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no—what can I say?—no water closets, no lavatories, no privies? It was night but there was a moon, and in his search for his missing sheep this man heard voices, he was curious, and kneeling behind a small hill of stones he saw the shape of two people answering … shall we say the call of nature? He heard one—a woman—say,
‘Dir balak, wuisikh Amerikâni!’
which, translated, means, ‘Pay attention, dirty American.’
    “The second young woman,” he continued, “—the ‘dirty American’—spat a word at her companion the Bedouin did not know, after which her companion said angrily,
‘Khanzir, wusikh Amerikâni?’ ”
    “Meaning?” asked Farrell.
    “Meaning, ‘
Pig
, you dirty American?’ The so-called dirty American shouted
‘Aiwa’
—meaning yes,” he added, “and they began to fight, pulling each other’s hair and rolling on the ground. The Bedouin left, astonished by such violence and finding it very strange an American was there. So much I have heard, no more.”
    “But where was this?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “Where can we find this Bedouin?”
    He shrugged. “Where sheep go astray and Bedu search. I have been … shall we say asked to help you in this small manner, but if it is a question of actually finding this woman …”
    “It’s why we are here,” Farrell told him flatly.
    “Then I can only … Let me think.”
    They waited patiently for several minutes.
    “Tomorrow,” he said abruptly, “you must be the tourists and visit Palmyra, which is several hours to the north—our famous ruins—while I make contact—” He stopped. “Let me consider.” After another silence he said, “At some point while you admire the ruins a man will speak to you. It is he who will know at what camp the Bedouin stopped for water and spoke of this American. He will know in what direction you must go, and he will know also the name of the Bedouin who heard this in the night, and which I do not know. Or want to know,” he added firmly.
    “Palmyra,” repeated Mrs. Pollifax.
    “Its original name is Tadmor and the town is Tadmor; the ruins are Palmyra. You will need the morning to drive there, it’s three hours from Damascus. Let’s say between one and two o’clock in the afternoon you will be approached.”
    “How will we know it’s not just someone who wants to talk to Americans?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
    “There could be that,” he said thoughtfully. “Then I would suggest …” He sounded amused. “Suggest you work into your conversation the word
sheep.”
He added dryly, “How you do that I will leave to you. And now if you’ll excuse me …”
    “Yes, of course,” said Farrell, putting down his cup.
    As if by magic the boy Abdul appeared, this time in a black T-shirt, and Mrs. Pollifax said warmly, “We thank you very much.”
    He ignored this. “Do not follow too closely. When you no longer see him you will be near enough to the Citadel to find your own way.”
    The heavy door was opened, they were gestured to leave first, and once they had negotiated their return to the narrow street outside the boy passed them, sauntering slowly on ahead of them, his hands in his pockets. His route was certainly circuitous. “So we can never know where we’ve been,” pointed out Farrell.
    “On the contrary,” said Mrs. Pollifax demurely, “like Hansel and Gretel I noted that before we turned the corner we passed a barbershop, a souk that sold sheepskins, another selling copper pots, and two very large photos of President Assad, one smiling and one serious.”
    Five minutes later the boy vanished completely from sight.

4

    T hey spent the remainder of Monday in finding a way to get to Palmyra the next morning. They did not want the company of a guide for the entire day. Buses needed reservations a day in advance, and the possibility of service taxis sounded doubtful. Eventually they concluded their research by arranging, through the hotel, a one-way Transtour car with