Yes, he thought, most of human experience was silent, private, confined in the heads of simple men and women, and never revealed. Just as he kept this very muse to himself, so the greatest measure of human thought was entirely unknown—a mystery he could never imagine. What was Maeve thinking at this very moment?
He looked at her, struggling along in that layered costume, parasol held up bravely against the tireless sun. A bit of the mystery was suddenly revealed to him when she took a deep breath and licked her lips.
“Smell that?” There was a palpable aroma of cooking meat on the air, and Robert could see that they were approaching a souk near the center of town.
“Delightful,” he said. “Are you as famished as I am?”
“Yes,” she said, fidgeting about in her purse. “Ah,” she smiled. “At least they had the good manners to leave the contents intact.”
“What do you mean?”
“I scrounged up some old French francs at a dealer’s shop in Berkeley before we left. It’s all here—even the three gold pieces I added, just in case the notes would not be accepted. Why, they’ve even left my note in the purse.”
“With all the details of our mission?”
“Yes. I’ll say one thing for them: they’re tidy. Looks like someone in Outcomes insisted that the purse had to be left exactly as it was, and returned to the proper owner for disposition, as LeGrand called it.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” said Nordhausen. “But let’s see about something to eat!”
Maeve was only too happy to accommodate him. They made their way into a wide open square where many street vendors offered the produce from nearby plantations. Sellers were calling out to catch the attention of passers by, and people crowded about carts and stands, where baskets of melons, dates, and other fruit were offered. But their attention was led by their noses to a man offering slivers of seasoned meat on long wood skewers. He was grilling them over a brazier of charcoal, and the aroma was compelling.
Maeve handed Robert a note, and he angled in to bargain with the man for their lunch. The vendor eyed him suspiciously at first. He accepted the note cautiously, squinting at it in the bright sunlight, and finally smelling it before he flashed them a gritty smile and handed over two skewers of meat. Robert accepted them with a nod, handing them to Maeve, then he waited, eyeing the vendor like he was up to no good.
“Come on, Robert,” said Maeve.
“Why, the beggar hasn’t given me my change yet,” Robert protested. “That was a five frank note, am I right?”
Maeve gave him an incredulous look. “Leave it,” she said, pulling him away. “I’m famished. Let’s get out of this sun and find another inn.”
Robert allowed himself to be pulled along, looking over his shoulder at the vendor as they went. There was no mystery as to what was going on in that man’s head just now—spoken or not. The man had a sly smile on his face, obviously pleased that he had been able to garner such a hefty price for his wares, and all without the slightest bit of haggling.
They finished the food, finding it a spicy, though satisfying meal. People were understandably curious to see these strangers in their midst, and the more they lingered in the souk, the more attention they got. It was making Maeve somewhat nervous, and she pulled Robert along, heading for a group of buildings at one end of the square. Her eye fixed on one that had the look of a caravanserai, and she hastened toward it, glad to be out away from the lingering stares of these earthy, brown skinned locals.
In time they found an inn that looked acceptable, and went in to see about a room. The keeper did not want to accept paper currency, however, and Maeve was forced to pay one of the three gold coins to secure accommodations. Robert seemed irritated as the negotiation was concluded, largely by sign language, as the man did not speak any European language.
“See what I mean?” He nodded his head at the man. “We got taken again. These people are bandits. Five francs for lunch and an ounce of gold for a single night on a dusty hovel like this.”
“It’s not the price I’m concerned about,” said Maeve. “It’s just that I was hoping to use the notes instead of coinage.”
“Well the lout would have probably taken us for the entire wad in that case.” He looked at the man, clearly displeased. “Too much,” he breathed. Then to Maeve he said: “What’s the difference? Gold, notes, he’s a robber either way.”
“The difference is that notes deteriorate quickly, and so I don’t leave detritus in the Meridian very long. A gold coin is another matter. It will hang around for centuries, and it doesn’t belong here any more than we do.”
“May I be of some assistance?”
They were both startled to hear English spoken, though the voice was heavily accented. Robert turned to see a tall Arabic man, dressed in white robes with a lavender hem. He wore a dark headpiece banded by three red stripes, and his eyes were bright and animated, between heavy brows and high cheek bones. His moustache and beard were thick and dark, lending him an air of dignity, and at his throat he wore a three leaf broach of finely worked brass.
“You are English, yes?” the man said. “It is quite unusual to hear English spoken here these days. Are you traders?”
“Not English, Americans,” Nordhausen corrected quickly. “Off the Perla…” He was struggling to remember their cover story, still somewhat flustered that this man would speak their language.
“Ah, yes, she was here but three days ago. A brief visit. I do not think the news of the Pasha’s fleet sat well with her. She left very quickly. But how is it you were not with her?”
“We intended to make a visit here,” said Nordhausen. “Tourists, of a sort, you see.” He hoped no further explanation would be needed, looking askance at Maeve for support. Then he decided to rush the net, and volleyed a question of his own.
“How do you come to speak English? That is somewhat unusual for—”
“For an Arab?” The man smiled, taking no offense. “Yes, it is quite unusual. The English are fighting the French, you see, and the Turks have decided the French are a nuisance. Since the Turks are in bed with the English these days, an Arab who wishes to curry favor with the Turks would be wise to learn a bit of English. I lived in Spain once, and learned many languages: Spanish, Portuguese, English, and even French. They are very similar, though English does have its peculiarities.”
“I see,” said Nordhausen. “Then you are a man of letters?”
“I was fortunate enough to attend the university in Cordoba—a very beautiful place, Cordoba.” His eyes seemed to reach for some distant memory, resolving to a narrow eyed smile. “Then you are not with the savants?”
“Not directly,” said Robert. “We were in Toulon, visiting relatives, and heard of the expedition. Being somewhat of a student of history, I was fascinated by the enterprise. Unfortunately, we could not book passage with the French fleet, but we were lucky enough to catch the Perla there before she left.” The innkeeper was completely forgotten now, and they both were fixated on the strange figure before them.
“Forgive me,” said Robert. “I am…” He suddenly realized that he should not give out his real name, but could not remember anything about the cover he was supposed to assume! “Mr. Underhill,” he blurted out at last, grasping at a straw from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Maeve’s eyes widened at the name and he blushed red, realizing the stupidity of the remark. Yet it was the only thing that came to mind, and so he stuck with it, in spite of Maeve’s withering regard.