Embedded. Marc Knutson
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Название: Embedded
Автор: Marc Knutson
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Религия: прочее
isbn: 9781498272506
isbn:
In an almost conciliatory tone I responded, “No Amal, I don’t have the wrong impression at all, as a matter of fact, it is an all too common concern with journalists.”
“Okay, now you must head down the hall and back up the stairs we came down, do you remember?” Amal had a deeply concerning and ominous tone again. Cautiously I responded, “Yes, I . . . I, remember.” The fleeting thought that flew through my brain, like a flash of an adrenaline rush was, “what am I doing here?” I always hate it when that hits me like that. “What are my concerns Amal? The guards?” I asked as if I didn’t really know the answer.
“Actually, no, Mr. Stanton, you will easily explain to the guards that you are a tourist who got lost down below. I am more concerned about the synagogue security team. They are tougher on strangers in the hallways near the synagogue. They are not afraid to detain people for days. Why? Because they are jerks! Now, when you get to the top of the stairs, go left and stay along the inner wall. Once you are ten to fifteen meters away from the entrance, you’ll be all right if anyone stops you. Tourist, remember! Not a journalist! Now, God speed, and I’ll see you at seven o’clock.”
I began to whisk by him as he concluded, “And,” with his index finger pointed at my face, “Listen to all the shepherds say to you, don’t ask a lot of questions until they are done. They are blessed because they were the first people that God told to go look for the messiah in the manger. Ask all you want, but wait until they’ve told you their story. You will be blessed too! Shalom, Mr. Stanton.”
With that, I ran down the hall, up the stairs and at the door, I peeked around the doorframe. I looked for conspicuous movement along the rows of bazaar tables. It appeared that no one had seen me come up the stairs, so I inched out onto the walkway. As moments went by, and distance in feet slipped under my shoes, my gait began to increase. The more distance I could make from that door, the better I would feel. Then I heard a voice coming from behind one of the pillars that I had been using to block the view from the bazaar.
“So, you still think you have a story here, Mr. Stanton?” came the words from a familiar voice behind me.
“Er, sorry sir, I don’t believe I understand what you mean.” I began to say as I slowly turned to face the voice. It was Eshek! “Please excuse me, Mr. Eshek. I think that was your name. I am headed to my hotel for a shower and some rest.” I tried to sound as indignant as I could.
“You may continue sir, I am not here to keep a fellow traveler from his shower or rest. Have a pleasant evening, forgive me for interrupting your stroll.” I shuddered. I couldn’t stand him, and I almost got the impression that the feeling was mutual. I wanted to get as much distance from him as I could. As I worked my way to the Bethlehem Inn, I couldn’t figure out why he had so much interest in me.
Waiting in the lobby was Ashar, just as he said he would be. He took me to my room, bid me a speedy “shalom,” and backed out the door. Instantly I found my shaving kit, the shower, and started the water. Checking my watch, I found that I had three hours before my meeting with the shepherds, and I was tempted to spend all three of those hours in the shower. But I knew that I had some typing to do and to strategize a storyline around what I have just learned. As the shower drenched me with grit-rinsing water, my thoughts were of this upcoming evening meeting, leaving me to wonder what in the world would the importance of these shepherds be to this unfolding assignment.
3
As I approached the entrance to the restaurant, I was met at the door by the pungent odor of stale tobacco smoke, mingled with the aroma of spoiling ale. It was quite evident that I was strolling through the less savory part of town. The tavern was only a few blocks from the hotel, but obvious indications were that the neighborhood did not reflect the same pride of ownership that homeowners enjoyed just a few blocks away.
I was barely a meter from the entrance when Ashar threw open the door to greet me. Holding the door open for me, he stood there with a huge grin on his face, as if I was the only important person in his life. Instantly, I wondered, how does that guy get around like that? How is it that he always seems to arrive somewhere before I do? Doesn’t he have family? Doesn’t he have a life? I shrugged it off as soon as Ashar held his hand out to greet me and to usher me inside.
“They are here. They showed up just like I told you they would,” Ashar enthusiastically spouted as he began to verbally pat himself on the back, flashing that big grin. His smile all too often brushed aside his bushy mustache to reveal the many gaps in his brownish teeth. As I neared him, he made a motion to poke me in the ribs, but I intercepted his bony finger.
“Let’s not start that again,” I said in a terse, “I mean it” tone, as I grabbed his wrist. The noise in the tavern consisted of clanking earthen mugs and less than subdued voices. It made it difficult for Ashar and me to understand each other, but I knew, by the look on his face, that he knew what I meant when I grabbed his wrist. The look was classic.
At a booth in the back of the tavern sat three elderly, bearded men. The chairs were obviously arranged for Ashar and me to fill the empty seats. We approached them, dodging servers and unruly, staggering drinkers. One server, a woman holding a tray of ale-filled mugs, tried to avoid an inebriated patron, and accidently hit me with her tray. The ale splashed from the mugs on her tray, and onto my clothes.
Immediately she blurted out, “Oh, I’m sorry sir!” Then began to wipe my wet tunic with a rag.
“It’s all right,” I lamented. It really wasn’t all right, but it truly wasn’t her fault. “I take care of the spill, and change my tunic later. No problem.”
“Okay,” she said. “My name is Ariel, if you need anything, please call for me.”
“Very well,” I replied as I continued to dab at the spill, “My name is Steve. I’m looking for a table where there are supposedly three former shepherds seated. Do you happen to know if they’re here?”
She pointed to a table in the corner, where Ashar was headed already.
With all that sloshed ale from night to night, it’s no wonder how the place earned the stink of putrefying hops and barley.
As we approached the table, one of the seated men looked up, then turned his head to look back at the other men that he was seated with. I saw his lips moving, but in the din, I couldn’t make out what he was saying. They all glanced back at me, then immediately looked straight down at the mugs stationed in front of them. I wasn’t sure what to make out of all that movement. Were they shy? Were they blood brothers forming a pact to tell me only certain bits? It looked suspicious.
Edging up to the table, Ashar greeted the men and threw his arms into the air in an over-acting gesture. Seemed like classical Ashar, always the dramatist. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming here tonight.” Sounding more like the ringmaster of a circus, he continued, “This is Mr. Steve Stanton of the World Observer Gazette. He is here to write your story and buy us dinner!”
Out of politeness and a sheer embarrassment for Ashar, the men looked at me and nodded, acknowledging my presence. I think Ashar embarrassed us all. The man seated closest to me acted as if he wanted to stand to shake my hand, but the confines of the table and the booth prevented him. СКАЧАТЬ