his stomach being not big enough to hold it all.
If I’d been more observant, I’d have seen someone else also watching me. A man dressed in a camel’s-hair robe as white as the hot sands, his muscular body brown and hard, his raw masculinity so seductive his spirit would pervade my hunger for him until he became an obsession.
The game was on.
Two weeks earlier
I need a dig. Need it badly.
Sipping a mint-and-lime juice in the hot summer heat, I cruise down the long, dark alleys of the bazaar in Aleppo, Syria, the intense scent of spices seducing me, the curious crowds of people watching me, not knowing where the next turn will take me, Ahmed warning me not to pick up anything I don’t intend to buy since stallkeepers take that as a sale, when I hear the voices.
Not loud. Faint, subtle sounds in my head, telling me something stirs in the old stones under my feet, the shops with the faded wooden doors closing in on either side of me, the hidden corners where I hear but don’t see an old man chanting and keeping time with a small drum, unnerving me. The souk is filled with shops selling vibrant textiles, sweet dates, aromatic coffee beans and natural olive oil soaps. Not ancient bones, I tell myself, but it’s a feeling I can’t shake. Perhaps it’s the vibrant red-and-black scarves that Bedouin women wear hanging in the shop window and calling out to me. The floral motif and gold thread woven down the edge of the silk please my feminine instincts, a part of me that hasn’t been nurtured with a soft caress upon my skin since I left home.
Since then, I’ve slept on makeshift cots, watched the dawn break over the desert sky with its rosy hue; sweltered in the blazing noon heat on a dig while keeping my guard up for poisonous caterpillars; and spent days putting together the shards of the pelvic bone of a young woman, only to discover she’d never known the joy of holding a baby in her arms. At the end of the day, I’ve sat in the ruins under moonlight and listened to the bucolic sounds of a local digger playing the flute, its mesmerizing melody climbing up to the heavens and bringing me closer to the stars with each note.
I’ve also kicked off my boots and played with Bedouin children in the sand, delighting in the desert as a playground with all its colors and lights. The contrast between the orange glow hitting a blue-and-white-striped nomad tent in an oasis against the golden, hot sand is a sublime experience that awakens all my senses. Like now.
The air is hot and the shop somehow seductive.
Located on a tiny cobblestoned street crisscrossing under a domed alley, I ignore the stench of the slaughtered animals hanging in the doorway and wander inside the shop crammed with antiques. Ahmed runs after me, his backless running shoes making a scruffy sound on the cobbles.
“This shop no good,” he insists, holding his russet-colored neck scarf to his nose. “Cheat tourists.”
“Something I’m sure you’d never do, right, Ahmed?” I smile and indicate the photocopied popular travel guide he sold me since importing the real deal is illegal.
Ahmed rolls his eyes, shakes his head, then follows me inside the shop. “I come with you, Missy Breezy, but not Ahmed’s fault if you lose shirt.”
I laugh at his use of American slang, then my smile fades. I can’t explain it, but something pulls at me to wander up the winding black-iron stairway. Chattering behind me in the local patois about how his brother-in-law runs a stall down the road with the best cheese in Aleppo, my guide does what he does best: keeps curious onlookers away from me. I’m careful not to wear revealing clothing, though my tight khaki shirt and pants, shrunk from too many washings in cheap dorm rooms, draw disapproving stares. Ignoring them, I take my time in the makeshift flea market, examining everything that catches my eye, wiping away dust as thick as wool fibers. Among the collection of bric-a-brac piled onto shelves along the balcony, I find a bronze letter opener with a bird handle, medals, coins, Bedouin jewelry, silver, brass, wood-carved animals and, stuffed under a pile of books, an old leather album filled with cracked, yellowed aerial photographs of the desert. Amazingly clear photos, I note, with exquisite detail of the topography. Flipping through the black-paper pages cracking between my fingers, I also see pictures of a dark-haired, bearded archaeologist wearing gear from a time between the World Wars. Looking closer, I see he’s smiling and holding up a sword and…what is it? I squint at the photo. An edgy calm comes over me, as if I’ve gone into a trance, listening intently for the whispers, hoping the musky smell of the years past hanging over the photos will dissipate if I will it, holding my dreams tight inside me, wanting to see, feel, touch what this long-gone adventurer found that made him smile so big.
Peering over my shoulder, Ahmed quiets down, as if he senses I possess the ability to open secrets no one else can see. In the short time the Syrian has tagged along with me, I’ve earned his respect with my decent command of Arabic and willingness to accept the local customs, like greeting someone with the localism for hello, marhaba, with my hand outstretched, and taking my meals with my right hand instead of using utensils, not easy, since I’m left-handed. I’ve developed an easy friendship with my Muslim guide, who loves to practice his English on me and banters on about how difficult it is to get American music for his boom box.
I continue studying the old photo, tracing the outline of the object the man holds up high, allowing the odd shape to form on my mental plane, round, then oval, pointed in one corner with a drawing on it. No, it isn’t a drawing. It’s a crest. A chill goes through me, though the day breathes heat.
“It’s a shield, Ahmed.” I point to a cross with a rose. “There, see the crest?”
Curious, the guide leans over my shoulder. “Ah, very old, yes?”
“Most likely from the Fourth Crusades.” Not understanding, he blinks at me and hunches his shoulders. “Around the beginning of the thirteenth century,” I continue. “It could have come from the castle built to protect Christian pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land. The fortress was never breached by invaders, but abandoned after a long siege.” I glance at the other photos and see the archaeologist holding what appears to be a goblet. “I don’t see any sign of the castle or the village surrounding it in these snapshots, but look at these huts.” I indicate cone-shaped, mud-laced houses stacked up next to one another.
“Beehive huts.” Ahmed shakes his head. “No one has lived there for a long time.”
I dare to look at my guide, hoping I heard him correctly. “You know this area?”
He nods his head many times. “Far from the city. In the desert.” He explains to me how the area is in a desolate spot not close to any oasis and accessible only by four-wheel drive.
I close the photo book, holding it to my chest, while Ahmed bargains for me with the shop owner with his hand already out. With my eyes shut, a thrilling vision blazes through my mind, making my pulse race as the whispers continue, bringing me closer to acting the crazy idea