City of Jasmine by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online

let him think I found him amusing when he was taking the whole thing so seriously.
    I inclined my head with as much gravity as I could manage. “That isn’t necessary,” I assured him. “There is no offence, and I thank you for your quick thinking.”
    I moved to go past him, but he darted in front of me, his dark brown eyes snapping brightly.
    “Then the sitt will consider hiring Rashid as dragoman,” he said suavely.
    That time I did smile. He was slender as a girl and far younger than the dragomen who clustered about the court waiting for clients. But he had a true entrepreneur’s spirit, and he had seized the advantage in speaking to me.
    Still, I thought a fellow with experience might be best, so I shook my head.
    “Thank you, but no.”
    I stepped forward and he dodged in front of me again, his striped robe billowing.
    “Then the sitt speaks untruly, for she has not forgiven me,” he said, his face mournful as he turned those expressive dark eyes heavenward.
    “Oh, really, that’s not fair,” I said, laughing. “You can’t think I would actually hold a grudge over something so trivial. I promise, I haven’t. It’s just that I want a dragoman with experience.”
    He rose to his full height, which was very nearly my own, and lifted his chin as his hands sketched a graceful gesture. “I have experience, sitt. I am a gentleman of this city.”
    The words were spoken with a solemnity beyond his years, and I suppressed another smile.
    “And I suppose you have twelve cousins who all own shops and want you to bring business there, is that it?”
    He scowled a little. “I have no kinsmen in trade, ” he said, nearly spitting the word. “I am a son of the desert.” He finished with a little flourish and a phrase that sounded something like ibn al-Sahra.
    “You are a Bedouin then?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself. To the casual traveller, all Arabs were alike. But I had learned enough from Gabriel to understand that the Bedouin were special. Nomadic and proud, they were held to be the very embodiment of Arab virtues. They were more than a little fascinating, and I found myself giving way almost before I knew it.
    “I haven’t much money to pay you,” I warned him. I had finally opened the fuel bill for the Jolly Roger and it had been so horrifying I had thrust it at once into the toe of an old boot.
    He made another graceful gesture and named a price. It was so low, no other dragoman would have taken as much to get out of bed in the morning, but I was in no position to question him. I agreed and he grinned—a beautiful, engaging smile. He was a remarkably handsome young man, and he must have set a dozen hearts fluttering back home.
    But he was all business as we ventured into the city. He might have charged me a pittance, but he was determined to be the best dragoman in Damascus. He hailed taxis, nipping neatly into traffic to snatch them up before anyone else could. He kept a sunshade firmly over my head, scolding me for coming out with only a small-brimmed hat as we made our way through the old city.
    Rashid was as good as his word. He was knowledgeable and courteous, and when it was time to lunch, he guided me to a small restaurant where a Western woman eating alone would not attract too much unwanted attention. There was no menu—only Rashid, speaking firmly to the staff about what he wanted. They brought out dish after dish of delicious things, from stewed chicken with pistachios to a pomegranate custard that melted on my tongue. I finally pushed away from the table, groaning a little as I did so.
    “I ought never to have doubted you, Rashid,” I told him. “That meal alone was worth engaging your services.”
    He made another of his courtly bows. “Now, the sitt must see the city as only a Damascene can show it.”
    “I thought you were a son of the desert, ibn al-Sahra, ” I replied mischievously, mangling the phrase as I tried to repeat what he had said earlier.
    “Only a son of