II
Do I hate him?
Lara fastened her seatbelt, and managed to concentrate on her backpack for a second as she squeezed it under the seat in front of her.
Do I hate him? Should I feel guilty about it?
She grabbed a bag of roasted nuts from a passing serving van, and managed to rip it open violently enough to send the contents sprinkled all over her seat.
My head'll explode in a second. I know it.
She managed to swallow down an enfuriated scream, collected her peanuts, and abandoned the idea of eating.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Royal Jordanian Airlines..." the rattling of the intercom shook Lara out of her reverie. She realized she'd forgot her sunglasses at home.
Oh god. I'm a mess.
She'd left in a hurry. The next morning after the banquet she'd called the airport, reserved a ticket, stuffed Evers' photocopies into her backpack, thrown the necessary gear into her suitcase in a frenzy, packed more armaments than was probably necessary, and took off, leaving Winston looking rather disoriented due to the tornado she'd made in the house.
Funny how leaving England would not calm her down. It was as though someone had pushed her buttons to overdrive. Suddenly the concept of sitting in a cramped plane for six hours made her feel like being strangled.
Do I hate him? Should I be guilty about it? Or it is truly so that what you never know can't hurt you?
She gathered what was left of her dignity, decided to survive the takeoff and then beg a stewardess for an aspirin. Valium. Whisky. Anything.
Six hours later Lara was ready to vow never to leave solid ground when they landed. The flight had been peaceful at most but she couldn't help wanting to move her feet, work up a sweat and wrack her brain with work.
Amman was exactly as she'd remembered. Like a slightly smaller and cleaner version of Cairo, it spread over hilltops and low valleyland. The streets were an organized chaos, but the atmosphere was more laid-back than in Northern Africa. Downtown was an urban furnace of cars, vendors and collective traffic, and the rest of the city built on seven larger hills – jebels was the word – sported only a few greener spots. Although the region had been inhabited for more than five thousands years and during Old Testament times it had been called Rabbath Ammon there were no visible signs of its long-extending history. Amman had a tradition of have been built and rebuilt often since the Ptolemean reign.
Lara had visited Amman briefly for nearly half a dozen times, and although the city itself did not offer much in terms of entertainment or new discoveries, she considered it an outstanding base for explorations elsewhere. Gear and food was easy to come by and the selection was vast, Amman had a large airport that served many important points in nearby countries and accommodation was reasonably priced – it was surprising that the devaluation of the dinar had not affected the tourist industry much. Whatismore, Amman was so hassle-free that Lara never felt the usual need to gaze over her shoulder on a minute-by-minute basis, an annoying attribute of many other large cities.
Lara checked herself into the Granada hotel near the Sri Lankan embassy, dragged her bags upstairs after dismissing a valet, turned the key in the lock, dropped her bags on the floor and slumped on the bed.
The smell of something spicy being cooked floated through the open window from the streets, making Lara's stomach make an uncomfortable cartwheel. Small dust particles in the air made midday seem like twilight.
She smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. On her own and tracing an interesting clue, this was what she was best at. This she could do.
After a few minutes of headache-curing lying facedown on the bed, she went to shut the door and pushed the bags under her bed after digging out some necessities.
She had planned to pick up her reserved rental car the following morning. She'd require a visit to the museum first, to see all possible engravings that had been cut off and brought down from Petra. After this she would spend the evening stacking up some food as she would likely spend some time in the desert, and having meal in a quiet restaurant if she ever found one and if her appetite returned.
A part of her wanted to curl up under the blankets and drift off. She ignored it and kept herself up and going.
When a shark stops swimming it dies. The difference is, when I stop running I start thinking and that's worse.
The National Archaeological Museum was situated in the shadow of a high-rise apartment block. It was a largish, colonial-era looking stone construction which did not look too complex. After purchasing her entrance ticket and fending off a few would-be amateur guides she walked into the pleasantly air-conditioned main hall. Old, crumpled signs directed to different parts of the galleries. Lara decided to follow the ones titled 'Petra' and climbed upstairs.
The right hallway was suprisingly hard to locate. Lara half-regretted already that she had not contacted the proper authorities prior to her visit. She'd left in such a haste.
Well, not much I can do now.
Lara could guess that the museum's funding was scarce as she made note of the crumpling glass cases, badly organized collection and dusty corners. A few tourists wandered the corridors, but in general the building was empty. Most tourists probably did not stay long enough in Amman to view the local sights. Or perhaps most headed to Jordan University's small archaeological museum, which was most likely better organized and advertized. There was nothing for Lara there, though – the university collections consisted mostly of small artefacts such as statuettes which would not aid her significantly.
After a few minutes of browsing the Petra galleries Lara sighed in frustration. No stelae, no cut-out engravings. Was it that her sources had been wrong, or had the relics been relocated into another part of the museum?
Deciding it probably wasn't worth the trouble asking a warden, Lara jogged downstairs and knocked on a door with a sign designating it as 'Office'. After a few minutes it opened.
A black-bearded, well-built man appeared in the doorway. Behind him Lara could see a stuffy room with a few nargils – waterpipes – steaming, a few files scattered on the stained table and the leftovers of a plate of baqlawa – local syrupy dessert delicacies – smeared all over a dusty sofa.
"Matha tureed?" came the slightly impolite question. 'What do you want?'
"Masa al-khayr. Bthaki ingleezi?" Lara could speak Arabic quite fluently, but she had a feeling her matter would be too complicated for her still imperfect mastering of the language.
"Masa an-noor. Yes, some English."
"I was wondering where you kept the engravings from Petra."
"Al-athaar Petra?" the man asked, making sure she meant the ruined city.
"Aiwa," Lara replied. The man was obviously reluctant to use English so she decided to play along.
"Downstairs. The basement. For staff only," the man replied, tapping the office sign.
"Afham, shokran jazeelem," Lara replied, thanking the man and indicating she'd understood. This man obviously was not going to be very helpful
"Allah ma'ak," the man spat out and disappeared back behind the closed door, leaving Lara in the corridor.
So much for the famed Jordanian courtesy.
So the engravings had been moved into the basement, away from tourist eyes. Lara could see why – they were exactly the sort of exhibition pieces that held no interest for the average traveller.
Which meant she had two options. She could either delay her departure for Petra and obtain official permission to view the artefacts, which invariably meant talking to the office worker again. Or she could take advantage of the fact that there were very few guards around, pick the lock which was likely to be old and easy to open, and let herself in.
I wonder what sort of punishments they deal out for trespassers in Jordan? Lara wondered when she cut a corner near the forlorn 'office' and disappeared down a stuttering staircase after gently shoulder-knocking open a door designated 'Archives. Staff only'.
She halted when she finished her treacherous climb downstairs, and found herself in a small, ill-lit corridor with a guard who was eyeing her suspiciously.
Lara flashed an apologetic smile and decided for the standard dumb tourist approach. "Sorry! I must've taken a wrong turn. I was looking for the Petra engravings. God, this place is like, what do they call it, labyrinth."
The man was in his thirties, wearing a worn-out guard uniform. He looked disoriented for a few seconds, confused by Lara's quick flurry of words in English. "Law samaht, go up. Petra up."
"Oh, you speak English! I meant the other Petra collection," Lara quickly cooed, hoping this retarded characde of hers would fool him into believing she was harmless.
The man tapped the door behind him to indicate what he was speaking of. "Other Petra here. But staff only. Assif!" He said apologetically.
"Oh my. I wanted to see it soooo much," Lara tried to look put down.
The man seemed to think hard for a moment and Lara knew she'd pulled the right strings. A tourist woman in need of aid was an unbearable sight for a Arab, it often seemed.
The man stepped closer – even uncomfortably so, kneaded his right thumb into his forefinger in an indication of money, and whispered,"What say, madam, bakshiish and you go in."
Content, Lara dug out a twenty-dinar note and handed it to him with a gallant gesture. "Thank you Sir," she muttered, battering her eyelids.
When he let her into the archives and closed the door, leaving Lara in the darkness to find the switch for the lights, she sighed in relief. Everytime she used the fact that she was a Western woman to her advantage, she felt so cheap.
She found the switch. It didn't work. Luckily she'd for some reason packed her smaller flashlight into her daypack. The cone of light proved sufficient for deciphering inscriptions but not enough to keep her from tripping over cardboard boxes and other motley things on the floor.