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Show 207 Jerusalem. For me the days began outside the walls, just off Haneviim, the Arab houseboy pounding on my door to awaken me from too little sleep. "American, wake up, it is six and one half." The hotel was dark and always cold, the stone holding in an unusually damp and chilly autumn, and there were never enough blankets. I put on most of the clothes I owned those mornings: t-shirt, shirt and sweater, and when I was dressed I rolled a single cigarette for the pocket of my nylon jacket. The houseboy was my shadow; he would have followed me out into the streets had it not been for Mohammed, his boss, at the bottom of the stairs. "Mr. Alden, good morning and do you have that which you owe me?" Mohammed's desk was a final obstacle to the sunlight which slanted in through the open door, reaching coldly across the blue Persian tile of the tiny lobby to fall just short of my feet. I never had the money. Then it was time for Mohammed to smile up at me, a smile that was cool and indecent, and welcome my indebtedness with a slow nod. "Of course, Mr. Alden, I understand." And: "I know you will pay. Go." It was like emerging from a cave. Suddenly my feet were making the turn onto sunny Haneviim, my white breath whipped the air at my face, and ahead crouched the massive yellow-orange wall |
